Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Marge Calloway: It’s official. Roe Monroe signed on for a full season with the Knights.
Patti Jensen: I just dropped off a care basket at Thatcher’s. It included tissues, bourbon, and one of those sad little succulents that mean “I’m still here.”
Ash Patel: Roe said it was temporary last time. This? This feels bigger.
Stan Gordon: Heard Jamie’s been wearing Roe’s Iceguard jersey under his warmup gear. That kid’s loyalty is unmatched.
Riley Novak: Thatcher hasn’t said a word, but he rebuilt the shelves in the library yesterday. By hand. Quietly. With intent. They’re damn beautiful shelves.
Marge Calloway: The man doesn’t speak his feelings. He carves them into local architecture.
Ash Patel: So what happens now?
Patti Jensen: We wait. We cheer. And we make damn sure that bar is still standing when Roe comes home.
The months leading up to pre-season camp fly by as the Iceguard season ends, and then the Knights’ does as well, and the next thing I know it’s time to pack my gear once again.
It’s bittersweet leaving the Iceguard; the send off was as loud and obnoxious as anticipated.
Jamie insists on walking me out to the car, even though it’s 6:00 a.m. and the sun’s barely up.
He’s still in his hoodie and socks, arms wrapped tight around my waist like I might float off if he lets go too soon.
“You’re gonna text me during games, right?” he mumbles into my chest.
“Everyone,” I say. “And you’d better keep sending me those goal recaps.” And I will be home between games, and they will come to Chicago. But we’ve made all those plans. Jamie knows them. Truth is, even if we were in the same city, hockey schedules are brutal on relationships.
“Only if you admit my slap shot’s better than yours.”
“Not a chance.”
He huffs out a laugh, and I ruffle his hair like I always do. My throat’s tight, but not because I’m leaving . . . it’s because I know what I’m coming back to.
Thatcher’s already waiting in the truck, hands on the wheel, music off. He nods as Jamie jogs back to the house, waving once before the door swings shut behind him.
The drive to the airport is quiet.
Not tense. Just . . . us.
He pulls into the drop-off lane, shifts into park, and looks over. There’s sunlight catching on the bridge of his nose, and he looks tired but sure. I’ve learned the difference.
“You got everything?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You packed my flannel.” But I rub my chest, knowing I’m carrying a piece of Thatcher there. And that’s the everything I need.
He smiles. The soft one, the real one.
I reach over and take his hand, thumb brushing along the calluses near his knuckles.
“One season,” I say. “Then I’m done.”
“I know. Focus on the season. I’ll be here.”
“See you in a few weeks.”
I want to say more. I want to say thank you. I want to say I miss you already. But none of it fits. Not between us.
So I get out, sling my bag over my shoulder, and close the door with care. I walk over to his side and give him a searing kiss. One he can’t forget or read anything into except my devotion to him.
“Damn,” he whispers, and I feel the smirk settle on my face.
I take four steps toward the terminal before I hear his voice behind me—low, steady.
“Show them what you can do, Rory.”
I look back.
He’s still in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, but he’s watching me like he always does—like I’m not just something passing through.
I give him one last nod.
Then I turn and walk inside.
***
The apartment the team sets me up with is clean, furnished, and about as personal as a hotel lobby.
Gray couch. White walls. A kitchen with more chrome than soul. But the price is right for what I want to put toward the bar, and the hotshot kid is my roommate so it manages to be nice and close to affordable.
I unpack in twenty minutes. My gear, a few shirts, two books I don’t remember putting in the bag, and the carved sign Thatcher gave me the day I left.
THE FIVE HOLE – EST. 2025
We finally decided on a name, but the sign goes out front, over the sidewalk. I know it’s Thatcher’s way of saying that the bar isn’t complete until I’m there to hang it myself. I like to think of it as my good luck charm. A reminder of what I’m here for.
I hang it in the front hall, just above the coat rack.
Every time I leave, I see it. Every time I come back, it’s the first thing waiting for me.
***
The season ramps up fast. Practices. Travel. Press.
There’s the occasional trip home and a few nights of Thatcher making it to the city because Liz steps up. A couple of disappointments when she doesn’t. The uncertainty there isn’t great, but we manage.
Those nights he does make it keep me going. Thatcher’s body on mine, how good he makes me feel, how seen and cared for. I crave him more than any pill or drink I’ve ever had, and I’m perfectly fine with that sort of addiction.
We’re all addicted to something, one of the counselors told us in rehab. I guess it will just have to be Gabe Thatcher for me.
But I have my hands full.
I stay solid second or third line, which is fine for me. I play the same steady hockey I was with the Iceguard and on my three game Boston streak.
It’s the kid who gives me fits and takes the pressure off my own game.
Dom—Domenico DeLuca, the team’s hotshot rookie winger—is a human firework.
All speed, no subtlety. First game, he tries to take on two defensemen solo and wipes out into the boards.
By the third game, he’s calling me “Dad” in interviews like it’s some kind of joke.
“You’re like if a grizzly bear and a team therapist had a baby,” he says over lunch one day.
“You’re like if Red Bull learned to speak.”
I remind myself to tell Jamie he’s the best. That kid will never be the headache this one is. Well done, Thatcher.
Across from me, Dom grins. “You love me.”
I do. In the way that only comes from knowing a kid like this is going to burn out without someone to anchor him.
That’s my job. I’m not here to be the star. I’m here to be the calm in the noise.
And when I come home from practice, I shower, ice my knee, and call Fox River Falls.
***
We fall into a rhythm.
I text Jamie every day. He sends back videos—some from school, some from The Keep. He’s coaching the younger kids now. Has opinions on drills, on skate sharpening, on whose stick is objectively trash. I save every clip.
Thatcher doesn’t talk on the phone much, but we FaceTime in the evenings while he’s cooking or sanding something down in the bar. His voice is low, steady. He doesn’t say I miss you, not often, but I can hear it in the way he says:
“You eating?”
“Don’t let them run you down.”
“Tell me if you feel the knee flaring up.”
We talk late at night too. I now have a Pavlovian response to Thatcher’s dirty talk from all the sexy video calls.
And the next time we’re together in the flesh and he breathes the same words across my skin, I come untouched—nothing but him inside me and his dirty talk is needed.
He sends weekly photos of the progress at the bar. Framing. Shelves. An old carved arch he salvaged from somewhere in town, now installed over the bar’s front entry. The Five Hole is starting to resemble a bar, and I love the pieces of Fox River Falls finding their way into it.
Before I left we went through Stan’s things and sent them off to be framed and mounted properly. I look forward to seeing them shine in the bar.
Sometimes the picture includes Jamie in the background, sweeping or holding a board steady. Once, I catch a glimpse of a carved panel I didn’t design. Something new. A surprise, maybe.
I don’t ask.
I just look at the photo for a long time before I open the next one.
I still miss them—miss home. But I don’t feel untethered like I used to when I was on the road or spent too much time in my own brain.
This isn’t a season of chasing something. It’s a season of finishing.
Every game, I’m one game closer to the legacy I want to leave in this sport I love. And every day, I’m one day closer to going back to where I belong.