Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Forrest
I’m still numb from the significant other thing while Principal Whitcomb keeps talking like she hasn’t just opened a trapdoor beneath my life.
“Basic skills,” she says. “Leadership. Nothing too intense.”
Nothing too intense?
It takes me a couple of seconds to realize she’s talking about the practice.
“My practices aren’t cage fights, Principal.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know.
They’re the wrong words to say while trying to convince her I’m not some asshole who loses his cool.
The silence on the line is brief, polite, and fatal.
Puck looks up at me with deep disappointment.
Fair.
I close my eyes.
Fuck.
This is it. I might as well fill out an application and start working for Bea. I don’t know how to make coffee, but I can carry boxes and scowl at customers who ask if the poetry section has “anything happier.” Currently, I do that for free, which means I’ve already been training.
“That came out wrong,” I say.
“I appreciate the clarification.”
I bet she does.
Somewhere in Winterberry Cove, an educator is probably writing “difficult but self-aware” beside my name. Maybe underlining “difficult” twice.
“I want the job,” I say, because there’s no point pretending otherwise.
The words feel too exposed once they’re out.
I hate wanting things in front of people. Wanting gives them a handle.
“I know,” Principal Whitcomb says. “And I think that matters. But I’ll be honest with you, Forrest. Everyone knows you understand hockey. Everyone knows you can develop players. The question isn’t whether you’re qualified on the ice.”
“It’s whether I’m safe off it.”
The words come out flat.
Too flat.
I flinch because I hear myself the way she probably hears me. Defensive. Clipped. A man holding his temper like a lit match cupped in his palm.
That isn’t what I mean.
I’m tired of people thinking I’m an asshole who’ll beat the shit out of everyone who looks at me wrong. Tired of watching their faces change when they remember the clip. Tired of knowing the worst thing they know about me is also the thing they trust most.
Principal Whitcomb goes quiet.
Then she says, “I wouldn’t phrase it quite that way. Your mother, who is an outstanding member of our community—”
“Listen, if you think this position belongs to someone else—”
“No,” she says, cutting in before I can ruin myself further. “That’s not what I’m saying. We’re willing to listen, learn, and give you a chance if you’re the right fit.”
The right fit.
Sometimes I feel like my life ended in pieces, and no one told me which one was supposed to be the official ending.
Maybe it was the day my frustration got the best of me.
Maybe it was the day the league stopped seeing me as worth the risk.
Maybe it was the day I realized the plan I had for after retirement had been built on a version of myself no one believed in anymore.
I was supposed to get married.
Coach kids.
Have a normal life.
Ridiculous phrase. Normal life. Like it’s something you can apply for if your references are good and your worst moments stay offline.
Now the career I had is gone. The second one is standing on the other side of the line. Probably in a room full of parents waiting to decide if I’m safe. The marriage thing belongs to some other man—along with the children. Something I don’t want to think about.
I look outside.
The squirrel finally jumps from the wall to a low branch. Rain clings to the glass. October in Boston keeps trying to sell everyone on renewal. Cooler mornings. Damp sidewalks. People wearing sweaters too early because they want to believe the season can fix them.
Fall doesn’t fix anything.
It just knows how to dress the wound.
Faking okay got me out of bed until I learned how to do it for real. Now I’m trying to build a life that’s good enough to keep me going.
Not perfect.
Perfect was a stupid dream wearing expensive shoes.
Good enough sounds pathetic when I think it too loudly, but it’s more honest than most of what people sell you.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Good,” Principal Whitcomb says. “I’ll send the schedule by Monday. We’re coordinating with the event planner at the Thorn family vineyard.”
Thorn family.
Event planner.
Daisy’s face comes into my head so fast I almost miss the next thing Principal Whitcomb says.
Not that Daisy would be the event planner.
She has too much work already. Two jobs. Her mother’s wedding disaster. An ex-fiancé with a punchable face. A bride who thinks gracious is something you call the woman you helped humiliate.
“I hope,” Principal Whitcomb says carefully, “that you’re not one of those Wolfcrafts who has a problem with the Thorns.”
I almost laugh.
Oh, I have a problem with a Thorn.
Not the one she means.
The one I have a problem with has mustard on her sleeve, too much pride, and a smile she uses to keep people from asking if she’s bleeding under it.
“Growing up, I only visited my grandparents during holidays and birthdays,” I say. “Since Mom moved there, I haven’t been back much, but I don’t have any issues with the people in town.”
Mostly true.
Except Liam, who I would very much like to introduce to a wall. Politely. Repeatedly. With clear communication and follow-through.
Professionally, I know this would create problems.
Personally, I remain open to the concept.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the feud,” she says.
Of course.
Everything in Winterberry Cove comes back to the Thorns and the Wolfcrafts eventually. Weddings. Arguments. Old money. Older grudges. Family trees that look less like genealogy and more like evidence.
“I’m aware,” I say. “But I have a good relationship with them. Mostly.”
Mostly is doing heroic work there.
I don’t know half of their names. I know grudges because Mom mentions them.
Obviously, I know which old men stop talking when my mother enters a room and which women pretend not to stare while absolutely staring.
Winterberry Cove runs on wine, manners, and selective memory, which is just lying with better shoes.
“With Soren,” I add. “And obviously, Daisy.”
There.
Names.
Specificity.
Basic social competence.
Look at me, participating in conversation like a man who has never interacted much with a Thorn. Well, except the one that gives me a hard time every day at six-fifteen.
“Daisy is a delight,” she says warmly. “Poor thing, with her—”
“I’d love to keep talking,” I cut in, because absolutely not.
I am not going to stand and listen to Daisy get turned into town pity while Puck judges me and a squirrel witnesses my decline.
Daisy isn’t a “poor thing.”
She isn’t a sad anecdote people can lower their voices around.
She’s not the wounded woman in the Liam-and-Carla story.
She is Daisy Thorn. She could alphabetize a disaster, insult your beverage, and make a room feel less lonely by being annoyed in it.
She is not a victim.
Not to me.
“But I have an appointment with my therapist,” I say.
Which is true.
In the broad sense.
As in, I have had appointments before and am emotionally due for several more.
“That’s something our parents would love to hear about,” Principal Whitcomb says.
I nearly groan.
This woman keeps finding new doors into the same room.
Puck stares at me.
I stare back.
Do not start, I tell him with my eyes.
He tilts his head.
Traitor.
“I’ll make sure the schedule works,” I say. “Thank you for calling.”
After another two rounds of polite administrative fog, I finally end the call.
For three seconds, I just stand there.
Phone in one hand.
Leash in the other.
Puck pressed against my shin like a furry parole officer.
“No,” I tell him.
He tilts his head again.
“I’m not talking about it.”
He blinks.
“Fine. I’m calling my agent.”
He sneezes.
“Helpful.”
I call Mark, who answers after the second ring.
“Wolfcraft,” he says. “What’s happening?”
“I got a call from Principal Whitcomb.”
He chuckles, as if this is good news and not an organized attack on my blood pressure. “We knew this would happen. They want the hometown angle. The redemption arc. Local boy comes back to lead the next generation. It’s good.”
“She thinks I have a significant other.”
Silence.
Not confused silence.
Caught silence.
“Oh,” he says.
I stare at the door. “Oh?”
“Well.”
“Mark?”
He clears his throat, and his tone shifts into the one he uses when he’s about to explain something he knows I’ll hate. “During the conference call, she asked how they’d know you’ve changed.”
“It’s been more than a year and a half,” I say. “I moved. I went to anger management. I worked with the PR team. I stayed out of trouble.”
“You’re growling.”
“This is how I speak.”
“Exactly my point.”
I close my eyes and count.
Puck huffs.
“Your PR company has been very clear,” Mark says. “The anger-management classes help. The therapy helps. The public apology helped. But people like narrative. Especially in a small town. A man alone looks unstable to them. A man in a healthy relationship looks settled.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t sure me.”
“It’s bullshit that works.”
I hate him.
Not permanently.
Professionally.
“Small towns like a good story,” he continues. “In this day and age, people like visible happiness. Stability. Proof you’re not one bad day away from becoming the old headline again.”
“I’m not dating someone for optics.”
“I didn’t say you had to date someone.”
“You just said I need a healthy relationship.”
“I said people like the appearance of one.”
“That’s worse.”
“That’s marketing.”
“Mark.”
“Listen, I get it. I do. My social media looks like a marriage retreat brochure. But you know where Nikki is right now?”
“I don’t care.”
“Fucking her yoga instructor, probably. Or the pool guy. Or both. Doesn’t matter. Online, we’re aspirational.”
“That is depressing.”
“That is business.”
“No, that’s a cry for help with a filter.”
“Maybe. But the checks clear,” he says. “You trust me because I have a very stable family life.”
“That’s not why I hired you,” I correct him.
“Well, that was ten years ago,” he says, as if there’s an angle. “Today, I have to promote myself differently. The way I’ll convince the eighteen-year-old and his father that I’m a damn good agent is by showing them that my twenty-year-old marriage is stable.”
“It’s a sham.”
“My social media begs to differ.”
I rub a hand over my face.
I should fire him.
I should have fired him three sentences ago.
The problem is, Mark is an asshole, but he’s an effective asshole. In my old life, that was the entire hiring philosophy.
“I’m not going to date someone and start posting pictures like I’m auditioning for emotional stability,” I say.
“No one said you have to post.” He clears his throat. “But sponsors love the social media angle. You’d get more if—”
“Mark, focus.”
“I was approaching the concept.”
“Approach something else.”
He sighs. “Fine. No posts. But if the dinner matters, and the dinner does matter, then bringing someone with you helps. Parents see you’re not isolated. Board members see you have support. Donors see a man with a life instead of a walking incident report.”
There it is again.
The incident.
I hate that word.
I hate even more that it still has power.
“I went to anger management,” I say. “I did the work. Isn’t that enough?”
Mark is quiet for a second.
When he answers, his voice is less slick. “It should be.”
That almost makes it worse.
“But it isn’t,” I say.
“No.”
Puck noses my hand.
I look down at him, and there he is. This ridiculous dog I didn’t plan on keeping. Another creature with a past people could read wrong if they wanted to. Teeth. Fear. Bad records. Too much energy. Too much need.
Someone had to decide he was more than the worst note in his file.
I just didn’t expect to relate to my dog this much.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask.
“Find someone who’ll come with you to Winterberry Cove and act happy to be there.”
“No.”
“She doesn’t have to lie much. Just support you through a dinner.”
“No.”
“Once you have the job and move there, you break up quietly.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We can find someone.”
“Jesus—” I stop, jaw locking, correcting myself before the word fully escapes. “No.”
“Leave it to me.”
“That phrase has never improved my life.”
“When do you need to be there?”
“First week of November.”
“Good. That gives us time.”
“No, Mark. There is no ‘us’ in this.”
“There is if you want this job.”
The silence after that is not polite.
It is ugly.
Because he’s right enough to be dangerous.
I do want the job.
I want a rink again. A locker room. A whistle around my neck instead of a reputation around it. I want to teach kids how to keep their heads up, how to protect each other, how to hit without turning violence into personality. I want to stand on ice and not feel like I’m trespassing in my own life.
I want a second career that doesn’t feel like an apology tour.
And somehow, according to everyone with a title and a phone, that means showing up with a woman who makes me look like the kind of man someone can trust.
My mind goes to Daisy.
It shouldn’t.
It does.
Daisy at The Turning Page, eating half a sandwich like accepting care is a felony.
Daisy telling me my reading life is a cry for help.
Daisy, who is already being dragged back to Winterberry Cove to make her ex’s wedding look beautiful for people who did not protect her.
No.
Not her.
Absolutely not her.
“Don’t arrange anything,” I tell Mark.
“I’ll just explore options.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re making this harder than it has to be.”
“I’m trying not to make it disgusting.”
“Fine,” he says, though he means nothing is fine. “I’ll get the exact dates and we’ll talk strategy.”
“We won’t.”
“We will.”
“Mark.”
“Trust me.”
I almost laugh.
Trust me.
He has just complicated my life and wants me to trust him.
Instead of firing him, I grunt and hang up.
For a few seconds, I stand there with my phone in my hand while the entryway goes quiet except for the rain against the glass and Puck’s breathing near my knee.
The squirrel is back on the wall.
Of course it is.
Persistent little asshole.
Puck sees it and looks at me.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He wags his tail once.
“You and me both.”
I should call my mother and ask what the hell she said.
I should call Mark back and fire him.
I should text Principal Whitcomb and tell her I’ll attend alone, no support system, and no woman presented like proof of rehabilitation.
But then, what’s going to happen to my future?
I might not make it to the end of fall without an incident, fuck.