Chapter 21 #2
Cam still skates like he enjoys proving something. Moves like he was born on skates.
Levi moves like he’s already measured the room and decided it’s acceptable.
By the second lap, Cam lowers his voice.
“They’ll make up their minds quick.”
“About what.”
“You.”
I glance at the boards.
The fireman stands easy, arms folded. Not posturing. Just assessing.
The older woman hasn’t blinked.
A man near the corner leans toward another and mutters something. They don’t laugh.
“They always do this?” I ask.
Levi shrugs. “If you’re going to be visible here, they want to know what they’re getting.”
“That’s… to be expected, I guess.”
I glance at the boards again.
"That's Tara," Cam says. "She knows your shoe size, your coffee order, and your high school GPA. Don't ask how."
"How—"
"I said don't ask."
"And fair warning. The town is on its best behavior today." Cam drops his voice to a conspiratorial register.
"Best behavior?" I repeat.
Levi nods. "They've been briefed."
"By whom?"
"Tara!" They say it in unison.
Then Levi starts to laugh. “Tara is also Cam’s wife-to-be, and our team’s Director of Community Relations.”
I straighten up, and give Tara a wave. Brownie points, maybe. She waves back.
"She's been here since six," Cam says.
"For the skate?"
"For tomorrow." He nods toward the far end of the arena where two guys on a lift are rigging an auxiliary screen near the concourse entrance. I hadn't noticed that when I walked in.
"USA vs Canada Gold medal game," Levi says. "Six-ten a.m. puck drop, Milan time. We're opening the building."
"For whom?"
"Everyone." Cam says it like it's obvious. "Hockey fans. Non-hockey fans. Tara’s idea of community outreach—Community Watch Party. Anyone who wants to be somewhere when it happens instead of on their couch. Free admission."
The older woman on the bench hasn't moved, but she's watching me with the focused assessment of a judge at a livestock auction.
“Good to know I’m not the main event.” I nod to the gallery. “You had me going for a minute.”
"Ha! The Mayor did in fact send a group text to a select group of people last night," Cam continues, skating backward with the casual grace of a man delivering gossip at competition speed.
"I saw it because Tara's on the thread. Subject line was—and I'm quoting—Operation: Don't Scare the Hockey Man."
"I have a code name?”
Levi nods and adds, "There were bullet points. I counted seven."
"Seven."
"Bullet point three was—" Levi pauses for effect. "'No one mentions the incident at the Timberline Keg.”
Which, naturally, made me need to know about the incident at the Timberline Keg.
"Do I want to know?"
"Someone's truck may have ended up on the patio," Cam says. "Through the railing. During the last Broncos game. Allegedly."
"Allegedly."
From somewhere above us, a test pattern flickers onto the Jumbotron. Someone shouts a correction. Someone else shouts back. A third person appears on the catwalk with a cable.
“And here I thought I was under the town’s evaluation.”
Cam doesn't miss a stride. "People multi-task, West. Prep for the watch party and assess you."
Levi skates by. “In fact, Cam and I are supervising right now.”
"From the ice?" I laugh.
"Best view in the house."
Not subtle. Cute.
Across the arena, Tara's voice cuts clean through the noise—not loud, just precise. Two staffers pivot immediately toward the east concourse.
We slow near center ice.
"We haven’t settled on our team name. You could be our tie-breaker." Cam says, pivoting with the decisive energy of a man reclaiming the conversation before it descends further into Cedar Falls lore. He carves a turn. "We need to lock it."
Levi glides backward, facing us. "Cedar Falls Chaos."
Silence. Not a no.
"Or Cedar Falls Rookies," Cam offers, straight-faced.
I look at him. “Thought you’re recruiting seasoned guys?”
He reframes it without missing a beat: "Every player who comes through here is starting over. Doesn't matter if they've played ten years. They walk into this new building and new team, and they'll be rebuilding something. Getting a second shot. Rookies isn't the wrong instinct."
The words hang in the cold air above the ice. I think about Milwaukee and San Diego and being thirty-four and starting over. Rookies lands quietly.
Rookie Coach.
“Cedar Falls Mustangs,” I say.
Cam slows. Considering.
Levi skates a slow circle, thinking.
Cam tests it. Levi repeats it.
Cam: “Mustangs can’t be tamed.”
Levi: “Or they choose not to be.”
“That’s the whole point.” I say.
It locks. No ceremony. Three men on skates agreeing on something that matters, the way things get decided when there’s no show and no agenda—just shared instinct and the scrape of blades on fresh ice.
From the boards, Tara writes something on her clipboard without looking up. I have the distinct impression that the team name was logged before we finished saying it.
We keep skating. Conversation threads through the physical work like it belongs there.
“Mayor Roy Lewis is solid,” Cam says. “He’s been in on the arena talks from the jump. Civic-minded. Actually invested—not just photo ops.”
Levi adds, “And the fire department’s dialed in too. Their new captain’s basically the unofficial community liaison for the town. Name’s Scott Maddox.”
Levi and Cam exchange a glance that carries the weight of extensive personal experience.
“What?” I ask.
Cam groans. "Devastatingly handsome bastard. Town's most eligible bachelor by a margin that should be illegal. Women drive in from three counties over just to gawk at him."
Levi: “Cam forgot to mention Tara framed the Chronicle’s ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’ feature. It’s above their coffee maker.”
Cam points his stick at him. "Because she enjoys watching me suffer. And because Scott's a good man. A dear friend. Too charming for his own good, but a genuinely good man."
"I wouldn't even blame her." He laughs.
Levi grins. "Good thing you're marrying her in May."
"Locked down," Cam says, with the grim satisfaction of a man who knows exactly how lucky he is. "Problem solved."
Cam’s marrying Tara in May. Three months out. I file it.
As if summoned by the mere mention, the front doors swing open and I know before anyone speaks.
Six-two. Built like someone who runs toward heat instead of away from it. Broad shoulders stretching a CFFD jacket, sleeves pushed to the forearms like he’s permanently mid-shift. Golden-retriever ease wrapped in a frame that could lift a car off a pinned stranger without blinking.
The kind of face that makes women forget their own zip code and men instinctively check their posture.
I check my posture.
Scott Maddox, presumably.
He walks in first. Behind him, three other firefighters file in carrying trays of hot drinks with the same focused energy they’d bring to an actual call.
"Maddox," Cam says, with the particular exhaustion of a man who has been competing with this level of effortless natural likability for too long. "We were just talking about you."
"Good things, I hope." The smile is immediate. Easy. Dangerous in a very wholesome way. Lethal even.
He sets his tray down on the boards without looking for a surface—like the surface was always going to be there.
His crew sets theirs beside it. No fuss. No hovering. Just step back and observe, like this is routine.
Levi mutters, "See what we mean?"
I do. And I understand Tara’s framed article now.
I'm straight. Extremely straight. Jane made sure of that three weeks ago.
But I get it. If I were a woman, I'd need a minute.
Scott walks over and extends his hand.
Warm. Firm. Exactly two seconds long—the precise duration that communicates I'm glad you're here without prompting a town-wide hide-your-womenfolk advisory.
"Scott Maddox. Welcome to Cedar Falls. We're glad you're considering us."
"Considering is a strong word. I'm listening."
"That's all we ask." He holds my gaze with a sincerity so genuine it's almost weaponized.
"Cam and Levi have said great things."
His radio crackles. “Maddox. East concourse. Exit four. Fire code’s asking for you.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “On it.”
Three of us watch him leave.
"He does that," Cam says. “Runs four lanes at once and makes it look easy."
From the bench, the older woman calls out: "Young man. Come here."
We look over.
This is directed at me. I'm thirty-four and six-foot-four and an NHL captain, and I have just been summoned like a schoolboy.
I skate to her. She studies me over the top of her glasses with an intensity of someone who has been evaluating men longer than I've been alive.
"Mrs. Henderson," Cam supplies, suddenly appearing at my shoulder. "Town matriarch. Her cane is both decorative and tactical."
Mrs. Henderson ignores him entirely. "You're the Prescott boy."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Sit with me a minute."
I sit.
She doesn't look at me right away. She looks at the ice—at Levi still moving through drills, at the staff in the gallery, at the arena itself. Like she's checking on something. She glances at Cam and Scott who stay close by.
"These are good people." Plain and factual.
“What they're building here matters."
She turns to me then, and her eyes are very direct. "I'm not asking if you're talented. I know you're talented. I'm asking if you're the kind of man who stays."
I don't answer immediately. She doesn't rush me.
"If I choose Cedar Falls—I don’t half-step.” I say.
She holds my gaze another moment. Then nods—once, like something has been settled.
"Good. Put me down for season tickets," she adds. "Front row. Center ice. And I'll need a parking spot that doesn't require a hike."
"Done."
"And if you're bringing a woman to town, make sure she's not one of those organic-only types. We deep-fry everything here."
I almost laugh. "Noted."
"Good boy." She pats my knee. "You'll do."
She picks up her coffee and turns back to the ice. Done with the business. Back to watching her town.
I look at Cam.
He shrugs. "She does this." But he's smiling.