1. Ziggy

Chapter one

Ziggy

W histleport was steaming like a lobster pot left on the burner too long, and it was only the second week of June.

I rolled over to unstick myself from my sweat-soaked sheets, cringing when I saw the damp patch left behind. Pushing myself up to a sitting position, I looked out my bedroom window at the ancient thermometer outside. It already read nearly 90°F, and it wasn't quite 9 a.m.

Rolling out of bed and throwing on a yellow tank top with blue jogging shorts, I scrambled downstairs in my bare feet. The suffocating mugginess wrapped around me like wet cotton. I was just in time to hear "…record-breaking early summer heatwave" from the weatherman on TV, followed by, "It's steamy out there, folks. We'll be in the high 90s the rest of the week, and the heat index is likely to rise into the triple digits."

In the kitchen, I yanked open the window, hoping that I might catch at least a small breeze off the water. Instead, hot, humid air rolled in to swirl around me. It had that briny smell of low tide. It was a day that it might have felt good to be a lobsterman. The air had to be a little cooler out over the ocean.

I listened to the lobster boats chugging out of the marina. They sounded a little like the old-timers clearing their throats at Gus's Diner. The seagulls hated the weather, too, croaking instead of letting out high-pitched nasal shrieks as usual.

It wasn't the best start to my summer after my first year attending the University of Maine. Whistleport was supposed to have mild summer weather—sweatshirts needed at night and low 80s on sunny afternoons. I'd already had enough of the oppressive humidity that made breathing difficult and turned me into a sweaty mess after any amount of exertion.

Mom entered the kitchen. "Ziggy, I made some iced tea. It's in the fridge."

It was a thoughtful effort, but the drink would only provide a brief respite from the weather conditions. Our ancient house, only a block from the shore, was usually a source of pride for my family. It was a white clapboard structure with a long, storied history of providing a home for generations of Knickerbockers. The heat wave turned it into a cruel joke.

While residents of newer homes and apartments relaxed with central air conditioning, the Knickerbocker family had to rely on a collection of noisy fans and our stubborn New England pride. Dad insisted we didn't need ridiculous cooling technology when generations before us stuck it out through summer heat.

His voice echoed in my head. 'Your great-grandfather Edwin survived the heat wave of '44 with nothing but a wet rag and pure grit. You can handle a little sweat, son." Dad conveniently forgot how miserable the house was during the day while he sat in his climate-controlled lobster company office.

An inspiring thought came to me as I poured a glass of Mom's iced tea. The rink! Why didn't I think of that before? There was no reason I couldn't go a week or two early, before Rory got us together to coach the juniors.

Our newly renovated Whistleport Arena was open to the public year-round. It would be cool and almost empty. I raced back up the stairs and started filling my hockey bag.

My 16-year-old sister, Emma, poked her head into my room. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"The rink. Wanna come?"

"Ugh, no thanks," Emma wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather melt."

I grinned. At least the heat wave was good for something—keeping my nosy little sister out of my hair.

When I scrambled back down the stairs, I nearly collided with Mom in the front parlor. Her brow furrowed, above a face flushed from the heat.

She eyed my gear slung over my shoulder. "Where are you going in such a hurry? It's not hockey weather."

"Just heading to the arena. Thought I'd get some practice in. They'll let me skate. There's nothing to do around here but bake and get a sunburn."

"Oh." She frowned slightly. I winced, thinking she might miss me. I'd lounged around the house the past three days, complaining about the heat and sucking down ice cream bars from the freezer. "Well, be careful on the ice, Ziggy, and don't forget to drink plenty of water."

"Will do." I leaned in close and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. I loved my parents, but sometimes they loomed a little heavy over my life—Dad's expectations and Mom's smothering affection.

As I walked along the sidewalk, the sun beat down on Whistleport with a vengeance. Sweat ran down my back as I trudged along with my hockey bag heavy over my shoulder. Storefront air conditioners dripped condensation onto the walk, creating small steamy puddles.

When I arrived at the arena, I pulled open the front door, and it broke a vacuum seal, sounding like opening the refrigerator door. A massive whoosh of cool air beckoned me inside.

After arriving at the locker room, I inhaled the familiar scent of fresh Zamboni-smoothed ice with a hint of damp leather hockey gear. The comforting environment soothed my frustrations. It was the perfect retreat, the one place in town that was still reasonable.

I quickly donned my gear and laced up my skates. My shoulders relaxed further when I finally glided out onto the ice. I'd just begun to drift off into hockey paradise, executing crossovers and sharp turns, when I heard a sharp crack. It was the sound of a puck hitting the back of a goal. I whirled around, and there he was.

I laid my eyes on Kade Langston, star forward for the University of New Hampshire. They were our arch-rivals, and he was the worst, always preening and taunting. He skated at the far end of the rink and hadn't noticed me yet. I quietly glided to a stop to watch.

His movements were effortlessly graceful. That much was true. He was tall and lean, sporting a body built for swimming if hockey didn't work out. Leaning on my stick, I rested my chin on my crossed gloves. His strides chewed up the ice as he wove in and out of imaginary defensemen.

Surprisingly, I couldn't take my eyes off Kade. I caught the slight curl of his lip when he executed a tricky move. He wore an old UNH practice jersey that clung to his chest, damp with sweat, showing off the ripped body beneath.

I tensed as he suddenly accelerated, gathering speed until he drew back for a powerful slapshot. The puck took flight and soared into the top corner of the net. I'd held my breath through the entire maneuver, my heart pounding against my ribcage.

What the hell, Ziggy? Get a grip. He's not a friend .

He was Kade Langston, the guy who'd scored the game-winning goal in last season's Border War. He was a smug bastard who showboated after every successful play. Why was I standing there, chin-dropped, entranced by what I saw?

Was it simple grudging admiration, or was there more? He played passionately, and I never doubted that we shared a similar love of the game. It touched something deep inside us.

For a moment, I pushed the rivalry aside and forgot the long list of reasons I was supposed to hate Kade Langston. As those seconds ticked by, we were just two talented players who loved being on the ice.

Finally, he turned, and he spotted me. His eyes opened wide briefly before narrowing almost to slits. The change of expression was like flipping a switch. It turned him back into my arch-rival, an enemy lurking in my home arena.

Kade's voice echoed across the ice. "Thought I had the place to myself, Knicks." A hint of amusement in his tone made me cringe.

I skated a little closer to him and mirrored his squint. "You, too? I thought the same thing, but this is my home ice. What are you doing on my rink?"

One eyebrow rose. " Your rink, pretty boy? The website says it's open to the public." He flipped the puck off the ice and caught it, balancing it easily on his stick blade. "Anyway, my summer sublet came with a free arena membership. It's always wise to take advantage of the perks in a contract, right?"

The comment rocked me. He was living in Whistleport. "Summer sublet? You're staying here for the season?"

He nodded, and a small smile twisted into a smirk. "Man, yeah. It's a sweet little apartment that looks out over the harbor. You know, that new development south of the marina. Central air, private balcony, laundry in unit… beats the hell out of a dorm room."

His casual mention of upscale digs gnawed at my gut. It wouldn't take much more to fan a spark of envy into a flame of resentment. I was spending the summer in my hometown, sweating in my childhood bedroom, with an ancient box fan for company. Thinking about Kade Langston sprawled on a couch, cool as a cucumber, made my blood boil.

"Well, isn't that nice?" The bitter judgment in my voice was obvious. "Slumming it in a small town?" I knew he lived in Manchester, a city at least five times the size of Whistleport.

His eyes flashed. My dig found a mark and broke through his calculated facade. "You don't know the first thing about me or why I'm here, Knickerbocker."

He skated close, and we faced each other, a tense force like static electricity crackling between. I felt an urge to throw a surprise punch, channeling all of my frustration into a fist. But another side of me found his presence intriguing. Damned if I knew why I wanted to know, but I was curious why Kade was in Whistleport.

I finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Fine, if you want to share the ice, let's share. But you don't get it for free." I tapped my stick against the ice. "I challenge you. The first one to nail ten bar-down shots wins."

He raised an eyebrow. "Bar-down? Nice choice. Didn't know the Maine boys could play with such finesse."

Something about the shit-eating smirk made my stomach flip . Dammit, Ziggy, get it together. He's UNH. The enemy. So what if his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins like that? I rolled my eyes as I tried to ignore it.

"Do you need me to explain the rules? Break it down? Short words and simple sentences?"

"I've gotta hear this. Humor me, Knicks." Kade leaned on his stick.

I gestured toward the goal. "A bar-down shot is when you snipe it…" I cleared my throat and clarified the definition. "When you bounce it off the crossbar, and it goes in. It's the best goal in hockey."

He laughed. "Like I needed to know. Just wanted to make sure you understood. Ten, you say? I've got this in my pocket."

We set up for the competition at center ice, a bucket of pucks nearby. We were both ready to prove ourselves. It was the competition that would establish dominance in my home arena.

"Ladies first." Kade offered a mocking bow.

I clenched my jaw and grabbed a puck from the bucket. Resting it against my stick, I set off toward the goal. With the whoosh of steel biting into the ice, I pushed off, building my momentum as I barreled down the rink. When I reached the face-off circle, I wound up and let my shot fly.

The puck soared, a black blur against the white ice. For one anxious moment, I thought it might go too high, but then—ping!—it hit the crossbar and dropped into the goal.

I turned toward Kade and took an exaggerated bow. "That's one. Think you can keep up with me?"

We spent the next hour playing the most exhilarating and intense hockey I'd experienced in months. The lead changed multiple times. Neither of us was ready to give in. As we traded shots, I noticed something unexpected. He wasn't just playing to win; he was studying my technique. His eyes narrowed in concentration each time I took a shot. It was the look of someone always trying to learn and improve—not merely a showboat satisfied with his current talent.

Kade was good, even bordering on great, and it irritated me. His swift wrist shot shone, and when the puck left his stick, the crossbar pulled it through the air like a magnet. Still, I had a home-ice advantage, and I kept up.

He announced the score. "Eight-seven, my lead. You want to quit now while you're behind?"

I answered his bravado with one of my prettiest shots of the day. It hit the crossbar with a loud clang, then dropped to the ice, quietly rolling into the net. "Eight-all. No lead there. I thought you UNH losers were supposed to know their basic math."

His next shot was wide and bounced off the boards. A grin of satisfaction spread across my face. Take a deep breath, Ziggy. Flex. Release.

Ping! "Nine-eight!"

To my dismay, Kade proved it wasn't over. He managed to even up the score, and we both stood one shot away from victory. I held my breath as I watched him skate toward the goal. The puck rocketed off his stick. It appeared to be on target, and I held my breath.

At the last second, the puck hit the crossbar at an angle and deflected up and over the net. The cursing that followed made me blush.

It was now my turn and my golden opportunity. I grabbed a puck from the bucket while my pulse pounded in my ears. It was time to focus—me, my stick, the puck, and the goal.

I took off and quickly gathered speed. At first, I had a wonky angle, so I cut across the ice and corrected. It was now my shot. I had that sensation deep in my bones. My stick swept downward in a perfect arc. All those years of practice came together in one swing.

The sound was a sweet, crisp thwack followed by a high-pitched whistle as the puck flew through the air. Next, that beautiful ping rang out when it hit the crossbar and fell straight down into the goal.

I pumped my fists, did a little dance and spin, and skated back to Kade. "Game over!"

His grin surprised me. He shook his head, and I detected admiration. "Not bad at all, Knickerbocker. Looks like Maine hasn't sucked you down into the depths quite yet."

For a moment, I thought I should respond, but the words evaporated on my lips. We were close enough that I could see golden reflections in Kade's brown eyes.

Without saying a word, he pushed off gracefully. Calling back over his shoulder, he asked, "Same time tomorrow?"

A swirl of emotion rose in my chest as I watched him. "Yeah," my answer surprised me, "Same time tomorrow."

As Kade skated away, I spotted a small notebook peeking out of his bag. It wasn't the typical gear I expected a fellow jock to carry. I wondered what kind of thoughts filled those pages—was it hockey strategies or something else? Was there another side of him I'd never bothered to see before?

For the next three hours, I luxuriated in having the cool rink to myself. I fantasized about living in Newfoundland or even Labrador. Perhaps I had Inuit blood in me from generations past.

As I left the arena, a blast of heat hit me in the face. It was almost as bad as getting slammed against the boards in a close game. I squinted my eyes against the sun's glare.

Walking down Main Street, autopilot took me to Tidal Grounds. It was the best coffee shop in Whistleport, beloved by residents and tourists alike. When I pushed the door open, the air conditioning tugged me inside. I inhaled the rich aromas of coffee and sweet baked goods.

A familiar voice called across the room. "Look what the heatwave dragged in." Silas Brewster, the shop's owner and chief barista, smiled at me from behind the counter. He was a striking presence as always, lean and muscular, wearing a crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, revealing a variety of nautical-themed tattoos.

Silas's shirt had the top two buttons open, showing off light chest hair and a shark-tooth necklace on a piece of rawhide cord. His neatly trimmed, dark beard framed a smile that could charm the grumpiest of customers, but his eyes were always what drew most of my attention. They were a deep blue, like the ocean itself. At that moment, they twinkled mischievously.

"You look about as fresh as a bleached jellyfish, Zig." He reached for a glass and plopped in 3 large ice cubes before filling it with freshly brewed tea. "What say we get some coolant into you?"

I managed a weak smile. "Is it that obvious?"

Silas chuckled. "The tea is on the house, but should I add a protein smoothie for a pick-me-up?"

"You read my mind."

While Silas ran the blender, I leaned back against the counter and scanned the room. Local artwork covered one exposed brick wall. The new theme was seascapes. Most seats were full, occupied by tourists and locals seeking escape from the oppressive heat.

He slid my smoothie across the counter. "How are you doing back here in the Port? I bet it's rather different from winter up there in Orono."

I took a long sip, enjoying the chill of the drink. "It's quite a change. That's for sure. Has it ever been this hot in June?"

Silas shook his head. "Not normal. That's for certain. Everyone's on edge. Mrs. Perkins says it's the first sign of the apocalypse." He rolled his eyes and started wiping the counter.

"Is this good for business?"

"Can't complain there." Silas smiled. "We're booming. It turns out people will pay good money for almost anything cold when the sidewalk feels like the surface of the sun. Unfortunately, it's been rough keeping up with demand. I've had to pay evening staff overtime to come in early."

I tilted my head to the side. "That rough, eh?"

"Well, my usual summer evening manager bailed on me. He snagged a fancy internship in Portland. Don't misunderstand me. I'm happy for him, but it left me in a tight place."

He stared at me in an uncomfortable way, so I decided to focus on my smoothie. "Zig, I don't suppose you could use some evening work this summer. Could be some nice extra cash while you aren't training."

I blinked. "Me? Work here?"

"Those smoothies would be on the house. Plus, I know how good you are with people. The town loves you."

My mind began to crank into full gear. I'd saved up some cash during the school year by working at the ticket window for sports events. I thought that would buy me a relaxed summer, but this was Tidal Grounds. The idea of working for Silas had a certain appeal. On the other hand, thinking about sweating in my bedroom, trying not to fixate on Kade Langston, curled my toes.

"Let me… uh… give it some thought."

Silas smiled, making tiny wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. "That's all I ask. Take your time, but not too much, eh? I've got thirsty customers in here. One plus, you'd make some cash when you're here on Rory's poetry nights. Might as well be compensated for the time you'd be hanging out anyway. I could even give you a break to share with the crowd what a college lit major can do."

Just then, the bell above the door chimed, signaling the arrival of a new group of tourists. They started calling out orders. Silas turned to focus on them.

I retreated to a corner table. As I sat and sipped my smoothies, I marveled at how one day could change the whole trajectory of my summer. Kade Langston was in Whistleport, and I had a job offer at Tidal Grounds. What could happen next?