1. Brooks

Chapter one

Brooks

T he tires of my SUV crunched over the gravel driveway as we arrived at Dad's home. I glanced over at him, noting the deep lines worn into his weathered face. He gripped the seatbelt tightly, his gnarled joints and deeply spotted skin reflecting his age and years of hard work.

Everything seemed surreal as if I were moving through a dream. Sitting next to me was my dad, Reid Bennett, a lifelong lobsterman, stubborn as a barnacle, who now needed help accomplishing basic daily tasks.

"Feels strange to be here together, huh?" I said, cutting the engine. "Remember when I helped you buy this place?"

"Yeah," Dad replied, his voice rough from disuse. "Never thought it'd almost kill me."

His fall from the roof, just ten days ago, shattered more than bones. An eternity appeared to have unfolded since that panicked late-night call from Mrs. Talbot, who took him to the hospital. Long gone was the image of the invincible father who raised me.

His salt-and-pepper hair, always smoothed back when Mom was alive, now stood in an array of defiant tufts. My stomach clenched tightly when I spotted a portion of the hospital gown peeking out from under his ever-present flannel shirt.

"You know," I began, trying to keep my tone light, "you had me scared to death in that ICU. When the doctor said 'sepsis,' I almost lost it. People die from that."

"If Mrs. Talbot hadn't found me," Dad said, his grip on my arm tightening as we navigated the porch steps, "we wouldn't be having this conversation."

I couldn't shake the image of Dad lying pale and still for those first three days, surrounded by tubes and monitors. "I couldn't do anything. I was helpless," I admitted. "Seeing you like that… damn, everything I knew had just... shattered."

Dad sighed. "Your mother would have given me hell for letting you do this."

"Well, she's not here to stop me, right?" I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "We've already discussed it. You need someone to help out. I'm here. End of story."

Dad's green eyes, mirrors of my own, flashed. The usually meticulously trimmed stubble on his chin had grown into a scraggly beard while in the hospital. "You're at the peak of your career, Brooks, and I refuse to be the reason you toss it in the trash."

"Maybe I have my own reasons."

I climbed out of the car, and the cool breeze rolling in off the ocean stung my cheeks. Dad's new house—my home for an undetermined period—awaited us. The white clapboard colonial stood in stark contrast with the glass and steel condos I'd inhabited for the past several years.

We shuffled one step at a time up the front sidewalk past overgrown hydrangea bushes just starting to leaf out for the spring. While I assisted Dad up the porch steps, his frail effort reminded me how much he'd aged. The accident stole his strength but left his gruff exterior intact.

His calloused hand gripped my arm, fingers rough from decades of hauling lobster traps. He grunted with each step, his pride visibly warring with his need for support. "Damn steps," he muttered, glaring at them as if they'd committed a personal offense.

I swallowed hard while Dad struggled. He was right that I was walking away from my career when I was close to the peak. It meant leaving all that I'd worked for behind, but as I watched him, I knew I couldn't have made any other choice.

The memory of the moment I heard about the accident hit me again when I opened the front door.

After a grueling practice session, I'd just stepped off the ice, my muscles pleasantly sore from the workout. The locker room buzzed with the usual post-practice chatter—guys discussing their plans for the evening and a few bragging about their latest dates.

Sedlacek's voice boomed across the locker room. "Hey Bennett, you coming out for wings tonight?" His face lit up with a grin. "I might even buy a round of brew."

I was about to answer when my phone lit up, vibrating against the bench. An unfamiliar Maine number flashed on the screen. I figured it was another reporter looking for an exclusive interview for their local newspaper… or something more serious. A gut sensation made me answer the call.

"Mr. Bennett? This is Nurse Renton from Central Maine Medical Center in Portland."

My world suddenly tilted on its axis. I gripped the phone tighter while my stomach clenched.

"Your father, Reid Bennett, was brought in about an hour ago. He's suffered a severe fall and—"

The specifics of the nurse's words were hard to follow as my pulse pounded in my ears. I heard phrases like "critical condition" and "next of kin" but couldn't process them. Dad, invincible, stubborn Dad—he'd never been in a hospital as a patient as far as I remembered.

"I'm on my way," I heard myself say, already moving toward the exit. I was still wearing all my gear except my skates.

"Bennett? You okay, man?" Sedlacek's voice sounded far away.

I turned, seeing concern etched on my teammates' faces. "My dad," I managed to choke out. "He's in the hospital. I have to go."

What followed was a blur of hastily booked flights, waiting for airport connections, and a gnawing fear that grew with each passing hour. What if I was too late again?

By the time I reached Portland, nearly eight hours had passed since that call. I filled them by imagining the worst, replaying every conversation I'd had with Dad over the past few months, and attempting to remember signs of failing health I might have missed.

The ICU was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. And there was Dad, looking small and pale against the stark white sheets, a tube down his throat helping him breathe.

"Mr. Bennett?" A doctor approached, clipboard in hand. "I'm Dr. Dennis. Your father is in critical condition. The fall caused multiple fractures, but our primary concern is the sepsis that's developed..."

I nodded mechanically as the doctor explained, my eyes never leaving Dad's still form. In that moment, one way or another, I knew my life would never be the same.

The smell of lemon-scented furniture polish yanked me back to the present. Inside Dad's house, it competed with the unique blend of Old Spice and the sea that always made me think of him. The entryway led to a living room that featured an uneasy mix of worn furniture and modern design.

I'd bought a sectional sofa for him that appeared untouched. Nearby sat his old, worn leather recliner, looking to be on its last legs. Framed photos of lobster boats and Maine ports decorated the walls.

One other significant piece of furniture was Mom's favorite armchair. The upholstery was nearly threadbare, but I knew Dad couldn't part with it. The sight of its faded floral pattern slammed me in the gut. She passed when I was 23.

Mom was always my biggest fan. She leaped to her feet, cheering wildly, at the Whistleport Ice Arena when I scored my first hat trick in peewees. Her long brown hair, streaked with premature gray, bounced around her face. "That's my boy!" she shouted, her voice carrying past those of the rest of the crowd.

I remembered the bone-crushing hug she gave me after the game. She didn't care whether her boy was sweaty and smelly. All she wanted to do was tell me she knew I'd make it into the NHL someday. She believed it years before I did.

Blinking hard, I forced myself back to the present. Her favorite chair sat empty, but it ensured that neither Dad nor I could forget.

I spotted a framed photo on the mantle. It was Mom and Dad at my first NHL game, both of them smiling ear to ear. It was the last of my games she saw in person. Six months later, she was gone, and I was too caught up in my rising stardom to make it home in time to say goodbye.

My stomach clenched as I stared at the photo, Mom's radiant smile frozen in time. I swallowed hard and abruptly turned away, clearing my throat.

Dad lowered himself into his worn leather recliner with a barely suppressed groan. His eyes, still sharp despite the lines surrounding them, darted around the room, taking inventory.

"Place needs dusting," he grumbled, but I caught the flicker of relief in his expression as he settled into the familiar contours of his chair.

"Making coffee," I announced as I headed for the kitchen. "You want some?"

Dad grumbled, "I can make my own coffee, you know. Not an invalid yet."

"Humor me." I forced a smile, trying to keep the mood light.

The kitchen fit Dad's personality. It was practical, efficient, and uncluttered. A cast-iron skillet hung proudly on a hook above the stove.

The window over the sink offered a view of our backyard and the boulders that edged the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. In the distance, the Whistleport lighthouse stood as the beacon that had guided lobstermen home for well over a hundred years.

The coffee maker sat on the countertop, impassive, daring me to figure out its various buttons and controls. The embossed symbols on the buttons might as well have been Chinese characters. While I stared, a small digital screen blinked intermittently, mocking me before I'd ever tried to brew a pot.

"Okay, Bennett," I mumbled to myself, "you can handle enforcers crushing against the boards; surely making a cup of coffee has to be easier than that."

After adding coffee to the filter basket, I focused on the control panel. I couldn't find any simple words like "Start" or "Brew." Giving up, I pushed a random button. An ominous beep sounded, but the machine didn't do anything else. I tried two more, but nothing happened. I ground my teeth in frustration.

"Come on," I grumbled and punched a few more buttons. Suddenly, the machine responded. A series of angry beeps sounded. Was that Morse code for "Back off?"

A red light flashed. Is that good or bad? For a moment, I worried that the whole contraption might explode.

"Having trouble there, superstar?" called Dad from the living room. A hint of amusement underlined his words.

I gritted my teeth as my cheeks began to flush. "It's fine. It's all under control." After I pressed another button, the machine whirred to life. Maybe I've done it. The next moment, I realized no water was flowing through the machine.

"Seriously?" I frantically pushed more buttons to try to force the machine to obey me. "How hard can it be to brew a pot of coffee?"

Dad heard me and chuckled. I'd not heard him laugh since the accident. "Third button from the left, then the big red one. Don't forget to add water first."

Water, of course. That was a crucial step for any coffee maker. With a sheepish smirk on my face, I filled the water reservoir and pushed the right buttons. The machine purred like a contented cat, and soon, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen.

"When did you become a barista?" I called to the living room.

"When my son decided to come home and trade a hockey stick for a spatula." Dad chuckled again.

I set the mug down beside Dad, then retreated to the kitchen. Raking my fingers through my hair, I glared at the coffee maker, its conquered buttons now seeming to taunt me.

My gaze drifted to the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink, the unfamiliar layout of cabinets, and the calendar on the fridge marked with appointments. A lump formed in my throat.

I pulled out my phone and announced, "I need to call my agent."

Dad spoke up from the living room. "Now? Why? Are you reconsidering?"

"No, but he needs to hear it from me, not some reporter trying to read tea leaves."

I stepped onto the back porch and listened to the wooden planks creak under my feet. The phone rang twice before Sterling's voice boomed out of the phone.

"Brooks! Please tell me you've come to your senses. Word's already floating around that you're giving up the game for good."

I watched a seagull dive toward the water in the distance as I listened. "Sterling, I—"

"Listen, three teams have already contacted me about offers they're willing to make. At least two of them are nearly guaranteed to land in the playoffs. The Bruins are one. Imagine that, right there in New England. We can work around your dad's troubles. We can add a rider to your contract for his live-in care. How's that sound?"

I growled. "It's not that easy."

"Why not? Maybe you're making it more complicated than necessary." Sterling suddenly sounded like a man in the last stages of closing a deal. "Look, I know you're concerned about your old man, and that's admirable. We can take care of him and keep you on the ice."

"Sterling—"

"You're at your peak right now. If you turn in one more good season, you'll be one of the five best-paid players in the league—guaranteed. That can set you and your dad up in Tahiti bungalows for good. You won't only pay for your kids' college educations when you have them; you can spring for your grandkids, too."

I leaned against the porch railing. "I don't know if I'll ever have kids. I barely have a social life outside of my teammates."

"Well, why walk away then? Your teammates are your friends. They're your life. How can you let them down?"

I paused. For one brief moment, I considered changing my mind. I could skate back onto the ice with the roar of the crowd in my ears. Adrenaline would race through my body and make every nerve ending activate. Then, there would be that sense of satisfaction when a slapshot flew past the goalie's outstretched glove.

Before I could imagine more, the vision of Dad alone in the hospital came back. On its heels, memories of staring at Mom's tombstone, feeling guilty for never getting to say goodbye, gnawed at me. I'd missed so many birthdays and holidays playing a game on the ice, fighting for the next rush.

After one more deep breath, I confirmed my decision. "I'm retiring. No more discussion."

We were both quiet.

Sterling spoke softly when he shattered the silence. "Are you sure about this? You can't take it back once I put the official word out. They'll fill your spot on the team, and the media will start asking what the hell happened to you."

"I know." Fortunately, my voice sounded remarkably steady. "I've made my decision. You can let the vultures know."

Sterling sighed heavily. "Okay, kid, it's your career. I'll make the calls, but please, do one thing for me."

"What's that?"

"Take a few days and think it all over. I know you're sure you won't, but if you change your mind or have doubts, call me. I'm here 24/7, day or night. We'll be able to salvage things if we're quick about it."

When I returned to the living room, I had a fresh mug of coffee for Dad and one for myself. He accepted with a quick nod, but he didn't take his eyes off the TV. I heard the distinctive whirring sound of the old VCR and knew he was going back through old memories. I'd tried to convince him to transfer everything to digital files but had failed so far.

"I wanna show you something." He gestured toward the TV screen. "Have a seat. Let's watch."

I perched on the sectional sofa and waited for the image to clear. It was a younger version of me skating onto the ice for my first NHL game. He'd set his old VCR to record the game while he flew to see it in person with Mom.

When the camera zoomed in on me, I set my jaw, determined to have a successful debut, but my eyes were wide, and I appeared awestruck by the entire experience.

"Your mother and I got to be there in person." Dad's voice was soft. "She was so proud of you."

I leaned back on the sofa as a new lump formed in my throat. "I was terrified that day but tried not to show it. My legs were like rubber, and I worried I'd fall while they played the national anthem."

Dad laughed. "You couldn't tell that from where we sat. You owned the ice that day, Brooks. You put everybody on notice."

Watching the screen, I saw rookie-me win the face-off and drive the puck down the ice at warp speed. The energy as I deked past a defender and then slammed the puck into the net blew me away.

"First of three you scored that night," Dad reminded me. He was still impressed after all those years. "You're one of only ten players to score a hat trick in your first game. That puts you in the record books forever."

As the game continued, I leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees. A strange sensation swept through me while I watched myself. Although general impressions of the game were always in the back of my mind, I suddenly saw so many specific details I'd forgotten. Was I really that fast and fearless?

"What a backcheck," Dad declared as he watched me break up a play by the opponents. "You've always had a sixth sense about where the puck is at any time."

"I learned from the best." I reached out and touched his shoulder. "All those early morning practices and drills you made me do. They were gold."

A smile toyed with the corners of Dad's lips. "I might have encouraged you a bit, but you were a natural. All I had to do was point you in the right direction."

We were both quiet as we continued to watch the game. Dad occasionally made comments.

Deep in the second period, he sat up a little straighter. "Here it comes, goal #2."

He had the game memorized. On the screen, I intercepted a bad pass, pivoted, and then turned on the jets to barrel toward the opposing goal. The defensemen tried to catch up, but I flew past like they were standing still. With a flick of the wrist, I sent the puck over the goalie's shoulder and into the top corner of the net.

Dad grinned. "I could barely breathe from your mother squeezing me so tight. I'd never seen her so excited."

I winced. Mom again. Her fierce pride and limitless joy were infectious. It was hard to believe she was gone.

Dad reached over to squeeze my shoulder. "She always knew you'd be a star. She never doubted you. Not for a second."

The third period was just as impressive as the two that came before. On the TV, I skated with the same intensity as I did at the start of the game. With just two minutes left on the clock, I leaned forward, knowing what was coming.

Dad clapped. "There it is!" The younger version of me completed the hat trick with a red-hot slapshot from the blue line.

I watched as my teammates mobbed me in celebration. The camera found my parents in the stands. Mom was still bouncing up and down, applauding while tears rolled down her cheeks. Dad stood beside her with a rare smile on his face.

When the final buzzer sounded, I stood and walked over to the living room window. A swirl of emotions battled inside me. The hockey achievements were glorious, but what was the cost? I'd missed so much.

I took a second look at the house next door. It was a different shade of blue from what I remembered. The sun was setting, and as I watched, a light switched on in an upstairs window. For a moment, I even thought the silhouette looked familiar.

Shaking my head, I returned my attention to Dad. He was watching me closely.

"You made us proud and still make us proud."

"Thanks, Dad."