10. Rory

Chapter ten

Rory

T he purr of the lawnmower next door drew me to the window like a moth to flame. Brooks was pushing the mower in neat rows across his father's lawn. The scent of freshly mown grass wafted in through the window.

He paused, killing the engine, and all I heard was the song of sparrows in the maple tree out front. Next, he reached down, gripped the hem of his t-shirt, and pulled it up to wipe sweat from his face.

His abs were visible and ripped, a testament to years of NHL training. I focused my gaze on the thin trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I stepped back from the window to catch my breath, feeling like a teenager with a colossal crush again.

Still, I wasn't a teenager anymore. Our kiss in the alley wasn't like that first kiss years ago, stolen behind the stands at the hockey arena. Our latest kiss carried adult emotions like trepidation and a little fear.

The memory of Brooks leaving for his NHL career rose in the back of my mind, sharp as the day it happened. It was a crisp September morning. I stood in Brooks' driveway, watching him load the last of his bags into his dad's old Ford pickup.

"That's the last of it." He slammed the tailgate shut. I jumped as the sound echoed around me like a gunshot.

We'd said our goodbyes the night before. They included an opaque tangle of whispered promises and desperate kisses. In the light of day, with the truck packed, those promises seemed as insubstantial as morning mist.

Brooks turned to me, his green eyes searching my face. "You know I have to do this, right? It's probably my one and only shot at the NHL."

"I know," I managed to say, and the words tasted bitter in my mouth. Of course, I knew he couldn't say no.

I'd been there for every practice, every game, every late-night strategy session. I'd seen the endless fire burning in his eyes when he talked about playing in the NHL. How could I stand in the way of that dream?

Brooks pulled me into a hug, and I breathed him in—the mingled scents of his Dove soap and trendy Axe shampoo. I did my best to commit it to memory, knowing it could be a long time before he'd be in my arms again.

"I'll call you every day," he whispered into my hair. "And I'll be back for Christmas. The time will fly by, you'll see."

I nodded against his chest, not believing his efforts to placate me for a second, but I desperately wanted to be wrong.

All too soon, he pulled away from the hug. Reid appeared on the porch, jangling keys in his hand. "Ready to go?"

Brooks nodded, his jaw set. When that happened, there was no dissuading him. He cupped my face in his hands, pressing a quick, fierce kiss to my lips. "I love you, Rory Blake. Don't you forget it."

And then he was gone. I stood rooted to the spot as the truck's engine roared to life. Brooks waved while they pulled out of the driveway.

I watched until the taillights disappeared around the corner. They stole my heart and took it with them. The sudden silence was deafening. I couldn't even hear birds singing.

Pulling my thoughts back to the present, I shook my head, trying to shake the melancholy memories. I had no time for it. I had classes to teach.

***

"'Do not go gentle into that good night,'" I quoted absent-mindedly, finishing up my lecture on Dylan Thomas. A little train of laughter ran through the class, and I looked up to find two dozen knowing smirks aimed at me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight. "Yes, well, that's all for today. Remember, your analysis essays are due next week."

Ziggy Knickerbocker hung back as the students left the classroom, chatting and laughing. He approached my desk, hanging onto one of the straps of his backpack. His usual energy level was low, and his bright gaze looked cloudy.

"Everything okay, Ziggy?" I asked, gathering my papers.

He shrugged. "I guess. It's just... I got some college letters."

"That's great news, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but..." He trailed off and turned to stare out the window toward the football field. "Can we talk? Maybe go for a run or something? We did that about a month ago, and I loved it."

Twenty minutes later, I'd changed into workout clothes, and we jogged around the track. The spring air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh grass and distant wildflowers. Our sneakers pounded out a steady rhythm on the red rubber surface.

"So," I huffed, catching my breath, "college letters?"

Ziggy nodded, his shaggy hair bouncing with each step. "Got into the University of Maine for their creative writing program, and Western Michigan offered me a hockey scholarship."

"That's fantastic!" I exclaimed, genuinely thrilled for him.

"Is it?" Ziggy stopped jogging, and I pulled up next to him. "Dad keeps talking about how I'm a Knickerbocker and how we've been lobstermen for generations. That's all great, but for me, there's hockey, writing, and... I don't know what to do or how to choose."

I leaned over, hands on my knees, catching my breath.

"Don't stop there. What's all this about being a Knickerbocker?"

Ziggy groaned, dramatically flopping onto a bench used by the football team during games. He waved his hands dramatically as he told his story. "Ugh, Coach, it's like... imagine if your last name was Lobster-McFisherpants or something. That's basically me."

I chuckled and sat next to him. "It's that bad, huh?"

"Worse. We've got this ancient photo at home, right? It's Great-great-gramps Knickerbocker holding this monster lobster, bigger than my head, like it's a freakin' trophy. Dad tells the story all the time."

Ziggy lowered his voice to imitate his father. "'That catch saved us from eating our shoes that winter!' I swear, if I hear that story one more time, I'm gonna... I dunno; maybe I'll hop on a bus and move to Oklahoma. I could be a cowboy or something."

"Sounds like there's a lot of family pride floating around at home." I pursed my lips, trying not to laugh at his dramatic delivery.

"Pride? It's more like this sea monster of expectations that rises out of the waves and wraps fat tentacles around my ankles, trying to drag me into the briny deep," Ziggy paused. "Damn, that was kind of poetic. I should write it down."

He quickly jotted something in a worn notebook he pulled from his backpack before he continued his story. "Anyway, Dad took me and a couple of guys from the team out on the boat last weekend. It was just us dudes hauling in lobsters and living the Whistleport dream."

Ziggy's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Then he starts in about this whole circle of life thing and how he'll be retiring soon, and I can take over the boat and be the best lobsterman ever."

"What's the boat called again?"

Ziggy rolled his eyes so hard I worried they'd get stuck in the back of his head. "'Knickerbocker Legacy.' I know, right? Subtle as a puck to the teeth."

"Do you ever talk about college?"

Ziggy sighed. The sound was like the air leaving a punctured tire. "I tried, Coach. Seriously, I did. I was all, 'Hey, Dad, funny story, but I got some letters from colleges,' and he just..." Ziggy turned his head to look into my eyes. "He stared at me like I'd just told him I was gonna use his lucky lobster trap as a hockey net or something."

Ziggy deepened his voice again in an even more exaggerated imitation of his father. "Son, bein' a Knickerbocker means somethin' in this town. We've weathered more storms than you can count on four hands and five feet. Speaking of hands, your granddad lost two fingers to Jack Frost himself one winter, but did he complain? Nah, he was back on the water the next day, usin' his toes to tie knots if he had to!"

I chuckled softly, and Ziggy joined me, his eyes flashing. His spot-on impression was funny despite the serious tone of the conversation.

"Then he drops this in my hand." Ziggy fished something out of his pocket. It was an old brass boat key, tarnished and worn. "He says this has been passed down since basically the Stone Age, and now it's my turn to have it. Not like he's puttin' any pressure on me or anything, right?"

He stared at the key, turning it over in his hand. "How do I tell him that when I think about the future, I see myself scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals? Or I'm accepting a Pulitzer for my groundbreaking novel about a lobster who dreams of becoming a hockey star?" He paused. "Actually, that's not bad. Another one for the notebook."

After scribbling briefly, Ziggy looked up at me, his face tense. "I love my family, Coach. They're strange and loud and smell like fish half the time, but they're mine, you know? I just... I don't want my whole life mapped out because of some ancient dude's career choice. Is it messed up to think like that?"

The raw honesty in his voice hit me hard. Being a teenager was tough. Everything happened so fast, like Brooks' decision to leave town when I was 18.

I chose my words carefully. "Ziggy, wanting to write your own story isn't messed up. It's... it's pretty brave."

"Yeah?"

I nodded, surprised by the certainty in my voice. "Yeah. Try to see things a little differently. Your family's whole deal isn't just about lobsters. It's about grit and facing life's challenges head-on. You're doing that right now. Only your way of doing it is with words and hockey instead of traps and buoys."

Ziggy fidgeted with the key. "Huh. Never thought about it like that."

"Maybe you can try talking to your dad again. Show him how you going after your dreams is you being a Knickerbocker in your own way."

One corner of Ziggy's mouth curled up into a half-grin. "You think that'll work? 'Cause I'm pretty sure, Dad thinks a pen is just a fancy way to mark buoys."

I shrugged. "I can't promise it'll be smooth sailing, but I bet your dad loves you more than he loves lobster. In Maine, that's really saying something."

"Thanks, Coach Blake. How'd you get so smart anyway?"

Before I could think better of it, words started spilling out of me. "You know, Ziggy, I'm... I'm struggling with some big decisions,d too." I paused, but it was impossible to stop my revelation. "About Brooks."

Ziggy's eyes opened wide. "Hold up, Coach. You and Mr. NHL Hotshot aren't already planning your happily-ever-after with a white picket fence and a bunch of hockey-playing rugrats? Could've fooled me with all those longing looks and stuff."

I let out a laugh that sounded more like a strangled cough. "It's complicated."

"Complicated like trying to explain the offside rule to my cousin in Florida, or complicated like that bizarre indie film you made us watch where nobody talked for like an hour?"

"Definitely the bizarre indie film," I said, grinning.

Ziggy leaned in. He couldn't wait to hear my story. "Okay, lay it on me, Coach."

I took a deep breath. "Brooks and I... we have a history. We were together in high school, and it was... intense."

"Oh man, I bet. I've heard some of the old-timers in town talk about you two. They say you were like the Troy and Gabriella of Whistleport High. Minus the random musical numbers. Or did you...?"

I chuckled and shook my head. "No random musical numbers, I promise. Just poems… a lot of poetry, but then he left for the NHL."

"Ah." Ziggy's voice dropped an octave into an eerily accurate imitation of a TV drama narrator. "The classic tale of love torn apart by the siren call of professional sports. I can see the Lifetime movie already."

Despite the heavy topic, he made me smile. "We tried to make it work long-distance, but... it's hard when you're young, and everything's changing so fast."

"So, what happened? Did the NHL superstar get too busy for little old Whistleport?"

I winced. Everyone assumed Brooks dropped me, but it wasn't that way. "Actually, Ziggy... I was the one who ended it."

His eyebrows shot up so fast I thought they might fly off his forehead. "Wait, what? You dumped NHL McDreamy? Plot twist!"

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It wasn't like that. I didn't want to, but the distance and the scheduling were killing me. Whenever my phone buzzed, I hoped it was Brooks, but it was usually my mom asking if I'd remembered to eat dinner. And when we did talk, it was painfully obvious we were living in two different worlds."

"So you pulled the plug?" Ziggy looked down.

"Yeah, I told him it wasn't fair to either of us, and we should set each other free. God, it all sounds like a bad country song." I let out a humorless chuckle. "Brooks tried to fight for us. He said we could make it work, but I was the stubborn one. I thought I was doing the right thing."

"And now?"

I stared out at the empty football field. "Now? Now I wonder if I made the biggest mistake of my life. And now he's back, and all these old feelings came with him, and I don't know what to do with it all. It's like..."

"Like when you haven't played hockey all summer, and then you step onto the ice for the first practice, and you're all excited but also terrified you're gonna face-plant and look like a total noob?" Like usual, in his colorful way, Ziggy was right on target.

I blinked, surprised by his insight. "Yeah. That's... that's exactly what it's like."

"So what's the game plan, Coach?" Ziggy passed the boat key from hand to hand. "You gonna take the shot or play it safe?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. I'm scared. What if I get left behind again if he decides to return to his NHL life? Then, there's the other said. I'm scared of not taking the chance and sitting around here as an old man wondering 'what if.'"

"Damn, Coach. That's all incredibly deep. You know what you need?"

"What's that?"

"A Ziggy Knickerbocker Special Pep Talk?," he declared, puffing out his chest. "Listen up, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once. Well, maybe you'll get a second one if you really need a recap."

I laughed softly. "Alright, let's hear it."

Ziggy cleared his throat. "Coach Blake, you're always telling us to take the shot, even if we might miss. You're all like, 'You miss 100% of the shots you don't take,' and 'Fortune favors the bold,' and all that motivational poster jazz. Well, guess what? It's time to put your hockey stick where your mouth is."

He paused for effect. "Life's short, Coach. Do you want to spend it wondering what could have happened while you sit at home watching The Notebook for the billionth time and eating Ben & Jerry's straight from the tub?"

"I don't—" I started to protest, but Ziggy waved me off.

"Save it, Coach. We all have our breakup rituals. Mine involves bad poetry and even worse guitar playing. Anyway, my point is, you have to take your shot. And if Brooks is dumb enough to skip town without you twice? Well, let's just say I know a guy who knows a guy who can make sure his hockey stick is always just a little bit too short. Totally within regulation, of course. I'm not a monster."

I burst out laughing, the tension of the moment breaking. "I appreciate the offer, Ziggy, but let's keep things legal, okay? I don't want to have to explain to the school board why one of my students is sabotaging NHL equipment."

Ziggy grinned and then shifted to a serious expression. "For real though, Coach. You're always pushing us to be brave on the ice. Maybe it's time for you to be brave off it."

I stared at him, momentarily speechless. When did our team captain get so wise?

"You're right. You're absolutely right."

"Of course I am. I'm a Knickerbocker. We're always right about matters of the heart… and the sea… and the best bait for catching lobster. And—"

Like he'd been listening to our conversation telepathically, Brooks suddenly appeared on the track. He waved as he approached, flashing his trademark easy smile. "Hey, Rory, Ziggy. Beautiful day for a run, huh?"

Ziggy jumped up, gathering his things in haste. "Sure is, Mr. Bennett, but I gotta jet. Thanks for the talk, Coach Blake." He gave me a meaningful look before trotting off, leaving Brooks and me alone on the sun-warmed bench.

Brooks saw something in my eyes, and his brow furrowed. "Everything okay?"

I took a deep breath with Ziggy's words echoing in my mind. A faint scent of fresh-cut grass still clung to Brooks. I swallowed hard. It was now or never.

"Brooks, we need to talk."