11. Brooks

Chapter eleven

Brooks

T he words, "We need to talk," hung in the air. Rory's blue eyes, the color of a crisp winter sky, locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach clench.

"Sure," I managed, my voice sounding distant to my ears. "When and where?"

Rory glanced around the bustling school grounds. "How about the old boathouse at the marina now? It should be quiet this time of day."

"Sure." We walked in silence, our footsteps crunching on the gravel path. The salty breeze ruffled Rory's hair, and I fought the urge to reach out and smooth it back into place.

I assumed he wanted to talk about us and our relationship. Anything about the arena project would be said without delay in public, so I hoped whatever he had to share was good news.

The boathouse loomed before us, its weathered shingles bleached silver by countless seasons of sun and salt. Inside, the air was cool and damp, tinged with the scent of old wood and musty canvas. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the planks, casting zebra-like stripes across the dusty floor.

Rory leaned against an upturned canoe, his fingers tracing abstract patterns in the dust. "Brooks, I..." he began, then faltered.

"What is it, Ror?" I prompted gently, using the old nickname without thinking.

He looked up. "I'm scared." He took a deep breath. "I'm scared that you'll leave again. That this—us—is just temporary. That once the arena is fixed, you'll go back to your real life, and I'll be left behind. Again."

His honesty cut to my core. I hadn't realized how deeply our separation wounded him. After all, he was the one who called things off. "Rory, I—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, pushing off from the canoe and pacing around the boathouse. "I know it's not fair to feel like this. You had dreams, and you followed them. I don't blame you for that. But God, Brooks, it hurt. And now you're back, and all the emotions rode back on your shoulders, and I don't know if I can go through that again."

I watched him move and, for the first time, noticed the beginning of a bald spot on the top of his head. When had that happened? What other changes had I missed?

"I understand." My voice was barely audible over the gentle lapping of waves against the dock outside. "I never meant to hurt you. Leaving was... it was the hardest thing I'd ever done."

Rory stopped pacing and turned to face me, his eyes searching mine. "Was it? Because from where I stood, it seemed like you couldn't wait to get out of here."

The bitterness in his tone stung, but I knew I deserved it. "It might have looked that way, but inside, I was terrified. I was leaving everything I knew and everyone I loved—you in particular."

"Then why didn't you fight harder for us?" Rory asked, his voice cracking. "Why did you let me end things?"

I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling the weight of years of unspoken words. "Because I was young and stupid," I said. "Because you said you were doing the right thing by setting me free. Because I was scared that if I held on too tight, we'd end up resenting each other. Damn, Rory, you don't know how many times I cried over it."

His shoulders slumped, and he leaned back against the canoe. "And now? What's different now?"

I stepped closer, close enough to see the faint freckles dusting his nose. "Now, I've lived that life. I did well enough to understand what being a hockey star is like. I achieved those dreams, and you know what? It wasn't enough. Something was always missing."

"What are you saying?"

I took a deep breath, the musty air filling my lungs. "I'm saying... I think I want to stay. Not just for the arena, or for my dad. For us, too."

Rory's eyes widened. "Are you serious? What about coaching? Or being an announcer? Going back to the city life?"

I shrugged. "Hockey's been my whole life for so long. But being back here, helping with the arena, reconnecting with you and the town... it's made me realize there's more to life than just the game. There has to be. I've got decades left, and I need to fill them with something."

"Wow." A tentative smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You saying that about hockey... is unexpected."

"Tell me about it," I chuckled, running a hand through my hair. "So, what do you think? Should we give this—us—another shot?"

Rory was quiet for a long moment, his gaze drifting to the water visible through the cracks in the boathouse walls. When he looked back at me, his eyes shone with unshed tears. "I want to," he said softly. "God, Brooks, I want to so badly. But I'm terrified. What if it doesn't work out? What if you realize small-town life isn't for you after all?"

I stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. "I can't promise it'll be perfect," I said. "I can't even promise I won't have moments of doubt. But I can promise you this: I'm not the same person who left all those years ago. I know what I want now, and I want a life here with you."

"I think... I'd like that. But can we take it slow? I don't think my heart could take rushing into things and having it fall apart again."

"Slow," I agreed, reaching out for his hand. His warm and slightly calloused fingers fit perfectly into mine. "We can do it slow."

The following two weeks passed in a whirlwind of activity. Construction on the arena began in earnest, and I threw myself into the work with a level of enthusiasm I'd never experienced. There was something deeply satisfying about the physical labor and the tangible progress we made daily.

Rory and I fell into a comfortable routine, meeting for coffee at Tidal Grounds in the mornings before heading to the construction site. Silas watched us with knowing eyes as he prepared our usual orders—a plain black coffee for me and a hazelnut latte for Rory.

"You two are looking cozy," he commented one morning, sliding our drinks across the counter.

Rory's cheeks flushed pink, but he didn't deny it. "We're... figuring things out," he said, glancing sideways at me.

I nodded. "Taking it day by day." I allowed my hand to brush against Rory's as I reached for my cup.

Silas grinned, shaking his head. "Well, it's about time. Just do me a favor and warn me before you make any big announcements. I'll need time to prepare extra tissues for Dottie Perkins. You know how she gets."

We laughed, the sound mingling with the hiss of the espresso machine and the gentle murmur of the other patrons. As we left the cafe, the bell above the door jingled merrily.

Of course, not everyone in town was as discreet as Silas. Walking down Main Street one afternoon, arms laden with blueprints for the arena, we ran into Mrs. Pendleton.

"Well, well, well," she cooed, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "If it isn't our very own Romeo and Juliet. Minus the tragic ending, I hope!"

Rory spoke for us between clenched teeth. "Mrs. Pendleton, good to see you. How are you today?"

"Oh, never mind about me." She waved a hand dismissively. "I want to hear all about you two lovebirds. When's the wedding? Should I start planning my outfit?"

I cleared my throat, acutely aware of the other town residents slowing their pace to eavesdrop. "We're just friends working on the arena together."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Friends, eh? Is that what they're calling it these days? Well, don't let me keep you from your... friendship activities."

As we hurried away, Rory let out a groan. "God, I forgot how exhausting small-town gossip can be."

I chuckled, bumping his shoulder with mine. "Hey, at least they're invested in our happiness, right?"

"Yeah, a little too invested if you ask me."

That evening, as I sat with Dad on the porch, enjoying the early summer warmth, I thought about the future. Was I really ready to give up the bustling city life for good? The thrill of professional hockey? The anonymity that came with being just another face in the crowd?

As if sensing my inner turmoil, Dad leaned toward me.

"Something on your mind?" he asked, his voice gruff but kind.

I sighed, running a hand over my face. "Just... wondering if I'm making the right choice. Staying here, I mean."

Dad was quiet for a moment. "You know, there was a time I thought about leaving all this behind," he said, gesturing toward the houses down the street.

I turned to look at him, startled. "Really? But you've always loved Whistleport and being out on the water."

He chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. "Oh, I do. But loving something doesn't mean it's always easy. There were times when the catch was bad, or the weather was worse, and I thought a lot about trying my luck elsewhere."

"What stopped you?" I asked, leaning forward, suddenly eager to hear more about a side of my father I'd never known.

Dad smiled a rare, soft expression that deepened the weathered lines on his face. "Your mother, partly. But also, I realized something important. The sea... she's a harsh mistress, but she's honest. Out there, you learn who you really are."

He paused, reaching for a mug of coffee on the small table between us. I watched as he raised it, and steam rose into the evening air.

He continued his comments. "In lobstering, you've got to have patience. You set your traps, and then you wait. Sometimes you pull up empty, and sometimes you hit the jackpot. You have to keep going out, day after day because that's who you are."

"How does that relate to my situation?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Dad took a sip of his coffee before answering. "Life's a lot like that, Brooks. You've set your traps here in Whistleport. Now you've got to give them time to fill. Maybe they will, and maybe they won't, but you won't know unless you stick around to check."

I nodded slowly, thinking about the arena project, Rory, and all the familiar faces I'd seen since returning. "I'm starting to understand that."

Dad turned to look at me, searching my face. "Son, I'm not going to tell you what to do. You're a grown man, and you've got to chart your own course. But I will say this: there's no shame in dropping anchor when you find a good harbor."

His words hit me hard, resonating with thoughts I'd been too afraid to voice, even to myself. "But what if I'm making a mistake? What if I'm giving up everything I've worked for?"

Dad set his mug down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Listen to me. You've already sailed further toward the sun than all but a precious few. You've played in the NHL, for Pete's sake. That won't ever go away. But now? Now you've got the chance to build something new. Something that might weather more storms than any trophy or record."

I let his words sink in, feeling something shift inside me. "Thanks, Dad," I said quietly.

He nodded, reaching out to pat my knee. "You've got a good head on your shoulders. Trust your gut. It'll lead you right."

The next day, as Rory and I stood amid the organized chaos of the arena construction, a sudden commotion drew our attention. One of the support beams had shifted, threatening to undo days of work.

Without a word, we sprang into action. Working in tandem, we rallied the crew, our voices rising above the din as we coordinated efforts to stabilize the structure. Hours passed in a frantic blur, but finally, as the sun began to set, we stepped back to survey our work.

The beam was secure, and we'd averted a crisis. I turned to Rory, taking in his dust-streaked face and how his eyes shone with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. At that moment, I knew.

"I'm staying," I announced.

Rory blinked. "What?"

I gestured around us, at the half-built arena and the town beyond. "This. All of this. I want it. I want to see this through and be a part of rebuilding something that matters. I want... I want to build a life here. With you, if you'll have me."

For a second, Rory was silent, and my heart hammered against my ribs. Then, slowly, a smile bloomed on his face, brighter than any stadium lights I'd ever played under.

"Yeah," he said, reaching out to take my hand. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."