12. Rory

Chapter twelve

Rory

T he sharp tang of lemon furniture polish battled with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans for attention as I stood at the top of a rickety stepladder, fussing with the strings of little lights I'd hung from the Tidal Grounds ceiling. My fingers trembled slightly, part of the nervous energy ahead of my fundraising poetry event.

"I swear if you take a header off that ladder, I'm not going to be the one who explains it to your mother," Silas called from behind the counter. "It wouldn't matter anyway 'cause the gossip hounds would get to her far ahead of me."

I stretched to adjust the last string of lights, my shirt riding up as I reached. The ladder creaked ominously, and for a moment, I envisioned myself sprawled on the floor, surrounded by shattered bulbs and my wounded pride.

"Alright, Michelangelo," Silas called from below. "I think the Sistine Chapel's got nothing on us now. How about you come down before you accidentally add a skylight to my ceiling?"

"Your concern is touching." I glanced down to see him eyeing the ladder skeptically, his hands hovering near its base as if ready to catch me. "I'll have you know I have the balance of a—"

"Drunken moose on ice skates?"

As I neared the bottom, my foot caught on a loose nail. I tipped backward and began to pinwheel my arms, my stomach lurching. Before I could brace for a hard impact, a strong hand gripped my arm, steadying me.

"Easy there, chief." Silas helped me down as he chuckled lightly under his breath.

Once I was back on solid ground, I let out a shaky laugh. "Thanks, Silas. Guess I'm a bit more nervous about tonight than I thought."

He jerked his head toward the counter. "Come on. I've got something that might help with those jitters."

After I followed him across the room, he thrust a mug at me. "Here, drink this before you vibrate right out of your skin."

I accepted the offering gratefully, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. The complex flavors danced across my tongue – notes of chocolate, a hint of cherry, and something earthy I couldn't quite place. "God, Silas, what's in this? Liquid zen?"

He tapped the side of his nose, grinning. "Family secret. Been calming jittery Brewsters for generations."

I chuckled, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. "Well, this nervous Blake will be eternally grateful."

Silas leaned against the counter and gazed around the cafe. Mismatched chairs formed a semicircle around a small raised platform where a lone microphone stood. "You've outdone yourself, Rory. This place looks like something out of a bohemian dream. Will they be snapping their fingers for applause?"

"Very funny. I just want everything to be perfect. Fortunately, I don't think this event is a make or break for the arena, but it certainly could help."

Silas's expression softened. "Well, I don't think you need to worry about that. This town would show up if you were hosting a poetry reading in Old Man Havelock's barn."

I laughed. "The audience sitting on hay bales? Maybe we should save that idea for next year's campaign."

"'Hogs and Haikus for Hockey'—I can see the flyers now," Silas grinned. "Seriously, though, you've got this. The whole town's behind you. And Brooks."

At the mention of Brooks' name, I blushed. Silas, ever observant, raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of our prodigal puck-slinger, is he going to grace us with his presence tonight?"

I shrugged, pretending not to know, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't miss it. The event was primarily a fundraiser, but I also saw it as a small celebration of Brooks' decision to remain in Whistleoort. "I invited him, but you know how he is. Always playing things close to the chest."

"Well, if he does show his face, try not to spontaneously combust, okay? I just had the floors cleaned, and scorch marks are a pain to get out."

Before I could formulate a suitably witty comeback, the bell above the door jingled. Dottie Perkins bustled in, her floral perfume preceding her like a fragrant fog rolling in off the ocean.

"Well, pinch me purple and call me a plum!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying to every corner of the cafe. "If this isn't the prettiest sight I've seen since my third husband proposed by the lighthouse at sunset!"

Dottie's eyes darted around the room, drinking in every detail as she made her way to us. Her gaudy costume jewelry clinked with each step, making her a one-woman percussion section. "Rory Blake, you crafty creature, you've turned this place into a spot-on cultural salon." She turned toward the counter. "And Silas, I'll bet my best Sunday that you had a hand in this transformation too."

"Now, Dottie, you know I'm just the humble purveyor of caffeinated delights. What can I get you? Your usual?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Dottie waved a hand, her bracelets jangling like wind chimes in a gale. "This is a special occasion. I need something with a little more... oomph. Give me whatever magical concoction you've been serving our Rory here. A woman needs her wits about her when she's about to unleash poetic brilliance on the world."

As Silas set about crafting Dottie's drink, she turned to me. She lowered her voice. It remained loud, but at least now they couldn't here her thirty miles away in Portland. "Now, Rory dear, I hope you're prepared for a night of literary genius. And I'm not just talking about my contribution, mind you."

She leaned in closer, the cloud perfume tickling my nose. "Word on the street is that a certain tall, dark hockey hero might make an appearance tonight. And by 'word on the street,' I mean I overheard Mabel at the Curl Up and Dye saying her niece's best friend's brother saw him buying a notebook downtown."

Before I could respond, Ziggy appeared at my elbow, practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Coach Blake," he hissed, "I don't know if I can do this. What if I forget the words? What if I throw up? What if—"

I placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, Ziggy. Remember, it's just us here. We're your friends and neighbors. If you forget the words, make something up. It might sound as poetic as the real thing."

He managed a shaky laugh.

As the last stragglers streamed through the door and found seats, I stepped up to the microphone. The low hum of conversation quickly quieted.

"Welcome, everyone, to Verses for Victory . Tonight, we're not just sharing poetry; we're building a future for our arena, one word at a time. Please don't be afraid to open your hearts, your minds, and, your wallets. Silas has pledge sheets at the front counter."

A ripple of laughter spread through the audience. As I introduced the first reader, I looked around the room.

Brooks had slipped in through the back door, hunching his broad shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller. Our eyes met across the room, and suddenly, my tongue seemed twice as large as normal in my mouth. I could barely form words properly.

I shook myself out of my lovestruck zone, forcing my attention back to the event at hand. The evening unfolded in a tapestry of words and emotions. Dottie's limerick about lobster fishing had everyone in stitches, while Mr. Havelock's somber ode to the changing seasons left more than a few eyes misty.

As the applause for the previous reader faded, I caught sight of Ziggy fidgeting in his seat, his lanky frame practically vibrating with nervous energy. I gave him an encouraging nod, and he stood, making his way to the microphone with the cautious steps of a man crossing a minefield.

He cleared his throat, the sound amplified and echoing through the now-hushed café. His eyes darted around the room, landing briefly on his teammates huddled in the corner, then on his parents sitting front and center, before finally settling on me.

"Um, hi everyone," he started, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm Ziggy Knickerbocker, and I, uh, I wrote this poem. It's called 'Crosschecked Dreams'."

Dottie leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, while Silas paused in his coffee-making, giving Ziggy his full attention.

Ziggy took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, something had shifted. The nervous teenager was gone, replaced by a young man with something important to say.

"Crosschecked Dreams" by Ziggy Knickerbocker

On ice, I glide, a Knickerbocker born, Lobster blood and salt air in my veins. But in quiet moments, when no one sees, I dream in verse, in rhythms, in refrains.

My stick's a pen, the rink's a blank page, Each game a story waiting to unfold. But off the ice, words tumble, raw and real, Tales of doubts and dreams that can't be told.

They say our names are written on the waves, Our futures etched in buoys and in traps. But what if my heart beats to a different tune? A slapshot scored in iambic pentameter, perhaps?

I stand at the blue line of my fate, Torn between two worlds, both calling loud. Can I be both the poet and the player? A Knickerbocker of whom they'd all be proud?

So here I am, laid bare upon this stage, No helmet, no pads, just words as my shield. Praying you'll see beyond the name I carry, To the person – and the dreams – I've concealed.

For I am more than just my family's legacy, More than the stats that flash up on the board. I'm a crosscheck of contradictions, A slash of ink on ice, waiting to be explored.

As Ziggy's voice faded on the last line, the audience erupted in applause. His teammates whooped and hollered, pride evident on their faces. His father, a burly man with weathered hands, wiped at his eyes.

Ziggy stood there, looking both relieved and shocked at the response. A slow smile spread across his face, growing wider as the applause continued.

A lump formed in my throat. His piece wasn't just a poem; it was a declaration of his humanity. He stepped out from behind the masks we all wear, revealing the complex, beautiful truth beneath an internal battle over expectations and personal dreams.

As the final scheduled reader finished, I returned to the podium to close the event. "Thank you all for your beautiful words and generous donations. Before we wrap up, does anyone else feel inspired to share?"

A hush fell over the room as Brooks stood, clutching a folded piece of paper. He skirted the seated crowd on his way to address the group.

"I, uh, I'm not much of a poet," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "So I brought one I like, if that's okay."

I nodded and simply handed him the microphone. Brooks cleared his throat and began to read. He shared "The Waking" by Theodore Roethke and closed with the powerful lines:

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go.

As Brooks finished, the café erupted in applause again. My heart pounded while I stared at him.

The rest of the time at Tidal Grounds passed in a blur of handshakes and thank-yous. Brooks helped me clean up. Finally, as Silas shooed us out, insisting he could handle the rest, we found ourselves alone outside.

I reached out for his hand. "That was... quite a poem."

He wove his fingers together with mine. "Yeah, well, it speaks to me."

"I hope this speaks to you, too." I stopped in the dark space between streetlights and wrapped Brooks in a hug, quickly planting a kiss on his lips before he could pull away.

He tasted of coffee and smelled a bit like Tidal Grounds pastries. Our tongues tangled together, and the rest of the world faded away.

Brooks raked his fingers into my hair and held on tight. He raised the heat by placing a hand on my chest, rubbing a nipple through my shirt with the pad of his thumb. "Fuck, Rory, I've wanted this… forever."

When we finally broke apart, breathless, I knew we'd crossed a line we couldn't uncross. And I didn't want to.

"My place?" I asked, surprised by my own boldness.

Brooks nodded, his eyes dark with desire. "Lead the way."

The walk home was electric, each brush of our hands sent sparks through my body. When we arrived, Mom was already in bed. As soon as my bedroom door closed behind us, we closed the gap between us again, hands exploring, rediscovering.

The soft light from the bedside lamp bathed the room in a warm glow. Brooks stood before me, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of desire and uncertainty.

"You sure about this, Ror?" he asked quietly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the top button of his shirt. The fabric was soft and familiar under my touch.

As I undid each button, I felt the steady rise and fall of Brooks' chest. His breath caught when my knuckles grazed his skin. I looked up, meeting his gaze. The vulnerability I saw there made my heart skip.

With the last button undone, I gently pushed the shirt off his shoulders. It fell to the floor, forgotten. I took a step back, taking in the sight before me.

Years of professional hockey had sculpted Brooks' body. Lean muscle defined his chest and arms. A few scars marked his skin, each one a story of a game hard fought.

"God, Brooks," I said softly, reaching out to trace a scar along his ribs. "When did you get this one?"

He smiled, a hint of his old cockiness showing through. "Pittsburgh. Took a high stick. Hurt like hell, but we won, so it was worth it."

I let my hand rest on his chest, feeling the quick beat of his heart, and then I kissed the scar and let my tongue trace its length. His skin tasted slightly salty from dried sweat. I reached up for his face with a trembling hand.

"Damn, I guess I'm a little nervous," I said with a small smile.

Brooks covered my hand with his. "Rory," he said, my name sounding like a prayer on his lips. "I've wanted this for so long."

I raised my head, pressing my lips to his. The kiss was tender at first, then deepened with years of pent-up longing. Brooks' arms wrapped around me, pulling me close.

As our lips parted, I let my hands trail down Brooks' sides, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath warm skin. My fingers found the waistband of his jeans, thumbs brushing along the cut of his hips.

"Is this okay?" I murmured, searching his eyes for any hesitation.

Brooks nodded, his breath hitching slightly. "More than okay, Ror." He jabbed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a condom package.

Emboldened, I slid my hands to his thighs, marveling at the strength I felt there. Years of skating had honed his muscles to perfection. I squeezed gently, drawing a soft groan from Brooks.

"Come here," I whispered, tugging him closer.

Brooks moved willingly, his body pressing against mine. The heat of him seeped through my clothes, igniting a fire in my veins. His hands found my waist, fingers splaying wide across my back.

We stumbled backward towards the bed, unwilling to break contact. When my knees hit the mattress, I sat, pulling Brooks down with me.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed, one hand cupping my cheek.

I leaned into his touch, turning to press a kiss to his palm. "So are you."

We fell back onto the bed, limbs tangling as we shifted to get comfortable. I tore off my shirt, tugging it out from under me.

Brooks' weight settled over my body, familiar yet thrillingly new, too. I wrapped my arms around him, relishing the feel of his skin against mine.

"Jeans off, too," Brooks demanded, and within seconds, we were both buck naked, Brooks' thick cock resting against my thigh.

I reached down to wrap my fingers around it and rolled my head back, exposing my neck. He licked my Adam's apple, and I gripped his cock tight, feeling the veins firm against my palm.

"Fuck, Brooks. Please. Fuck me."

He handed me the condom and covered my chest with kisses while I sheathed his pulsing cock. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized a dream had come true. Brooks came back to me. He was mine, at least for the moment. I was getting fucked by an NHL star.

I almost chuckled at the thought. Damn, it was a hockey fanatic's most crazy fantasy.

And it was the cure for the tears I shed when he left.

"Ahh, fuck, easy…" His cock was thick, and it had been a while for me… too long.

Brooks growled and then smiled at me as I locked my legs around his torso. "You said you wanted it."

"But I didn't say I wanted you to tear me apart." I gripped his shoulders, and we both laughed while he slowly drove his cock deeper.

"Oh fuck, fuck, that's it." My body began to relax. "Now harder."

"You got it, Coach." Brooks threw the power of a hockey player's thighs and glutes into his thrusts. I reached above my head to the bed's headboard to hold on.

He rolled me partially over onto my side and lightly clamped a hand over my mouth. "You used to always like this, too."

I gasped against his hand and then nodded. "My thoughts spun in crazy circles until I wasn't concentrating on anything. Our bodies moved on autopilot."

Reaching for my cock, I started to pump it in time to Brooks' thrusts. "Fuck, Rory, close here. Jerk that cock of yours."

The flames climbed higher and higher inside both of us until we were on the edge. My balls rode up, and I didn't whether I could stop myself. "Please, Brooks, can I come?"

"Fuck, yeah, Ror. I'm… oh, FUCK FUCK!" He exploded inside me, and seconds later, I shot white ropes of cum over his muscular abs.

Afterward, as we lay tangled in my sheets, Brooks traced lazy patterns on my skin. The moonlight streaming through the window painted his face in silver and shadow.

"I meant what I said in the poem, Ror," he murmured. "I'm home. For good."

I propped myself up on an elbow, studying his face. "Are you sure? This isn't just... nostalgia or a mid-life crisis?"

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Definitely not a crisis. More like... clarity. I've spent years chasing something, only to realize what I really wanted was right here all along."

I felt tears prick at my eyes. "I want to believe that, Brooks. God, I do. But..."

"But you're scared," he finished for me. "I get it. I'm scared too. But Ror, I'd rather be scared and facing it together than alone and wondering 'what if' for the rest of my life."

I nodded, words failing me. Instead, I leaned in and kissed him, pouring all my hopes and fears into it.

As we drifted off to sleep, limbs entwined, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. The soft sound of waves lapping against the distant shore mingled with Brooks' steady breathing. Whatever challenges lay ahead, we'd face them together. And for the first time in years, that thought didn't terrify me. It felt like coming home.