13. Brooks

Chapter thirteen

Brooks

I stood outside the nearly completed hockey arena project, enjoying the scent of fresh-cut lumber. Late spring sunlight reflected off the new roof while I ran a hand along the smooth surface of a freshly painted wall.

"Looking good, eh?" Ziggy's voice startled me. He'd materialized at my side, hockey stick in hand, with sweat on his brow.

"Not bad at all. You look like you've had a workout."

"You have no idea." Ziggy crouched slightly and groaned. "Coach Blake's on a tear. We've only got two more practice sessions before the end of school, and he's trying to cram a whole summer's worth of drills into them."

The mention of Rory warmed me from the inside. "Ouch, kind of intense. It's not too tough of a workout, is it?"

Ziggy laughed. "Nah, I think it's great. It gets us all pumped. Coach says he wants to leave us with stuff to think about over the summer. We've got a list of calisthenics to keep us sharp." He twirled his stick. "Plus, we're all kind of fired up about the arena. Can't wait to skate on that new ice."

"Like all of us. I bet you're counting down the days."

"Oh man, yeah." Ziggy beamed. "It's gonna be a freaking amazing thing. Hey, you'll come if we have pickup games over the summer, right? Coach Blake said he thought you would."

The idea of sharing my love of the game with the kids was exciting. "How could I miss that?"

"Well, gotta jet and head home." As Ziggy jogged off, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and expected to see Rory's name on the screen. Instead, it was Sterling. I'd already decided he was merely a fossil from a past life.

"Brooks! How's my favorite retired superstar?" His voice boomed, causing a nearby seagull to take flight.

I chuckled and moved across the street from the construction site. "I'm enjoying the small-town lifestyle, Sterling. Why are you calling one of your has-been clients?"

"Has-been? Puh-leeze. You'll soon be the hottest new thing in the coaching world."

"What are you talking about?"

He hummed "New York, New York" under his breath. "The Islanders, Brooks. They want you as an assistant coach. I'd say it's one hell of an opportunity."

Suddenly, my world tilted. I gasped for breath. "That's… fuck, what the hell?" My mouth was dry as cotton, and I could barely form words. "How? Why?"

Sterling laughed. "You remember your playing buddy Ryan Shaw? Turns out he was impressed as hell by that chat you had about your arena project. He's been singing your praises to the Islanders' suits ever since."

I reached out for the nearest streetlight post to steady myself. "Ryan Shaw? I'm shocked he even remembered that we talked."

"Well, he did remember it. I talked to another member of management, and they're all worked up about your passion for developing young talent and having innovative ideas for engaging the local community. They want to rebuild their youth program after a bad hire nearly destroyed it, and they think you're the right man for the job."

While Sterling shared more details, I found it hard to focus. The Islanders . Coaching . A trip back to the NHL. It was the future dreams I had when I first returned to Whistleport all wrapped up and tied with a bow, but so much had changed.

Sterling continued to talk about what he knew. "They're dangling a two-year contract. It's a generous salary, performance bonuses, and a clear path to the head coaching position down the road if all goes well. That work with your project in Whistleport really caught their attention."

I did my best to process the information. "That's a whole lot to take in, Sterling."

"I know, I know, so I'm going to send the details out in an email. Think about it. It's a golden opportunity to get back to the NHL with a multi-decade plan ahead of you. It's a chance to make a real difference with one of the best franchises in the league."

I barely heard what he had to say. I was thinking about Whistleport… and Rory.

"Listen, Sterling. I need some time to think about this. It's not something I can decide on the spur of the moment."

He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. "Of course, I get it. Jetting off to New York would be a big move. Still, don't take too long, okay? An opportunity like this is a rare one. It won't wait forever."

When the call ended, I leaned hard against the light post. The plan forward I'd adopted now sounded shaky. So many emotions swirled in my head and heart, making it difficult to concentrate on any part of how I felt.

I walked home on autopilot. Whistleport's familiar sights and sounds took a backseat to the chaos in my head.

When I pulled open the front door of the house, the hinges protested with a familiar whine. The scent of Dad's favorite coffee – strong enough to strip paint – wafted through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of sea salt that seemed to permeate everything in Whistleport.

Dad looked up from his crossword, glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. "You look like you've seen the ghost of Gordie Howe."

I sank into the sectional sofa across from him. "Got a call from Sterling."

Dad's eyebrows shot up, his pencil hovering mid-clue. "Your agent? What'd he want? Still not giving up?"

I took a deep breath. "The New York Islanders want me as an assistant coach." The news sounded even more foreign coming from me than from Sterling.

The pencil slipped from Dad's fingers, clattering on the table. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, leaning back. "That's... quite something. It's one hell of a vote of confidence."

"Yeah," I agreed, raking my fingers through my hair. "I don't know what to do, Dad."

He studied me for a long moment, his eyes sharp despite the deepening crow's feet. "What does your gut tell you?"

I closed my eyes. I'd been trying to sort through the tangle of emotions all the way home. "I don't know. Part of me wants to jump at it. It's the NHL, after all. For years, coaching's what I assumed I would do once I retired from playing, but..."

"But there's Rory," Dad finished my sentence for me.

My eyes snapped open. "Yeah, and not only him. There's you and the town and everything I've built for myself since I came back."

Dad nodded. "Life has a funny way of complicating everything just when we think we've sorted it. It can be like a last-minute line change in the final period."

I snorted. The hockey analogy was both comforting and frustrating. "You can say that again."

We sat in silence for a moment. All I could hear was the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. Finally, Dad set his crossword puzzle book down and leaned forward.

"When your mother and I first got together, I had a chance to work on one of the big fishing trawlers up in Alaska. It was good money and an adventure. The whole idea seemed like a no-brainer."

I blinked, surprised. "I never knew that."

He shrugged while a wistful look appeared on his face. "I guess it never came up. Anyway, I was torn, just like you are now. Ultimately, I chose to stay in Whistelport and build a life here. Soon, you were born." His eyes misted over slightly. "I never regretted the decision for a second."

The weight of his words settled over me like a warm blanket. "So, does that mean you think I should stay?"

Dad shook his head. "I think you should do what feels right to you. My choice was right for me, but that doesn't mean staying is always the answer."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "But how do I know what's right? The Islanders, wow, that's such a huge opportunity. But Whistleport, Rory, the arena project... they all mean so much to me now."

"That's the rub, isn't it? No matter what you choose, you'll be giving something up." Dad took his glasses off and rubbed one of the lenses with the hem of his shirt. "Let me ask you a question. When you picture your future and your happiest possible life, where are you? What are you doing?"

I closed my eyes and tried my best to come up with an image. Multiple things came to mind: the roar of an NHL crowd and the satisfaction of coaching a winning team. Next, quieter moments took over: walks along the Whistleport shore with Rory, Sunday dinners with Dad, and teaching kids at the new arena.

"I... I'm not sure. Both futures seem amazing in their own ways."

Dad nodded. "That's okay. You don't have to have it all figured out right now." He reached out to place a leathery hand on my arm. "Whatever you decide, make sure it's for you. Don't make the decision for me, for Rory, or for some idea of what you think you should want. Choose the path that feels true to who you are now, not who you were or who you think you should be."

It sounded almost impossibly difficult, but I took his words to heart. "When did you get so wise, old man?"

Dad chuckled. It was a warm and familiar sound. "Somewhere between changing your diapers and watching you lift the Stanley Cup, I suppose."

I laughed. "Thanks, Dad. Really."

He squeezed my arm briefly. "Anytime, Brooks. That's what I'm here for." He paused, then added, "Well, that and to remind you to take out the trash on Thursdays."

I rolled my eyes, grinning despite myself. "Glad to know where I stand."

I stood, my chair scraping against the floor. "I need some air. I'm going to head outside and try to clear my head."

Dad nodded, already turning back to his crossword. "Take your time. These decisions don't come easy. They're not like choosing which shot in the middle of a game."

The evening air was cool against my skin as I wandered Whistleport's winding streets. The town was settling into its nighttime rhythm, porch lights flickering on like fireflies, with the distant laughter of families at dinner drifting through open windows.

I soon found myself outside Tidal Grounds. The coffee shop's warm glow spilled out onto the sidewalk. Through the window, I saw Silas wiping down tables. He chatted with the last lingering customers.

My feet carried me further, past the high school where Rory taught, its brick facade bathed in soft moonlight. In my head, I heard the echo of his voice, passionate about literature and hockey in equal measure.

As I circled back toward home, the pieces began to fall into place like a new play in the playbook. The tug of the NHL was strong. But the life I'd built in Whistleport, the connections I'd forged and rekindled... they were a different kind of strength altogether.

I pushed our front door open while the decision settled over me like a well-worn jersey, comfortable and right. Dad looked up from his chair, a question in his eyes.

"You figure it out, son?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah, Dad. I think I have."

He studied my face for a moment, then smiled. "Rory?"

I reached for my phone, but Dad's voice stopped me. "Hold on there, Brooks. Before you make any calls, why don't you sleep on it?"

I paused, my hand halfway to my pocket. "Sleep on it?"

Dad nodded, his eyes wise and kind. "Big decisions like this, sometimes they need a night to settle. You've been through a whirlwind today. Give yourself until morning to make sure you feel the same way."

I considered his words, feeling the weight of the day's emotions. He had a point. "You're right," I admitted. "It has been a crazy day."

"Besides," Dad added with a knowing smile, "news like this, good or bad, is better delivered in person, don't you think?"

A slow grin spread across my face as I understood his meaning. "You're right again. I could take Rory out to dinner tomorrow and share the news then."

Dad's eyes twinkled. "Now you're thinking. Nothing like a nice dinner to sweeten any news."

I chuckled, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. "Thanks, Dad. I don't know what I'd do without your advice."

He waved off my gratitude with a gruff laugh. "You'd muddle through, I'm sure. Now, get some rest. You've got a big day tomorrow."