15. Brooks

Chapter fifteen

Brooks

T he constant ticking of Dad's antique grandfather clock seemed to echo off the walls of the house. Each second marked reminded me that the silence between Rory and me had grown into a yawning chasm of quiet.

I sat on the edge of my bed, holding my phone in my hand, hoping I'd receive a message from him. The temptation to run and escape all the drama by moving to New York was real, but I'd made my decision to stay in Whistleport, and I wanted to be true to it.

A loud knock at the front door downstairs pulled me out of my head. I listened to Dad's heavy footsteps in the front hall and then the whiny creak of the door's hinges.

"Brooks!" Dad called up the stairs. "Ziggy's here to see you."

I wondered why Whistleport High's star player would be stopping to see me. When I descended the staircase, I saw Ziggy waiting for me, full of nervous energy. He held a neon green flyer in one hand, gripping it like he thought it might float away.

"Hey, Mr. Bennett, how are you on this fine early summer morning?"

I tilted my head to the side. He sounded ever so slightly like a roaming salesman beginning his pitch.

"I'm, uh, fine. What's up? Is there something going on at the arena?"

"Oh, no, not that." Ziggy grinned. "This is business. I was wondering whether you needed someone to mow your lawn this summer. I'm offering a discount rate if you book the whole season."

I raised an eyebrow. "Since when have you entered the lawn care business?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, you got me. I came up with the idea about an hour ago when I spotted some rad new hockey gear, and my pocket was a little slim."

I smirked. "Come on in. Let's discuss your new business plans over some iced tea. Do you have time for a break?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Bennett. I could use some wise words for my entry into the business world."

As we settled in the kitchen, I pulled the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge. Ziggy perched on a stool by the island and glanced around the room."

"So, Mr. Bennett, there's something else." His tone was measured and cautious. "I don't mean to pry, but… how are you and Coach Blake doing?"

The question startled me. "What do you mean?"

Ziggy took a glass as I handed it to him and turned it in a full circle before taking a sip. "It's just, well, I've seen Coach around town the last few days, and everybody thinks he's a little off."

"Off?"

"Distracted. Not his usual self."

My throat constricted. "Tell me more," I whispered.

"Well, I was hanging out with my buddies at Tidal Grounds yesterday, and Coach Blake didn't notice when Dottie Perkins spilled coffee all over her brand-new dress. He sees everything. Damn, Mr. Bennett, you should see him in class. He snagged Eileen's note to me before she'd unfolded the paper to write it on—"

"Ziggy, focus."

He grinned. "Oh, yeah, sorry. Anyway, he just kept staring into his mug." Ziggy paused. "Do you know what's up?"

"Well, it's complicated."

Ziggy lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is it because of the Islanders' offer?"

I blinked. "How did you know about that?"

"Whistleport's a small town, in case you haven't noticed that yet. News travels fast, particularly something big like an NHL contract."

"Right." I swallowed a mouthful of tea. "You're not wrong about something being up. Rory didn't take the news well."

Ziggy's eyes opened wider. "Can I ask what happened?"

"I can see this will be a longer conversation. Do you want a snack? My stomach is growling."

"Heck yeah!" Ziggy's face lit up. "I could eat."

"What would you like?"

Ziggy drummed his fingers on the island. "What's in the Bennett fridge? Have you got any of those awesome mini pizzas you brought to the end-of-the-season party?"

I smiled as I remembered how Ziggy downed a whole platter of them himself. "Sorry, those are ancient history. Could I tempt you with some apples and peanut butter?"

"Healthy grub. Yeah, that's a good backup plan. I'm in."

While I sliced the apples, Ziggy waited impatiently. He sipped his tea and watched me over the rim of his glass.

"So, tell me the rest," he insisted. "What's the whole deal between you and Coach Blake? Don't give me the 'it's complicated' stuff. I might be young, but I understand some of the ways of the heart."

I brought the plate of apples and a jar of peanut butter to the island. Ziggy was nothing if not direct. "Okay, here goes. The latest round started with that Islanders offer…"

As I told my story, Ziggy listened closely and then interrupted with a question.

"So, Coach Blake just shut down? That's not like him at all. He's always about talking everything out. It's even annoying sometimes when he picks at me."

I nodded and sighed. "Yeah, it surprised me, too. He told me to take the job and said we both knew I wasn't meant to stay here forever."

"Wow, that's intense." I stared at a smear of peanut butter on Ziggy's chin. "He's wrong, too, isn't he? I mean, you've been Mr. Whistleport 2.0 since you got back. Did you tell him he's got it twisted?"

I paused. "I'm not sure I did, at least in direct terms. It all happened so fast."

"Dude." Ziggy shook his head. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think you both kinda missed the puck. You need to circle back around and get in the game."

His hockey reference was on target. "You're not wrong."

Ziggy was quiet for a few minutes while he munched on the apples. Finally, he spoke again. "You know what this is like? It's those romance movies my sister watches. Coach Blake is doing that whole 'push you away before you can leave him' thing. It's a classic move, at least in the flicks."

I raised an eyebrow. "You watch a lot of romance movies?"

A flush of pink rose on his cheeks. "Hey, don't judge. Sometimes, she steals the remote. Anyway, the point is Coach is probably freaking out. You gotta do something big to shake him out of it."

"Something big… " I nursed the last of my tea in my glass.

Ziggy snapped his fingers, and he nearly fell off the stool. "I've got it!" He gripped the island to regain his balance. "What if, and now listen, don't interrupt me. What if you created a summer hockey league for us kids?"

"A summer league?"

"Yeah!" Ziggy's idea rolled out of his mouth. He held his hands out like he was painting a picture. "Can you see it? School's already out, and the arena's almost fixed. Half of the team is sitting at home playing video games all day. I'd be doing that if I didn't need that new gear. Instead, we could have practices and scrimmages on the ice."

"That's… not bad."

"Not bad?" Ziggy huffed. "It's brilliant! I love the idea, but the best part is it'd show Coach Blake you're all in on staying here. Who starts a youth program if they plan to skip town, right?"

I nodded as the picture became clearer. "We'd need equipment, ice time, coaches… that all takes money."

Ziggy waved a dismissive hand. "Little detail. You've got connections, right?" He leaned toward me. "And NHL players make some serious dough, don't they? I bet you still have some of that around."

I chuckled. He was right. I had plenty of money stashed in accounts to support Dad and me. On top of that, I was hanging onto a nest egg aimed at my future. That future was in Whistleport.

"Think of this, Mr. Bennett. We could get Silas to sponsor a team. Tidal Grounds Torpedoes… how's that sound?"

His enthusiasm was contagious. "So, how would this actually work?"

Lines appeared on Ziggy's forehead as he thought even more about the idea. "Maybe three practices a week and a game on weekends?"

"Sounds great, and what age groups?"

"Oh, right! That's important. I'd say we could do, like, 8-10, 11-13, 14-16, and then anyone up through college age. That way, you get to play with kids your own size. It would go way beyond the old pee wee league."

Ziggy's idea sounded more and more realistic as we continued to brainstorm. It excited me, too.

A gruff, gravelly voice interrupted us as we were deep in a discussion of possible practice schedules.

"What's all this noise about? I can barely hear my shows."

We turned toward Dad, standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane. Despite the grumbly comment, he was smiling.

Ziggy straightened up. "Oh, hi, Mr. Bennett—I mean the other Mr. Bennett. I'm sorry if we were a little loud."

Dad chuckled and shuffled into the kitchen. "Relax. I'm not the principal calling you into my office." He settled himself on a stool beside Ziggy. "So, what is it that's got the two of you so fired up?"

After a nod from Ziggy, I launched into a description of the summer league idea. While I explained, Dad nodded, and he leaned toward me.

"Well, I'll be damned, that's not bad. You just came up with it?"

Ziggy beamed. "Yeah, kinda. I kicked it off, and the other Mr. Bennett here made it sound real."

Dad nodded approvingly. "Is that so? You've both got good heads on your shoulders."

Ziggy elbowed me. "Thank you so much."

Dad stroked his chin. "Back in my day, we had something like this. It wasn't nearly as organized, but a bunch of kids in the neighborhood got together to play street hockey whenever we could. We didn't use one of those fancy neon balls. An old tin can worked fine."

"Wow." Ziggy leaned forward. "What was it like?"

Dad's eyes took on a faraway look. "It was something else. We'd play from morning to night on game days if our folks were okay with it. It used to drive the moms crazy when we'd come home with bruises and ripped clothes."

I smiled, thinking about a young version of Dad racing back and forth on the street, a tin can rattling against his hockey stick.

"So, could Ziggy's idea work, Dad?

He nodded. "With strong support, sure. It's gonna be a job. That's for sure. Organizing kids and their parents can be like herding cats."

Ziggy laughed. "Tell me about it. I tried to get the guys together for early practices last season—sheesh."

Dad laughed. "I can imagine, but there's something unique and special about summer hockey. It can be a pure indulgence in the game. There's no pressure from school and no big championships to drive the parents wild. You can just enjoy the game."

His words resonated. Wasn't it why I fell in love with hockey in the first place? There was joy in the simple act of gliding across the ice with a stick in hand.

"You're right, Dad. That's exactly how we want it to be."

"Well then, you two better start getting your ducks in a row. This league isn't going to form itself."

"Any other advice, Mr. Bennett?" Ziggy asked eagerly.

"Don't forget why you're doing it. You're not trying to create the next NHL star. You want to give kids a place to grow and develop. Keep your eyes on that, and it will all come together."

I grabbed a pen and paper, and for the next hour, the three of us worked together to flesh out the outline of our summer league plan. Excited conversation bounced back and forth.

When Ziggy prepared to leave, he brought the conversation back to one of the most crucial questions. "When are you going to tell Coach Blake about this?"

I took a deep breath. "Soon, but I want to have a solid plan in place first."

"Good thinking, Mr. Bennett. That way, it can be a surprise he can't refuse."

As I watched Ziggy bike away, his lean form silhouetted against the setting sun, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe the junior league plan could be the key to bridging the gap between Rory and me.

I turned back to the house, ready to dive into more planning. The path forward wasn't clear yet, but for the first time in days, I knew that I was skating in the right direction.