2. Rory

Chapter two

Rory

" P ablo Neruda or Robert Frost?" I asked, holding a worn paperback in my hands as I leaned against the counter at Tidal Grounds.

Silas grinned, flour dusting his black hair. "For tonight's reading? Go with Neruda. This crowd needs a shot of passion straight up."

Tall and slim, Silas Brewster was Whistleport's most eligible bachelor. Unfortunately, he wasn't interested in men; I'd be first in line if he were.

We went to high school together, and he'd turned a building that was once my grandfather's bait shop into the town's best cafe. Mismatched armchairs and well-worn sofas in cocoa brown and jet black upholstery contrasted starkly with the whitewashed shiplap walls.

Fishing nets draped from exposed beams added to the oceanside feel. Each wall contained at least one bookshelf full of well-read dog-eared paperbacks and aging hardcovers available for anyone to borrow or swap.

"I guess that makes sense. His sonnets are some of the best ever written."

Silas wiped the counter, removing a few remaining crumbs. "So, are you ready for tonight's reading?"

I chuckled and shrugged. "As ready as I ever am. How's tonight's crowd?"

He leaned toward me and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Might have more than usual. Look around; we're a little packed already. Word is, there's a prodigal son planning to make an appearance."

Silas rarely outwardly showed excitement, so the hint of it in his voice raised my curiosity.

"Anyone I know?" I did my best to sound casual while I watched him arrange a stack of plates on shelves behind him. Each one was a unique design from a local potter.

Before Silas could answer my question, the brass bell above the front door jingled. A group of high school students tumbled into the shop. Their raucous laughter reminded me of the seagulls that congregated at the harbor.

Towering over his peers at the center of the group was tall, lanky Ziggy Knickerbocker. His head of shaggy, dark hair fell deep over his forehead, always tousled like he'd just climbed out of the shower and forgot to use a comb. His bright green eyes sparkled and drew the attention of anyone nearby.

He wore a Whistleport High hockey jersey with the "C" for captain proudly displayed on his chest. Over his shoulders, he'd slung a purple backpack, and I spotted a weathered, lime-green notebook sticking out. I knew it was likely full of hockey plays and poetry verses that came to mind.

I coached Ziggy on the high school hockey team, and he was one of the stars of my honors English class. He possessed natural creative writing talent, but he didn't admit it to any of his friends.

"Coach Blake!" Ziggy called out. With five other teenagers trailing behind, he bounded over to me, a mass of gangly limbs and boundless exuberance. "Are you gonna drop the Neruda bomb tonight? You know, the one that's all puppy eyes and stuff?"

"You like that one?"

"Kinda." Ziggy blushed slightly.

I couldn't help but smile at his eagerness to hear me recite. To me, Ziggy had the potential to be a leader of Whistleport's next generation. He had deep roots in the town's traditions through his family, but he also had big dreams that went far beyond our tenacious hold on the rocky shore.

"I might pull it out again. I'll see how the mood hits me. What about you? Are you ready to share one of your poems?"

He blushed slightly and shoved his right hand into a pocket of his loose-fitting jeans. I knew he was reaching for the lucky puck he carried everywhere. "N… not tonight, Mr. Blake. Maybe next time."

I nodded and understood. Ziggy could fearlessly lead the high school team into battle on the ice without missing a beat, but he trembled when asked to reveal the softer, gentler side of his personality to his peers.

"I won't put any pressure on you, but I do have something to share. Some of the greatest poets in history were into sports, too. Marianne Moore was a total baseball addict."

Ziggy grinned. "That's cool, and hey, did you hear about—"

He was cut off by one of his teammates calling him over to a corner table. With a quick wave, Ziggy loped off, his presence leaving a trail of energy in his wake. As I turned back to help Silas arrange chairs in a semicircle, I found myself reciting a segment from a Neruda sonnet I shared with my class in a muted voice, "I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where..."

A deep voice behind me finished the line, "I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride..."

As I heard the words, the world stopped spinning momentarily. The voice was unmistakable but deeper and richer than I remembered. A shiver ran up my spine.

Pivoting on my left foot, I turned to face the source of the shared poetry.

It was Brooks Bennett, but he wasn't quite the boy I remembered. Time had chiseled away the softness of younger years, leaving behind a man hewn out of Maine granite. His shoulders, broader, strained against his flannel shirt. When our gazes locked, my memories of the years of separation faded.

The snippet of the poem hung between us. For a second or two, it was like we were seventeen again, sharing poetry behind the bleachers of the arena. Back then, we'd recite our favorites together in whispered voices.

"Brooks," I finally managed.

My mind flashed back to our last conversation, years ago. We'd tried to make it work long-distance after Brooks got called up to the NHL, but the strain had been too much.

Late-night phone calls grew shorter and less frequent. Brooks' world expanded while mine remained rooted in Whistleport. Finally, after months of growing apart, I made the painful decision to end things.

"I can't keep holding onto something that's slipping away," I'd told him, my voice breaking. "You need to focus on your career, and I... I need to let you go." The silence that followed had been deafening. Now, face to face after all this time, those unresolved feelings came rushing back.

"Hey, Rory." He had better command of the situation, and I thought I saw a smile straining to form. "It's been a minute."

"About a decade, give or take a few broken hearts."

As I searched his face, I noticed his nose was slightly crooked, likely a hockey injury. His eyes hadn't changed. The warm, steady gaze drew me in, and I couldn't move.

Silas appeared beside me and broke the uneasy tension. "Look who decided to come home at last! It's Brooks Bennett, Whistleport's bona fide hometown hero."

Brooks turned to Silas and gripped his hand. "Silas! This place is amazing. I remember when it was just a shack. Wow… I mean, double wow."

While I watched their easy interaction, I couldn't help but think about the physical and emotional distance between Brooks and me.

"So," I began, trying to sound casual but coming nowhere close. "What brings you back to your hometown, our little rocky paradise by the sea?"

Brooks' smile faded for a moment. "Family stuff. Life found a way of checking me against the boards when I least expected it. Now, I'm back here on home ice, likely for a year or two."

What "family stuff" could possibly bring him back to Whistleport for more than a drop-in? And why did the idea cause my spine to tingle?

"It should give us plenty of time to catch up," he added.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Is that Brooks Bennett?" Dottie Perkins' voice cut through the crowd's soft buzz like a foghorn. "Oh, the stories I could tell, but I won't… yet."

Suddenly, all eyes were on her… and us. Tidal Grounds was quiet no more. Chairs scraped loudly against the wooden floor as the eager audience stood to get a better look at Brooks and clamored for his attention.

"Hey, Brooks! Remember when I babysat you when you were just a kid?"

"Still got that wicked slapshot, Bennett?"

"Can you sign my foam cup? My grandson won't believe I saw you otherwise!"

I stepped back and let the crowd close ranks around him. They were a spontaneous "welcome home" committee. For a few minutes, he handled it all with grace, like a celebrity used to having a spotlight shining on him.

It didn't last. I watched as he began to look around the room like a man scouting escape routes.

When the commotion peaked, he raised his hands to insist on quiet. "Hey, everyone, it's great to see all of you, but tonight isn't about me. Please don't forget why you're all here tonight." He turned toward me. "It's poetry night, right, Rory? I'm ready to listen and can't wait to hear every word."

The crowd hushed. They returned to their chairs, and Brooks leaned toward me.

"Sorry about that. I didn't mean to cause a ruckus. I guess Whistleport's as hockey crazy as always."

"Well, thanks for understanding." Still thrown off balance by Brooks' presence, I couldn't think of anything else to say.

People continued to filter in, signaled by the jingle above the door. Brooks' physical presence distracted me as I tried to finish setting up the microphone. I looked for him when I stood before the group, ready to begin. Our eyes met, and he nodded.

"Welcome, everyone." My voice trembled slightly, and I did my best to get it under control. "I'd like to start with a piece by Nobel Prize-winning poet Pablo Neruda."

The assembled crowd was finally quiet. While I cleared my throat, they leaned forward in anticipation.

I provided a short introduction to the poem, speaking about Neruda's life in Chile. As I recited the words, each line felt like a confession. Did Brooks remember the countless times we'd whispered those verses to each other?

After Neruda, I recited works by a wide range of other poets—some well-known nationally and others local writers. I included a piece by a student poet at the high school, and Ziggy grinned proudly.

Next, I invited the audience to interact with my presentation. Several shared their interpretations of the words, and a few told stories about personal connections with the poems. Silas recalled a tale about his grandfather that he related to a verse about the sea.

As the evening wore on, I relaxed. The audience members were mostly familiar—they were my neighbors and friends. My words rolled out as I started to gesture more, and the changing inflection of my voice added color to the words.

My last poem was Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art." It seemed fitting, a meditation on loss. As I read, I caught Brooks' eye, wondering if he felt the weight of the words like I did. When I finished, the room was silent for a few seconds before they offered a warm round of applause.

After I completed the reading, I mingled and chatted with those in attendance. Brooks approached and offered me a hug. He smelled of pine and the salty ocean. In all those years away, he hadn't lost the core qualities of being born and raised a Mainer.

He whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my neck. "You've always had a wonderful way with words. Nice to see some things haven't changed, Ror."

There it was, the nickname only Brooks ever used. I pulled back. "And some things have changed a lot."

He gazed into my eyes. Silence reigned for a few moments, and I finally broke it with a suggestion. "We should catch up sometime. In a better way than this, I mean."

Brooks nodded, and I watched his shoulders relax. "I'd like that. Are you free tomorrow? Maybe you could help reacquaint me with our hometown."

The way he said "our" made goosebumps rise on my forearms. "It's a date," I blurted out and began back-pedaling immediately. "I mean, not a date-date, you know, it's just a—"

Brooks laughed, a deep, warm sound that bubbled up from inside his chest. "I know what you mean. I'll see you tomorrow."

After he left, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Silas stepped up close with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you okay? Nice to see one of the hold high school chums, eh?"

I nodded. When I found the words, I added, "Yeah, I'm good. It's just… well… a lot to process."

Silas reached out to squeeze my shoulder. "You know, if you ever need to talk, I'm a good listener."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. I might take you up on it sometime."

When the last of the crowd was gone, I helped Silas finish cleaning up. I needed something to occupy my hands while a whirlwind of thoughts spun in my head. As I started stacking chairs, I spotted Ziggy lingering near one of the bookshelves. He didn't appear to be looking at the books. Instead, he fidgeted with a strap on his backpack and then glanced at me.

"Ziggy? Is everything okay?"

He glanced around like he was trying to make sure we were alone. "Mr. Blake, I… well, could I show you something?"

I gestured toward a nearby table with two chairs still placed on the floor. "Of course. Join me?"

He sat and folded his long, lean frame into a chair. After pulling the worn notebook from his backpack, he flipped through the pages.

"This is… um, a poem I wrote the other night after hockey practice." He looked around again before continuing to speak softly. "I bet it's horrible, but I thought…"

"I'm sure it's not. Why don't you read it to me?"

"Yeah?"

I nodded. He took a long, deep breath and then began to read. I leaned forward, and his voice strengthened.

Blades on ice, a frozen dance Poetry in motion, given half a chance But off the rink, words fill my mind, Two worlds collide, two passions entwined.

Captain's "C" weighs heavy on my chest, While hidden verses never rest. In locker rooms and on the page, I play two parts upon life's stage

His voice trailed off as he looked up at me, eyes wide open, waiting impatiently for a response.

"Ziggy, it's excellent." That was my honest reaction. "You've captured something real and moving here."

"Do you think so?" He began to smile.

"No joke. The parallels you've drawn between hockey and poetry and the internal conflicts they create—I can feel it in my gut."

Ziggy nodded. "Sometimes it's like I'm trying to live two different lives at the same time, and it's… well, it's like I can't completely be either one."

The conflict was familiar to me. I'd grown up playing hockey with Brooks, but teaching called out to me. Sharing the value of great literature was as compelling to me as playing the game.

"It's not easy to balance two powerful parts of yourself, but that unique combination gives you a personality that's all your own. Loving both hockey and poetry isn't a weakness. You'll figure out it's a strength."

"But what if the guys find out sometime? They'll never let me hear the end of it."

I remembered how I hid my love of poetry at first. "They might surprise you. True friends accept all of you. Who knows? If you speak out, you might inspire some of them to embrace things they've kept hidden."

Ziggy raked his fingers through his hair. "Maybe… I guess I can see that. Do you think maybe I could read something at the next poetry night?"

"I'd love that. And you know how much work you put into being captain of the hockey team?"

"Oh, man, yeah, Coach Blake. I work my butt off." He puffed out his chest.

"It's a different kind of work, but that same kind of dedication will help you become a better writer. Both skills require practice and a lot of patience to reach your goals."

Ziggy packed up his notebook, looking less burdened than when he arrived. "Thanks… for everything."

When I left the coffee shop, the salty breeze was sharp and stung my cheeks. I paused for a moment and looked up at the stars. They shone brightly in a cloudless sky.

I thought about what awaited me in the morning. It was a day full of promise, but I worried that I could screw it up, too. Turning my attention to the path ahead, I focused on potential positives. What did I want with Brooks? Reconciliation? Closure? A new beginning?

As I arrived home and reached for the doorknob, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number lit up the screen:

Rory - There's something you should know before tomorrow. Call me. - Brooks