5. Brooks

Chapter five

Brooks

T he sirens instantly drew my attention away from my thoughts about my homecoming. Rory's face turned ashen as he lowered his phone. "The arena," he said, his voice soft and low. "Brooks, the roof collapsed."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. For a split second, we both glanced toward the driveway, where my SUV sat illuminated by the porch light.

"I think we should run." Rory turned toward the street. "Downtown is already going to be chaotic with emergency vehicles and gawkers."

I nodded, knowing he was right. "Yeah, we'd just add to the congestion. You got your jogging shoes on?"

"Sneakers… yeah."

Without further discussion, we took off down Lighthouse Lane. The sudden burst of activity sent a shock through my system. I hadn't run that hard since my last game, and my body protested. I gasped for air when I felt the burn in my thighs. My heart beat a frantic rhythm in my chest.

Suddenly, as we rounded the corner onto Elm Street, my body entered a different mode. My breathing evened out, and my strides got longer. I'd found the well-trained gear used in more than a decade of professional hockey. All of that cardio work had a long-term impact.

Rory kept pace beside me, our footsteps echoing off the houses lining the quiet streets. In the distance, we could hear the wailing sirens growing louder, punctuated by the occasional sharp blare of a horn.

"You okay?" he asked between breaths, glancing to the side.

I nodded, surprised to find I meant it. "Yeah," I panted. "Actually, feeling better than I expected."

As we ran, the familiar sights of Whistleport rushed by, but it all looked incredibly different bathed in the flashing red and blue lights of approaching emergency vehicles. The corner store where we used to buy candy bars after practice and the park where we'd spent so many of our summer afternoons glowed eerily.

When we reached Main Street, we picked up speed. Adrenaline took over and pushed us onward. The scent of salt air gave way to something acrid—dust and damp wood. As we rounded the final corner, the full extent of the disaster came into view, and we skidded to a halt.

"God," I muttered, staring at the devastation. For a moment, the enormity of the damage overwhelmed me. My shoulders sagged. "How are we ever going to fix this?" I whispered, more to myself than to Rory.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his touch cut through the chill of the night air, grounding me in the moment.

The once-familiar silhouette of the arena was horrifically transformed. The roof line was jagged where a huge slab collapsed into the building. The twisted metal beams jutting toward the night sky looked like the ribs of some great, wounded beast. Clouds of dust still lingered in the air, creating a spooky, hazy atmosphere illuminated by the emergency lights.

It was nearly 10 p.m., and the parking lot was normally empty by then. Now, it was a maze of parked fire trucks and police cruisers. A ladder extended from one truck toward the massive hole in the roof. The police cars blocked any other vehicles from using the lot while a crowd stood at the edge watching the spectacle.

Firefighters dressed in their full gear uncoiled their hoses and set up floodlights. There was no sign of fire, but I knew it didn't hurt to have the water ready in case. A small cadre of rescue workers had entered the building and could be seen through shattered windows, picking through debris. I prayed silently, hoping no one had suffered injuries.

A group of my past and now current neighbors had quickly gathered, some wearing jackets and coats over pajamas. They'd likely rushed out the door upon hearing the first sirens. I read a wide range of emotions on their faces—shock, disbelief, and loss.

The roof collapse took a segment of the stands with it. Splintered wood and grotesquely twisted metal rods were everywhere. For a moment, I wondered whether the ice of the rink was still intact under all of the debris. It wouldn't last long. The outside air was warm enough to melt it quickly.

A group of emergency and town government officials huddled near the entrance. I could make out their serious expressions from a distance. I remembered Fire Chief Callahan as the jovial man who tossed candy to the kids in local parades. Now he stood with his broad shoulders squared, raking his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair as he spoke with Mayor Flannigan and gestured toward the broken building.

"Look." Rory pointed to a section of wall exposed near the collapsed area.

I followed his gesture and my heart sank. A mural the high school art classes painted while I was a student—a bright and colorful panorama of Whistleport's hockey obsession—was ripped in half in the disaster. I lowered my gaze and clenched my fists to hold back tears.

Suddenly, a creaking sound came from inside the building. Everyone froze and held their breaths. Would even more of the building give way? After another tense moment, Chief Callahan called out, "False alarm! All clear!"

I nodded in his direction, encouraging Rory to follow me. When we approached the chief, I saw deeper lines on his face than I ever remembered.

"Rory, Brooks, it doesn't look good. The best we can sort out so far is years of water damage finally took their toll. That first team is still checking to make sure the compromised infrastructure is strong enough to allow for safe entry."

"Is it that bad?" I tensed, dreading the answer to my question.

"Bad enough. When that section of the flat roof collapsed, it took out part of the stands and seriously damaged the ice underneath. Fortunately, it looks like no one was inside. I think everyone is safe. We've already accounted for the custodian."

More local residents gathered while our conversation continued. The murmuring grew louder by the minute.

Mrs. Pendleton's voice, a cross between a wail and a shout, cut through the noise. "Is it true? Is our arena really gone?"

She spoke for many around her and reflected their despair. The arena meant so much for so many.

I jumped in to do my best to dispel some of the creeping gloom. "It's not gone," I insisted. "The building is damaged. That's true, but we're not going to give up. We've only started to fight for it."

Rory jumped in and had my back. "He's right. It's a setback, but this is Whistleport. We've been underdogs before and fought our way back. We won't let a challenge get us down."

I added, "We shouldn't stand around feeling helpless. Let's get organized." I drew on my experience as a hockey team captain. "Let's have some volunteers to help set up barriers to keep people safe and assist the first responders with anything they need. Who's in?"

Dozens of hands shot up around me. Pride in my hometown rose in my chest. So many of my neighbors were ready to jump in and help without hesitation.

"Okay, let's break into teams." I pointed at different clusters in the crowd. "You five, head over to Sheriff Rawlins and find out if he needs help with the barricades. You seven over there, go join Silas. Looks like he's setting up a refreshment station for the workers."

Ziggy appeared at my side, practically bouncing on his toes, ready to help. "Hey, buddy, see if you can rally the rest of the hockey team. I'm sure they'll need strong backs to help clear the debris once Chief Callahan gives the all clear."

As the crowd dispersed to help with different tasks, Rory gripped my elbow, making me smile. "What about me, Coach?" A warm half-smile played on his lips despite the grim situation.

"You're with me. We've got a lot of calls to make to try and get some more help."

For the next several hours, the scene around the damaged arena remained chaotic. Still, underneath the harsh glare of portable floodlights, volunteers worked with little rest. Portable generators began to hum while reporters from media outlets around the region converged on us.

Somewhere around 2 a.m., the initial adrenaline began to wear off. Silas's refreshment station grew busy with volunteers taking breaks while tossing back cups of black coffee.

Rory and I huddled across the street, just far enough away from the action to be able to hear voices in our cell phones. I scrolled through my contacts. When I found a potential contributor, I took a deep breath and pushed the call button.

"Hello?" A sleepy voice answered after six rings.

"Coach Svensson? This is Brooks Bennett."

After a pause, I heard a soft chuckle. "Bennett? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

I held the phone tightly. "I know I'm past cutoff time, Coach, but it's an emergency."

When I finished patiently explaining the situation, his tone was measured and calm. "That's a tough break for the town. What can I do?"

"I… I hoped you might have some contacts—maybe equipment sponsors who might have an interest in helping out in exchange for some solid positive publicity."

He sighed. "I'll see what I can do. They are a bunch of corporate suits not known for compassion, but I'll see what I can do. No promises that I can drum up anything, but I'll make the calls."

"Thanks, Coach. I owe you."

Next, I phoned my former teammate, Ace Acosta.

"Brooks? What's up, man? Wasn't expecting a call from you." I heard noise, muffled music, in the background. He hadn't gone to bed yet.

I quickly outlined the disaster for him. He listened quietly and then responded. "A collapsed roof? Anyone hurt?"

"No, no, but it's pretty bad. I hoped maybe you could spread the word among other players, maybe organize some sort of assistance for us here? Signed sticks, pucks, and maybe a few giveaway tickets would be a start."

"Look, Brooks, I hate to say no to anything like this, but it's kind of a rough time. We're in the middle of a playoff run, and all my community groups are already leaning on me."

My heart sank. He was right. I remembered those days. "I get it. Any tiny bit of help you can give would be appreciated, even if it's just sharing our story."

"I'll do what I can. Maybe I can mention it in the next post-game conference, say our thoughts are going out to you. Let me give it some thought."

"Thanks, buddy. I appreciate you listening at this hour."

My emotional state rose and fell with each response, I decided to reach out to a few more past teammates. The results were all over the map. Some immediately pledged their support while others vaguely promised to "see what I can do."

Finally, I stood up straight and phoned my agent, Sterling.

"Brooks?" His voice was sharp and fully awake despite it being past midnight. "Please please tell me this is the call to tell me you've finally come to your senses."

"No, it's not that one, but I need your help."

As I explained the disaster, I thought I could hear gears grinding inside Sterling's head. He was always thinking about angles and opportunities.

He spoke up when I finished. "I understand how important this is to you, but you've got to think about where you fit into the picture. You just walked away from the NHL, the league that made you. Now, you're turning right around and asking for favors."

"It's not about me, and you know that. This is a community crisis."

He was quiet for a moment. "Okay, here's what I can do. I'll reach out to some of the equipment companies and see if I can wrangle some donations. Maybe we can spin it all into a feel-good story and show that you're giving back to your roots, the people who came before the NHL. We could sneak in a bit on helping out Dad, too."

I wasn't quite sure whether I should be grateful or frustrated by his media-centric mind. "Okay, yeah, any help you can give."

When I ended the call, I rubbed my eyes and turned toward Rory. He was just finishing a call, too. I'd been welcomed by some connections and others slammed the door in my face. We simultaneously stared at the arena. I knew I couldn't give up.

Around 3 a.m., Chief Callahan gave the order to start clearing some of the debris around the perimeter of the building. I joined Ziggy and the hockey team. It was solid work, moving collapsed beams and carefully sweeping up shattered glass. My muscles burned as I helped dislodged a fallen iron bar. The rough metal scraped against my palms, leaving them raw and stinging.

Rory kept an eye on all of us, making sure nobody worked to the point of exhaustion. He rotated small groups in and out of the action.

I found my gaze continually drawn to him. Every once in a while, I realized with a start that I'd been staring, but couldn't bring myself to look away.

As dawn approached, the adrenaline wore off, leaving me bone-tired. I slumped against a wall, the weight of the night's events settling on my shoulders. I addressed no one in particular with my doubts. "What if we can't save it? What if I've come home just to watch everything fall apart?"

Rory appeared beside me, holding two cups of coffee. "Thought you could use this," he said, handing me one.

"Thanks," I said, taking a sip. The rich flavor brought back a flood of memories.

I remembered being twelve, stepping onto the arena's ice for the first time—the excitement of that first glide, my dad cheering from the stands, the feeling that I could do anything if I could just master skating.

"We can't lose this place." My voice was rough and sandpapery with emotion and exhaustion. "It means too much."

Rory nodded, understanding in his eyes. "We won't," he said firmly. "But we need to think bigger than local fundraisers. This is going to take a major effort."

I tried to focus on Rory's words as he provided an outline for our next moves to help the arena, but my attention kept drifting to his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he spoke, and it riveted my attention. The soft glow of early morning cast shadows that accentuated the curve of his neck, and I couldn't stop thinking about how I'd trailed kisses along that very spot years ago.

Rory paused to take a sip of coffee, and I watched as he tilted his head back slightly, exposing more of his throat. My mouth turned dry like a desert. I experienced a nearly overwhelming urge to step closer and kiss his neck, feeling the vibration of his voice under my lips.

"Brooks? Are you listening?" The question snapped me back to reality.

I cleared my throat, hoping the light was still too dim to see the blush rising in my cheeks. "Yeah, sorry. Just... processing everything." Being so close to him and not being able to touch was a kind of exquisite torture.

I took another sip of coffee, and my mind started to function again. "You're right. We need to use every connection we have—NHL teams, equipment companies, anyone who might want to help preserve small-town hockey."

"And it's not just about hockey," he added. "This place is about community. That's the story we need to tell."

As we stood there, looking at the damage around us, a sense of certainty settled over me. "I'm all in, Rory," I said, meeting his gaze. "Whatever it takes, however long it takes. We're going to save this arena."

The sound of waves in the distance reminded me of how the town had always fought against the elements. Now, surrounded by the remains of our childhood memories and facing a tough road ahead, I knew we would meet the challenge

Rory brushed his foam coffee cup against mine. "Ready for your next big game, Bennett?"

"Game on. Let's show them what Whistleport is made of."

Just then, I noticed Dottie Perkins nearby, phone in hand, watching us with keen interest. She quickly looked away when our eyes met, but not before I caught a glimpse of a knowing smile.

A moment later, Silas approached with a bemused expression on his face. He glanced between Rory and me, his eyebrow raised, and then stepped up to my side.

"Hey, Brooks," he said, his voice low. "Just a heads up—the rumor mill is working overtime. Half the volunteers think you're picking out china patterns already."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "What?"

Silas shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "Hey, I'm just the messenger, but if you want my advice, maybe ease up on the longing glances. This is still Whistleport, after all."

Heat rose in my cheeks, and I was suddenly hyper-aware of every glance and every casual touch Rory and I had shared throughout the night. Had we really been that obvious? And more importantly, why didn't the idea of those rumors bother me as much as they probably should?