6. Rory

Chapter six

Rory

T he ancient radiator in the town hall lobby wheezed and clanked, spitting out heat that smelled faintly of mothballs and decades-old dust. Since we were experiencing a springtime cold snap, any heat felt good.

I tugged at the collar of my sweater—the one Mom swore made me look "dashing," whatever that meant—and tried to ignore the sweat beading at my hairline. My reflection in the streaky mirror by the coat rack looked pale and slightly queasy.

"Get it together, Blake," I muttered, fingering the smooth riverstone in my pocket. Its cool surface, etched with a single word—"Breathe"—grounded me in the reality of why I was in the lobby, pacing back and forth. Our arena—the creaky, beloved heart of Whistleport—needed us.

The lobby door swung open with a protesting squeal, letting in a gust of wind that carried the pungent aroma of Eugenie's Lobster Shack down the street. My stomach growled, reminding me I'd skipped dinner while knee-deep in last-minute preparations.

Ziggy Knickerbocker burst through the door, all flailing limbs and unbridled teenage energy. "Coach Blake!" His eyes were wide with excitement. "Is it true? Is Brooks Bennett really staying in Whistleport?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Ziggy, I—"

He barreled onward, words tumbling out at breakneck speed. "Because Dottie told Mrs. Caldwell, who told my mom that he's giving up the NHL to run the arena full-time and that you two are—"

"Whoa, time out." I made a T with my hands, a reflex from years of coaching. Of course, Dottie was already spinning tales. "Brooks is here to help with the rink situation. That's all we know for sure right now. Don't go running away with big ideas just yet, okay?"

Ziggy's face fell slightly, but he nodded, fingers drumming against his thigh in a rhythm that matched his nervous energy. "Right, yeah. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. But like, hypothetically, if he did stay, do you think he'd help coach the team? That would be epic—the two of you together, and I've been working on my slapshot, and—"

"Ziggy," I cut in with a gentler tone. "Let's focus on saving the arena first, alright? We'll handle one miracle at a time."

He grinned, irrepressible as ever. "Got it, Coach. So, uh, what's the game plan for tonight?"

Before I could answer, Mayor Flannigan's booming voice echoed from the main hall. "Folks, folks! Let's settle down now," he demanded.

He spoke in the authoritative tone he'd used when he served as Whistleport's harbormaster. The whispered conversations ceased, the silence broken only by the occasional scrape of a metal chair on the worn wooden floor.

"First off, I want to thank you all for coming out tonight." When Mayor Flannigan tugged at his tie, slightly loosening it, I noticed a small stain, probably from the clam chowder at Gus's Diner. He loved local seafood as much as the next man.

"Tonight's agenda is a further discussion about the future of our beloved ice arena. It's a more urgent matter in the light of recent events. Now, I know there's been a lot of talk and a lot of worry, but let's remember—we're Whistleport. When the nor'easters hit, do we run and hide? No, we batten down the hatches, check up on the less fortunate among us, and ride it out together!"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Stepping into the back of the room, I spotted Dottie leaning over to whisper something to Mrs. Caldwell in the third row. Their eyes darted toward me, and my face heated up. Focus, Blake.

"And now," Mayor Flannigan's voice snapped me back to attention, "I'll turn this meeting over to our very own Rory Blake. He's our point person on this rescue mission. Coach Blake, take it away."

While I strode to the front of the room to take my place at the podium, every pair of eyes fixed on me. Friends, neighbors, former students—they all looked to me for answers and hope for the future.

I cleared my throat and tapped the ancient microphone. It let out a screech like an injured seagull. Everyone winced. Great start .

"Thank you, Mayor Flannigan." I looked out over the crowd and told myself it wasn't any more intimidating than standing in front of a classroom. "Thank you all for coming out on a blustery night. I know that Tuesdays are often reserved for Betty's bingo night at the Legion Hall."

A small wave of laughter rolled through the crowd. White-haired Betty, sitting in the front row, gave me a thumbs up.

"We're here tonight because the beating heart of Whistleport is under threat." I gripped the sides of the podium to steady my voice and shaky knees. "The arena isn't merely a building. It's—"

I paused as I focused on Ziggy sitting in the second row. He sat unnaturally still, a concerned expression on his face.

My prepared speech fell to the side, and something more personal and emotional emerged. "It's where I learned to skate." I laughed softly. "It's where I fell more times than I can count, but I always got back up. When I played for the high school, Coach taught me that the most important assists in life don't occur on the ice. They're what you offer someone when they're down—for any reason."

I rubbed my chin. "I had my first kiss late one night in the arena, behind the stands." My face flushed. I didn't mean to say that part, but it drew a chuckle from the crowd. Smooth move, Blake.

Taking a deep breath, I did my best to center myself. "What I'm trying to say is that the rink is more than a slab of ice. It's a huge part of our shared history as a community. And right now, it needs an assist from us. It's time for us to step up."

The room was quiet; every pair of eyes focused on me. It was time to rally them to the cause. It was time to—

The door to the room crashed open, slamming against the back wall. The ancient hinges protested with a shriek that put my teeth on edge.

Every head swiveled to stare at the door. I froze in place, one hand still gripping the podium, the other suspended mid-gesture. Breaking the silence, the hollow thud of hockey skates on hardwood echoed through the hall, a rhythm as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

There he was.

Brooks Bennett, NHL star, stood in the doorway, larger than life. His athletic frame filled the space, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Even through his casual clothes, I could detect the lean, powerful muscles honed by years on the ice. His presence was magnetic, drawing every eye in the room.

He'd slung a battered hockey bag over one shoulder and gripped a stick in his free hand—not a new one fresh from the store, but the same beat-up Sherwood model he'd used in high school. I knew that I'd recognize his unique tape patterns anywhere.

He'd clearly come straight from the damaged arena. Brooks' hair was a mess, sticking up in sweaty spikes like he'd just yanked off a helmet. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his cheeks flushed a rosy red. He was breathing hard as if he'd sprinted the entire way to the town hall—on skates.

Those green eyes I remembered so well—sometimes with flecks of gold—swept across the room. I watched him hesitate for a moment. Then he looked at me, and a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing the chipped tooth, a lifelong souvenir from a well-earned victory over Mount Desert Island High.

Brooks addressed the crowd. "Sorry, I'm late. Had to take another look at the old arena for myself. I even skated a tight circle on one last chunk of ice."

He took a few steps into the room, the heavy clunk of his skates echoing off the walls. "Rory, you weren't exaggerating. It's in rougher shape than my teeth after playoffs."

A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd, breaking the tension. I couldn't help smiling despite the knot in my stomach. "Glad you could join us, Brooks. Want to help me explain why the rink is worth saving?"

He nodded and joined me at the podium. I wove my fingers together to stop my hand from reaching up to smooth his hair.

Together, we laid out the situation. I delivered a brief outline of the repairs needed, my teacher's voice slipping out as I dug into the details. Brooks chimed in by discussing potential NHL connections and fundraising ideas, his passion evident in every word.

Gradually, the energy in the room shifted. Worry dissolved into determination.

During the Q mark my words!"

I froze as I listened to her comments. The curious glances and knowing smiles throughout the evening clicked into place. They thought... oh hell .

Scanning the crowd, I found Brooks deep in conversation with Ziggy, pantomiming a heroic moment on the ice. Brooks looked up as if he'd felt my gaze from across the room, and our eyes met. I detected a hint of surprise on his face while a wave of emotions roiled my gut.

When the crowd thinned out, leaving behind empty coffee cups and the lingering scent of Eugenie's lobster rolls, I was rooted to the spot. My mind spun in circles, trying to process everything—the project ahead, the weight of the town's expectations, the sheer Brooks-ness of his presence after all these years.

"Hey." He was suddenly beside me, startling me out of my thoughts. "That went well, I think. Do you want to grab a coffee and go over our next steps? Word on the street is Silas has a new blend that'll either revolutionize the industry or strip the paint off an old pickup."

His sense of humor was fully intact even in our dire predicament. Some of the tension eased off my shoulders. "Knowing Silas, probably both. Yeah, coffee sounds good. There's a quiet spot by the pier, if you don't mind a walk?"

Brooks opened his mouth to reply, but the sharp ring of his phone cut him off. He fished it out of his pocket, and his eyes widened as he looked at the screen. He gave me an apologetic look.

"Sorry, I've got to take this. Give me two minutes?"

I nodded, and I was instantly curious about the call. Brooks stepped away, his voice low while he spoke with the caller. I couldn't make out the words, but I recognized the tone—it was the same one he'd used when talking to hockey scouts back in high school. It was equal parts, professional, eager, and guarded.

I busied myself by gathering up the last of the meeting notes. Regardless of what would happen next, it was important to keep everything organized.

The low murmur of Brooks' voice distracted me. Exhaling, I turned away and tried to ignore it. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, I heard him end the call.

"That's incredibly generous, sir. Thank you. I'll discuss it with the team here and get back to you soon."

As soon as he stuffed the phone back in his pocket, he turned to face me. His mouth hung open as he attempted to find words.

"Everything okay?" I asked, doing my best to sound casual.

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. "That was Don Sweeney."

It took a second for the name to register, but goosebumps rose on my forearms when it did. "Wait, Don Sweeney? As in the GM of the Boston Bruins?"

Brooks nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "The very same. Rory, you're not going to believe this. They want to help rebuild the arena."

"What? How? Why?" I covered my mouth in shock.

"Apparently, they've been looking to invest in community rinks, especially in areas with a strong hockey culture. When they heard about our situation here in Whistleport—maybe from a few people I contacted—they saw it as an opportunity. They're offering to contribute significantly to the rebuilding effort. It means funds, equipment, and maybe even a few active players will visit for exhibition games or youth clinics."

For a few seconds, I was too stunned to speak. It was beyond anything we'd dared to hope for in our wildest dreams. "Brooks, that's... that's incredible. That could be a game-changer for us."

He nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. "It really could be, but Rory, I want to be clear—this is Whistleport's rink. If we do this, it must be what's best for the town, not just a PR move for the Bruins. We need to make sure we maintain control over the project. It's our call how it's run, and it should be accessible to everyone."

A warm sensation washed over me. I was speaking with the Brooks I remembered—always thinking about the bigger picture and looking out for the underdog. "Agreed. We'll need to discuss it with Mayor Flannigan and the committee, but Brooks, this could really save our rink."

He smiled. "I know. It's a lot to process, but this could be the break we needed."

"It's worth exploring," I could already see a cutting-edge new arena in my mind. "We should probably keep it under wraps until we have more details, though. You know how quickly news spreads in this town."

Brooks chuckled. "Oh, I remember. I give it about twelve hours before Dottie Perkins tells everyone the Bruins are moving their home ice to Whistleport."

I laughed, the tension of the evening finally starting to ease. "I'd put money on only six hours. Now, about that coffee? I think we've got some planning to do."

As we headed out into the night, the energy between us was electric, charged with possibility. The project, the rumors, our shared history, and now this potential game-changing offer from the Bruins swirled together like a whirlpool.

I stared at Brooks' muscular forearm dusted with light brown hair. My fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and trace the lines of his veins, to feel the warmth of his skin under my palm.

Instead, I held back and shoved my hands into my pockets. We weren't there yet—maybe we never would be again. The years stretched between us like center ice at the beginning of a tough game, familiar yet treacherous.

I fingered the riverstone in my pocket, tracing the etched word with my thumb. I took the word "breathe" seriously, but this time, it wasn't in response to anxiety. I needed to remain calm about a new stroke of good fortune.

Whistleport's game was just beginning, and suddenly, I realized we had a shot at winning after all.