7. Brooks

Chapter seven

Brooks

W hile the first light of dawn appeared outside my window, I hunched over my laptop, speaking words in my head as I typed out another email. The last bit of coffee in my mug was cold, but I'd forgotten it amid the surge of adrenaline accompanying my crucial victory in the campaign to save the arena.

The Boston Bruins had joined our cause, and I was thrilled at the prospect of collaborating with the team brass to benefit my hometown. They were opponents during my days as an active player, but now we were on the same team. The excitement of the opportunity had kept me awake, my mind buzzing with strategies throughout the night.

The total commitment of an NHL team was a game-changer. They offered not only financial support but star power through the appearances of key players and coaches. Their support could open doors to even more opportunities.

I had no time to bask in our recent success. I'd hit 'send' on another email and leaned back in my chair, my tired eyes in need of a break. My temporary office was set up on Dad's butcher block island in the kitchen, and as I glanced at the microwave, the time read 5:47 a.m. I knew that if I could push through for another hour or two, I could make some calls just as the East Coast was waking up.

Before I could punch in a number, my phone chimed. I looked at the screen to find an incoming text from Rory:

Heard back from the school board. They're considering our proposal for student involvement. Fingers crossed!

As I typed back a short reply, my pulse quickened. I blamed that on excitement about the news, but I knew it was primarily due to thinking about Rory himself. Stick to the program. I'd have plenty of time to sort out whatever was happening with Rory later.

But even as I thought it, I knew I was kidding myself. My growing attraction to Rory wouldn't disappear if I tried to ignore it. It was a complication I hadn't anticipated when I decided to come back to Whistleport. I'd returned to help Dad, not to rekindle an old flame. But fate had other plans, my heart raced at a simple text message.

Taking a deep breath, I punched in the number for Ryan Shaw, my old linemate from my brief stint with the Vancouver Canucks. He'd now moved into the management suite for the New York Islanders. If anyone could help us navigate the corporate sponsorship maze, I knew it was him.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. I drummed my fingers on the table, willing him to pick up.

"Brooks? Sheesh, it's early." His voice came through loud and clear. He was right about the hour, but he didn't sound the least bit sleepy. "I hope you aren't calling to tell me you've decided to un-retire. I've got fifty bucks in a bet that says you'll stay in that little town of yours for at least the next six months."

I laughed softly. "Your fifty bucks is safe, but I have a reason for the call. I need a favor."

As I spelled out the story of the Whistleport rink and mentioned the support from the Bruins, I could almost see the competitive glint appearing in his eyes. Before I could finish, he interrupted me with questions and ideas.

Finally, Ryan said, "Okay, here's the deal. I can't make any promises without talking to some of the others in the office, but I do have some solid corporate sponsorship contacts who owe me a few favors. Give me 48 hours, and I'll get back to you with what I've managed to cobble together.

I sighed with relief. "You're a lifesaver. I owe you one.

"You owe me quite a few more than that, but who's counting? You know, Brooks, it's great to hear that fiery tone in your voice again, even if it's not about being on the ice yourself. It sounds like you've found a solid cause for the early days of that retirement."

When I'd set the phone down, I glanced out the kitchen window and noticed a solitary figure jogging in the distance, down by the docks. I stood and moved closer to get a better look. The stride was instantly recognizable. It was Rory.

Without any more consideration, I moved toward the front door. I'd started turning the doorknob before my brain caught up with my body. When it did, I became aware of my state of undress—the ratty old t-shirt doing little to hide my still-fit torso and the plaid pajama pants hanging low on my hips. It wasn't the perfect outfit for going out in public.

As I started to pivot toward the stairs to my bedroom, I thought, "Fuck it."

I yanked the door open and stepped out onto the front porch. The cool air invigorated me like a cold splash of water on my face. Rory had taken a turn toward home, and I watched as he jogged down the street, approaching me.

When he saw me, a broad smile spread across his face. Without the team of trainers, nutritionists, and medical staff responsible for keeping me in shape, Rory managed to remain fit and trim, looking like he'd gained little more than 10 lbs. since high school.

He called to me. "Brooks! Looks like you're up bright and early, or…" He scanned my appearance. "Did you get any sleep?"

I reached up and raked my fingers through my hair, suddenly hyper-aware of what I wore. "I guess sleep is a little overrated."

Rory's brow furrowed. He's concerned about me. "If we're going to see this through, you can't wear yourself out right away. The arena's important, but so's your health."

My throat tightened as I heard the edge of worry. "It's okay. I'm fine; I'm just excited."

He took another long look at me and then nodded toward the beach. "Since you're up already, do you want to join me? I thought I'd head down to the sand for a run. Maybe that will clear your head and burn off some of that extra adrenaline."

I hesitated, thinking about my appearance, but the idea of spending one-on-one time with Rory was too tempting. "Give me two minutes. I'll be right back."

I tore upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time as my heart pounded. Pulling open drawers, I searched for anything I could wear that didn't make me look like I'd been up all night. Thinking about my latest success, I pulled out a faded Canucks t-shirt and a pair of track pants. They'd seen better days, but I couldn't see any holes. They would have to do.

While I laced up my running shoes, I noticed my fingers were trembling slightly. It was ridiculous. I was only going for a jog with Rory. It wasn't something more serious—like a date.

Pulling the front door closed behind me, I reappeared on the front porch. Rory waited patiently, rising up and down on his toes to stretch his calves.

"Nice of you to join the living, Brooks. Ready to eat my dust?"

A competitive grin appeared on my face. "In your dreams. I might be retired, but my moves are still intact."

Rory laughed, a warm, rich sound that made me shiver. "Prove it, wise guy."

He was off with a headstart, and I followed close at his shoulder. When we reached the beach, our strides moved in perfect sync. The cool breeze from the ocean chased the last vestiges of sleep away.

As we ran, all of my recent worries—the arena, Dad's health, questions about my future—dissolved for the moment. It was just Rory, me, and about a mile of beach ahead of us.

With a glance to my side, I admired his profile. His firm chest stretched his T-shirt tight, and he wore jogging shorts that revealed powerful thighs and calves beneath. I analyzed his form with a player's eye—the efficiency of his movements and the balance in his stride. He might not have gone pro, but Rory still moved like an athlete, his body a well-oiled machine.

Somehow, he sensed that I was watching him. He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "Are you getting tired already?"

I laughed and jogged a little faster. "Not a chance. How about a turn back toward town, and I'll race you to the lighthouse?"

He didn't answer in words. Instead, he turned on his heel and tore back the way we came. We both began to laugh as we sprinted across the sand. I suddenly realized I hoped to hear Rory's laugh for years to come.

The race to the lighthouse ended in a tie, and both of us bent over, trying to catch our breath. Our laughter mingled with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks along the shore. I marveled at how easy it was to hang out with Rory and revisit so many of the vibes of our high school days.

Our jog back was slower, and we chatted back and forth along the way. We talked about the arena, Rory's high school classes, and how Whistleport had changed while mainly remaining the same.

We slowed to a walk as we neared my house. There was an unspoken agreement that neither of us wanted the moment to end too soon.

Finally, we stopped at the end of my driveway. The morning air chilled my sweat-dampened skin, and small clouds of our breaths hung in the early morning air.

Rory stretched his arms above his head, causing his t-shirt to ride up and reveal bare skin. I quickly looked away, staring at a pebble near my toe.

"Thanks for the run, Brooks. It's good to see you're still in shape."

I laughed and looked back at him. "I'm in fighting trim. I was playing on the ice barely a month ago."

He reached out and patted my firm belly. I bit my lip. "Let's see if you can keep it that way." He paused. "And the arena. Any more news on that front?"

I nodded and rubbed the back of my neck. "I've got some calls to make this morning, but I've got a connection in the Islanders front office who will do some leg work for me."

"Need any help?"

I was tempted to invite Rory into the house and enjoy a few more hours of his company, but then the responsible part of me took over.

"Thanks, but I think I can handle it. Besides, don't you have classes to teach this morning?"

He glanced at his watch and cringed. "Shit, that's true. I'd better get home and jump in the shower." He backed up a step and then stopped. "And, Brooks…"

"Yeah?"

"It's good to have you back."

I watched him go, a deep-seated longing rising inside me. It was a feeling I'd tried to bury years ago, but now it surged back with a vengeance, impossible to ignore.

After sighing, I turned toward my house. I needed to finish a few more calls and then try to get some sleep.

I'd just reached for the doorknob when a loud crash echoed from inside the house, followed by a muffled yelp. My heart leaped into my throat, and for a moment, fear paralyzed me. Not again. Please, not again.

The memory of that call from the hospital about Dad's accident flashed through my mind.

I burst through the front door, my voice cracking as I shouted, "Dad? Dad! Answer me, please!"

As I rushed from room to room, I heard muffled cursing in the kitchen. There, I found Dad sitting against the cabinets, surrounded by the shattered ceramic fragments of a mug and a pool of coffee.

"Dad!" I was on my knees beside him in an instant, my hands hovering uncertainly, afraid to touch him, fearing I could cause more harm. "Are you hurt? What happened? Should I call an ambulance?"

He grimaced and did his best to wave off my concern. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he grumbled. "This damn cane... slipped on the wet floor. I had a spill and mopped it up a few minutes ago."

I scanned him for visible injuries, my heart still racing. "Can you move? Any pain in your back or neck?"

He shook his head. "No, no. I caught myself against the cabinet on the way down and just bruised my pride. Help me up, will you?"

I helped him to his feet. He walked into the living room unaided, using his cane, and settled into his chair. I called back to him, "I'll clean this up. You just sit and relax, alright?"

Dad nodded, reclined, and closed his eyes. I found a broom and dustpan to sweep up the broken mug pieces.

I heard throat clearing. "So, uh, how about we go for a walk down by the pier later?"

"Are you sure you're up for that?"

"Of course, I am. I can walk. You just saw that."

***

We had a slow stroll to the pier. I insisted that Dad be careful as he took each step. I instructed him to look before placing the base of his cane. When we finally settled onto a bench overlooking the harbor, he lowered his shoulders.

In comfortable silence, we watched the lobster boats. They bobbed up and down on the gentle waves. All those going out for the day were gone.

Dad spoke up. "Your mother and I used to come down here and watch the boats when we were dating. I shared dreams of traveling the world on grand ships. That never came true, of course."

The nostalgic sound in his voice surprised me. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "She always said we could fly, but I preferred the water. I told her that one day I would take her to Paris." He choked up briefly.

I reached out to take his hand. "You gave her a wonderful life. Don't ever forget that, Dad."

"I did my best." He turned his head to stare into my eyes. "We haven't always agreed on everything, but Brooks, I want you to know I'm proud of you. That's not just about the hockey. It's about the man you are."

My vision started to blur with tears forming. "Thanks, Dad."

A few minutes later, Margot Blake appeared. She strolled down the pier with the sunlight reflecting off her silver hair. When he saw her, Dad suddenly straightened up and smiled.

His voice was warm and inviting when he called out, "Afternoon, Margot. How's that hip treating you?"

She laughed. "Oh, you know me, Reid. I'm far too stubborn to let a little setback like that hold me down. Do you mind if I rest my feet and join you boys?"

Dad moved closer to me, and she sat beside him on the end of the bench. Their shoulders brushed in a comfortable, cozy manner. Seeing the connection between the two, I decided to grant them some privacy.

"I should head back home," I said, standing and stretching my arms over my head. I've got more calls to make. Are the two of you okay here?"

Dad waved me off. "We're too old for a chaperone if that's what you're asking."

I listened to their laughter as I walked away. Dad sounded the happiest he'd been since I returned to town.