9. Brooks

Chapter nine

Brooks

T he salty scent of the breeze coming from the ocean filled my nose while I paced back and forth on Main Street, waiting for an important meeting. I drummed my fingers nervously on my thigh.

In the past couple of days, the energy in Whistleport had exploded. The town was 100% behind repairing the arena, and I was right in the middle of the effort.

As I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, I glanced at the clock. I'd checked it ten times in as many minutes. The Boston Bruins promised to send one of their players to initiate our cooperation on the arena project, but the meeting time came and went.

I started to have doubts. Could they have changed their minds? Was my whole idea just a wild fantasy that could never come true?

While I considered our options if the deal fell through, a gleaming black SUV appeared. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans as the vehicle slowed to a stop in front of me.

When the driver's door opened, Hunter Grant, a young Bruins defensive phenomenon, stepped out. He towered over me at 6'4", and his eyes opened wide while he turned his head to take in Whistleport's quaint downtown charm. I knew Hunter as a young bruiser on the ice, but his face still appeared boyish up close.

"Brooks Bennett, I'm Hunter Grant." He extended a hand to shake. The grip was firm, already well-calloused from years of handling a taped-up stick. "I have to tell ya, when Coach encouraged me to come to your hometown, I sort of expected something… different."

"Different. In what way?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I thought it might look more… hockey-ish? Maybe it's just the wrong time of year. It's too warm to have rinks on every corner and kids sweeping sidewalk ice with their sticks."

A gentle laugh bubbled up from inside my chest. "Well, sorry that we don't quite match the fantasy. Almost all of our hockey magic happens indoors at the arena."

"Speaking of…" Hunter's expression turned more serious. "Coach filled me in on what happened. That's a fucking shame. Places like your arena are the lifeblood of hockey. Kids get their first on-ice experience there."

The comment struck a chord with me. Hunter was younger, and he played for a team that was always an opponent in my career, but at that moment, we were on the same side. He also understood that hockey wasn't merely a game. It was a culture and a community.

He folded his arms across his broad chest. "So this little town raised up the famous Brooks Bennett, eh?"

I chuckled again. "Famous might be an exaggeration, but yeah, I was born and raised here. Whistleport might look small, but it's scrappier than most NHL teams."

I set out down the street and encouraged Hunter to follow. As we walked across uneven cobblestones, I pointed out a few landmarks—Eugenie's Lobster Shack and Silas' Tidal Grounds in particular.

When we rounded the next corner, the damaged arena came into view. It looked like a great wounded beast. Hunter slowed his step and spontaneously held a hand over his heart.

"Jesus," he breathed. His eyes popped like an anime character as he took in the full extent of the damage.

Jagged hunks of metal and wood still jutted out of the roof hole. Tarps fluttered in the breeze, attempting to keep the elements out of the building's interior. The remains of the sign that read Whistleport Ice Arena now hung nearly sideways, with several letters missing.

Hunter moved closer. He spotted one message of hope. Someone had painted "Save Our Rink" in bright blue letters on the structure's west side.

"I knew it was bad, but this…"

Hunter couldn't finish his thought. I watched as he crouched down to pick up a small piece of debris like he'd found an interesting seashell on the sand. It wasn't evident whether it was a piece of the roof or maybe part of the old scoreboard. He turned it over and over in his hand.

He spoke again while he stared at the fragment. "My first pair of skates were hand-me-downs from a cousin. I didn't skate on real ice until I was ten." Hunter's eyes had a fire in them when he looked at me again. "This is a place where dreams start. It's where kids learn to love the game and develop big ambitions."

Hunter shoved the piece of the building into his pocket. "I'm all in. We're going to make sure this gets fixed, Brooks. Whatever it takes, we owe it to the kids in your town. They deserve to have their rink back."

As we stood contemplating the arena, a familiar voice cut through the air, sending a jolt through my system.

"Brooks! Hunter! Over here!"

I turned to see Rory jogging toward us, a group of teenagers in tow. His cheeks flushed from the exertion. I smiled from ear to ear. The kids would show Hunter how serious Whistleport was about hockey.

"Rory, glad you could join us."

His smile sparked a warm sensation in my chest. "Wouldn't dream of missing it. I thought you said our guest would arrive around now, and I brought the team."

As Rory and his players drew closer, I found myself captivated by his easy rapport with the kids. They clustered around him with a comfortable familiarity that spoke volumes about his coaching style.

"Hunter," I said, "let me introduce you to the heart and soul of Whistleport hockey."

Rory stepped forward, his presence steady and assured. "This is Mike, our goalie," he began, placing his hand on the shoulder of a stocky kid with determination in his gaze. "He's got reflexes that would put most pros to shame."

Mike blushed, dimples showing on his young face, but he stood a little straighter at the praise.

"Over here, we've got the dynamic duo, Ethan and Aiden," Rory continued, gesturing to a pair of lean forwards who grinned mischievously. "Watching them on the ice, you'd swear they communicate with telepathy."

While Rory continued to work his way through his roster, I marveled at how well he seemed to know each player. He didn't stop with merely rattling off positions and stats; he shared stories, inside jokes, and little details about the players that brought out smiles of recognition.

"This is Rooster, our defensive secret weapon." Rory nodded toward a broad-shouldered boy. "He might look like a bruiser, but his ability to out-maneuver the best offensive players makes him indispensable."

When Rooster ducked his head, I spotted a red streak in his hair that explained the nickname.

"And last, but certainly not least…" Rory's voice was full of pride. "Our captain, Ziggy Knickerbocker."

Ziggy stepped forward, full of nervous energy. His eyes darted between Hunter and me.

"Ziggy's our top scorer," Rory explained, squeezing his shoulder. "Most importantly, he's the heart of this team. He does all he can to keep everyone's spirits up, even when things look bleak."

"Coach," Ziggy protested, his cheeks reddening.

"It's true," one of the other boys chimed in. "Remember when we were down three goals in the third period against Mount Desert? Ziggy's the one who got us fired up for the comeback."

As the team laughed and jostled each other, I felt a pang in my chest. I saw in the team what I'd missed out on all these years—the small-town camaraderie and a sense of belonging to something far bigger than myself.

My gaze drifted back to Rory. He was in his element, surrounded by his players, his blue eyes sparkling with joy and pride. Seeing him like that—confident, caring, utterly in his element—stirred something deep inside me.

I wanted to pull him aside, to tell him how amazing he was with the kids. I'd continue and explain how seeing him like that made me realize all that I'd left behind. I wanted to cup his face in my hands and kiss him senseless to apologize for leaving Whistleport so many years ago.

As the introductions wound down, I caught Hunter eyeing the damaged arena again. The kids, too, kept glancing at the beloved building, their excitement tempered by the stark reality of its condition.

An idea struck me. It was a brilliant one.

"Hey," I said, loud enough to catch everyone's attention. "We may not have a proper rink right now, but that doesn't mean we can't play, right?"

Curious faces turned toward me, and Rory's eyebrow rose in a familiar, questioning arch.

"What are you thinking, Brooks?" Hunter asked.

I grinned, feeling a surge of the old excitement I used to feel before a big game. "Street hockey. Right here, right now. Show the town what we're all fighting for. I think there's equipment in one of the supply closets in the front, undamaged part, of the arena."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the team. Ziggy's face lit up like he'd just been handed the Stanley Cup.

"Really?" he asked, practically bouncing on his toes. "Like, with you guys?"

"You bet," I nodded, then turned to Hunter. "What do you say? Up for a little impromptu match?"

Hunter's grin matched my own. "Hell yeah. Let's do this."

Rory stepped forward. "Alright, hotshot. How do you want to divide the teams?"

I pretended to consider for a moment, though I'd already decided. "How about you and Hunter against Ziggy and me for the first match? NHL versus hometown heroes?"

Ziggy's eyes widened comically. "Me? Play with you, Mr. Bennett?"

"Can't think of anyone I'd rather have on my team, captain," I said, enjoying how Ziggy's chest puffed up with pride.

Rory chuckled, shaking his head. "Always the showman, aren't you? Alright, you're on. Hunter, you ready to show these small-town boys how it's done?"

As Hunter nodded, I saw the competitive fire in Rory's eyes. It was the same look he used to get before our high school games.

We transformed Main Street into a makeshift rink. The rest of the high school team created a barrier to block traffic.

As we warmed up, I watched Rory. Seeing the fluidity of his movements and intense focus in his eyes was like watching a long-forgotten favorite movie, familiar yet thrilling the umpteenth time through.

The atmosphere buzzed with intense energy as we readied for the first face-off. Hunter and Rory exchanged a quick fist bump while Ziggy bounced on his toes beside me, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Ready to show these guys how Whistleport plays, Zig?" I asked him.

His grin was electric. "You bet, Mr. Bennett!"

A growing crowd of neighbors and friends pressed in around us. It was a mix of familiar faces and a few wide-eyed tourists drawn by the commotion. I saw Dottie Perkins elbowing her way to the front, no doubt already composing a new thread of gossip in her head.

Hunter dropped the ball, and suddenly, we were off. My world narrowed to the scrape of sneakers on asphalt, the clack of sticks, and the burn in my lungs as I chased after the neon orange street hockey ball.

Rory was on me instantly, his defense as sharp as ever. We danced around each other, a familiar push and pull that brought back memories. With a feint left and a quick pivot right, I managed to slip past him, only to find myself face-to-face with Hunter.

The young NHL star lived up to his reputation. His wingspan and resulting reach were impossibly wide, placing his stick where I least wanted it to be. I passed to Ziggy, watching with pride as the kid deked around Hunter with a move I'd shown him earlier.

"Not bad, short stuff!" Hunter called out.

The game ebbed and flowed, and neither side could gain a clear advantage. Sweat dripped down my back, and my breath came in short gasps. The game soon became exhausting, but the rush, the pure joy of play, kept me going.

Midway through, Rory managed to sneak past me, streaking towards our makeshift goal. I chased him, pushing my body to its limits. Just as he wound up for a shot, I dove, my stick stretching to its full length.

Time slowed. The ball connected with my stick, and I heard Rory's grunt of surprise. Next, I was tumbling, the rough asphalt scraping my arms as I rolled. When I came to a stop, the ball was somehow still next to the blade of my stick.

A cheer rose from the crowd. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the sting of fresh scrapes, and took off down the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ziggy keeping pace, calling for a pass.

Hunter and Rory converged on me. At the last second, I flicked the ball to Ziggy. The kid received it perfectly, then let loose a slapshot that sang through the air.

For a moment, everyone held their breath. Then the crowd erupted as the ball found its mark, sailing past Rory's outstretched hand and into the net.

Ziggy's face expressed a mixture of disbelief and joy. I scooped him up in a bear hug, both of us laughing.

"Did you see that, Mr. Bennett?" he shouted over the crowd's noise. "Did you see?"

"I saw," I grinned. "That was one hell of a shot."

I caught Rory's eye as we set up for the next play. He smiled back at me despite the competitive fire in his gaze.

The game continued, each play more intense than the last. Hunter pulled off moves that had the crowd gasping in awe.

At one point, Rory pivoted sharply to intercept a pass I'd made to Ziggy. The motion made his shirt cling to his back, leaving the thin fabric translucent with sweat.

My breath caught in my throat. The years had been kind to Rory, adding a mature strength to his frame that drove me wild. As he darted past me, I caught a whiff of his scent—a heady mixture of sweat and aftershave that made my pulse race.

I was alive in a way I hadn't in years. Our impromptu event wasn't about contracts or championships. It was a demonstration of pure, unadulterated love for the game.

As the final seconds ticked down, the score was tied. The ball came to me, Rory hot on my heels. I sensed his breath on my neck and heard the pounding of his feet behind me.

The goal was ahead of me, and Hunter was poised to defend it. Ziggy was open to my right, calling for the pass, but instinct took over. I wound up, years of training and muscle memory guiding my movements.

The ball left my stick like a shot, curving through the air. Hunter dove, his fingers just grazing it. For a heartbeat, the crowd around us fixed their gaze on the ball's trajectory.

The ball hit the back of the net, and Main Street exploded into cheers.

"Nice move," Rory conceded, clapping me on the shoulder.

Before I could respond, the others swarmed us—Hunter, Ziggy, and the rest of Rory's team, all caught up in the excitement of the moment. We exchanged handshakes, shared compliments, and promised to do it again soon.

As the crowd dispersed, Rory caught my eye and jerked his head toward a quiet alley between Eugenie's Lobster Shack and the old hardware store. I nodded, understanding his unspoken request.

We slipped away from the bulk of the crowd, and the sounds of celebration faded as we moved deeper into the alley.

Rory leaned back against the weathered wooden siding of Eugenie's. "That was something else. I forgot how good you are."

I shrugged. "You weren't so bad yourself, Coach."

Rory chuckled. "Yeah, well, can't let the kids think I'm over the hill."

While he spoke, I studied Rory's face, noting the new lines around his eyes and the distinguished flecks of premature grey at his temples. He'd aged, sure, but in a way that only made him more attractive.

"Brooks," Rory said softly. "What are we doing?"

I didn't respond in words but instead took a step closer, drawn by a force I couldn't—didn't want to—resist.

"I don't know, but I do know I've missed this, missed you."

"Brooks, I—"

He didn't get a chance to finish. My hands found his face, thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. We stayed like that for a heartbeat, teetering on the edge of something that would change our lives.

As if a dam had broken, I closed the gap between us. The kiss was everything I remembered and so much more—soft and fierce. Rory gripped my shirt, pulling me closer as if he feared I'd disappear.

As we stood there, gazing into each other's eyes with our breaths mingling, the rest of the world slowly began to filter back into our consciousness. Rory's eyes held mine. I saw in them a swirl of emotions that mirrored my own—joy, uncertainty, hope, and a touch of fear.

Rory whispered to me. "Brooks, what does this mean? For us?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could form the words, a sound nearby caught my attention. It was slow, shuffling footsteps accompanied by low murmurs and soft laughter.

Rory heard it, too. His eyes widened slightly, and we instinctively took a small step back from each other.

The voices grew clearer as they neared the alley's entrance. Something familiar about them made my pulse quicken.

"...and then Johnny threw the lobster right back into old man Pearson's boat!" a deep, gravelly voice chuckled.

"Oh, Reid," came the reply, light and lyrical. "You're terrible!"

Rory and I stared at each other with our mouths dropped open.

As if in slow motion, we turned toward the alley's entrance. There, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, stood our parents.

It wasn't their presence that left us slack-jawed. It was their postures and proximity. They walked arm-in-arm, heads tilted toward each other. Next, I saw their hands—intertwined fingers, holding on with a gentle but sure grip.

For a few seconds, the four of us stood frozen, staring at each other in surprise. Rory stiffened beside me, his hand unconsciously brushing against mine.

Dad was the first to break the silence. "Brooks? Rory? What are you boys doing back here?"

I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again, words failing me. Rory didn't fare much better.

"We were just... uh..." he stammered.

"Talking," I finished lamely. "About the fundraiser."

Margot's eyes twinkled with barely suppressed mirth. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Heat rushed to my face, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rory's cheeks flush a deep red.

Dad cleared his throat, looking everywhere but directly at us. "Well, we were just... that is, Margot and I were..."

"Taking a walk," Margot supplied smoothly. "It's such a lovely day, after all."

An awkward silence descended upon us. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, acutely aware of Rory's presence beside me, of our parents' linked hands, and of the absurdity of the entire situation.

Finally, Rory let out a soft snort, which quickly evolved into a full-blown laugh. The tension broke, and suddenly, we were all chuckling, the alley full of the sound of our shared joy.

As the laughter subsided, I caught Dad's eye. There was a softness I hadn't seen in years, not since before Mom passed.

"So," I said, gesturing vaguely between Dad and Margot. "How long has this been...?"

Dad and Margot exchanged a look that spoke volumes. "It's... new," Dad said carefully. "We're exploring possibilities."