Chapter Seven

Rowan

The Hawkeyes just finished up game three tonight, a 4-2 win over North Carolina, and tomorrow morning we get on a plane and head home.

I take a sip of my water, trying to focus on the conversation around me instead of the fact that it seems as if Bex has done everything in his power to avoid me the last few days out on the road. We haven't spoken about the kiss we shared on our first flight out here, and I'm content to pretend it never happened, but the tension between us seems to crackle whenever our eyes meet and it’s hard to ignore.

Sitting next to Coach Ezra on my right, I listen in as he tells a funny story to a small group of players all sitting at one end of a large table at the restaurant after the game, when I noticed a commotion near the restaurant's entrance. A family of five has just walked in. The father steps forward to reserve a table while the mother tries to corral three energetic boys, wearing North Carolina jerseys, all sporting well fitting youth sizes except the youngest who’s sporting a bright blue cast on his right arm and sporting a jersey that looks like his father should be wearing it.

It hangs down almost to his ankles and his mom bends down to roll up the arms for what I imagine she’s done a dozen times already if they came to the game tonight.

As the hostess leads them to their table, the boys' excited chatter grows louder. Suddenly, the youngest lets out a high-pitched squeal. "Mom! Dad! Look! It's Townsend!"

The parents try to shush their son, looking embarrassed, but it's too late. The entire restaurant has turned to watch, including our table. I watch, waiting for Bex to react, unsure if the pint sized opposing team fan is about to fire some insults for crushing their team tonight.

But to my surprise, Bex waves at the little boy. The father tells his family to take a seat in the booth in the corner and then he makes a beeline for our table, stacked full of Hawkeyes players. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinner, Coach Townsend," he says, his voice low. "It's just... my son Corey, is a big fan," he gestures to the boy with the cast, "He broke his arm trying to make a save on his junior hockey team. It would mean the world to him if you’d sign his cast."

As Cory shifts in the booth talking to his mom with big hand gestures, I see the name on the back of the old North Carolina jersey.

Townsend #14

It’s not a surprise to see Townsend Hawkeyes jerseys at home games. In fact, it’s common to see a dozen or so in the crowd. Sometimes a hundred or more when the stadium is packed. But this is the first time I’ve seen a Townsend jersey for a team he used to play for back in his earlier years.

I hold my breath, waiting for Bex to answer. I have no idea what to expect. I hardly see Bex leave the stadium early enough after a game for fans to still be around to ask for an autograph, and he gets in too early for anyone to be waiting for him to show up to the stadium.

He nods, pushing back his chair. "Sure mate," he says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "I'd be happy to."

As Bex stands and makes his way over to the family's table with the father, I can't help but stare. This is a side of him I've never seen before – a side I didn't even know existed.

I hear Bex’s voice as he addresses the three wide eyed boys. "I’ve got nieces and nephews about your age back in England."

The boys' faces light up as Bex approaches Cory, their eyes wide with awe. Cory, the boy with the cast, looks like he might faint from excitement. Bex kneels down beside him, bringing himself to eye level with the child.

"So, you're the one making the saves on your team?" Bex asks, his accent somehow softer, less intimidating. Cory nods vigorously, sliding over to give Bex room to sit down on the booth, four deep-him and the boys with wide cheesy grins and their parents smiling as they watch on from the other side. "Let’s see that cast. I think it needs a proper signature, don't you?"

As Bex signs the cast, the other two boys crowd around, each thrusting various items at him – a napkin, a North Carolina cap, even a ketchup-stained menu. To my continued amazement, Bex doesn't rush or show any signs of impatience. He takes his time with each boy, asking their names, listening to their excited chatter about their favorite players and the junior hockey teams they each play on as he signs anything and everything that they ask him to.

I watch, transfixed, as Bex transforms before my eyes. The hard lines of his face soften, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles – real smiles – at the boys' enthusiasm. He laughs at their jokes, nods seriously at their earnest questions about hockey strategy, and even demonstrates a few stick-handling moves using a breadstick as an impromptu hockey stick.

Time seems to stretch as Bex interacts with the family, and the waiter starts to hand us our checks since we've all finished our meals.

The rest of the team went back to their conversations, but I haven’t moved an inch, watching carefully from my seat a few tables away, dumbfounded by the way Bex is with these kids.

What started as a simple autograph request has turned into a full-fledged meet-and-greet session. The parents look on, clearly touched by Bex's kindness and patience with their children.

Finally, after what must be at least fifteen minutes – far longer than would typically be considered polite for a celebrity encounter in a restaurant – Bex stands up. He ruffles Cory's hair gently. "Keep practicing those saves, yeah? And listen to you mum and dad," he says with a wink.

The boys chorus their thanks, practically vibrating with excitement. The parents, too, express their gratitude before he leaves.

As Bex turns to head back to our table, I quickly avert my gaze, not wanting him to catch me staring. But I can't help sneaking glances as he makes his way back, noting how the tension seems to have melted from his shoulders, how his step seems lighter.

Just as Bex is about to sit down, a waitress approaches with a water pitcher. "Can I refill your glass, sir?" she asks.

"Yes, thanks," Bex replies, then pauses. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, extracting a credit card. Leaning in close to the waitress, he speaks in a low voice, but I'm close enough to catch his words. "Take care of the family's bill with this, will ya? But not ‘til after we've left."

The waitress's eyes widen, but she nods in understanding. "Of course, sir. I'll take care of it."

As if sensing my gaze, Bex's eyes find mine across the table. I watch as the realization dawns on him that I've witnessed this entire exchange. The smile dies slowly on his lips, replaced by his usual guarded expression. It's like watching a shutter close, blocking out the light.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. I want to say something – to acknowledge what I've seen, to tell him how touched I am by his kindness. But the words stick in my throat. How do I express my admiration without sounding condescending? How do I let him know that I've seen a glimpse of the man behind the gruff exterior without making him feel exposed?

Before I can figure it out, Bex breaks eye contact, turning to engage in conversation with another assistant coach beside him. The moment is gone, leaving me with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

As the dinner continues, I find myself stealing glances at Bex, trying to reconcile the man I thought I knew with the one I just witnessed. The gentle way he spoke to those children, the genuine interest he showed in their excitement, the quiet generosity of paying for their meal. None of it fits with the image of the grumpy, unapproachable coach I've been battling with for months.

As a journalist, I pride myself on my ability to see beyond the surface, to dig for the real story. But have I failed to do that with Bex? Are Keely and Autumn right that there is more to him?

I participate in the conversations around me as our bills start coming back and everyone finishes off the last of whatever they were drinking. It's time for us to head back to the hotel for our early morning flight back home tomorrow.

As we all stand to leave, gathering our coats and saying our goodbyes, I find myself lingering. I want to say something to Bex, to acknowledge what I saw, but I'm not sure how. As I debate with myself, I see him heading for the exit.

Making a split-second decision, I hurry to catch up with him. "Coach Bex," I call out, just as he reaches the door.

He turns, his expression guarded. "Yes, Summers?"

I take a deep breath. "I just... I wanted to say that what you did for that family was really nice. Those kids will remember this night for the rest of their lives."

Bex stares at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, to my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches up in a small, almost shy smile. "Yeah, well," he says. "Some people believe that I don't let my fans know me at all. And I never turn down an autograph for kids. I'm not a monster like you portray me to be."

"I’ve never thought that you’re a monster," I say, following him out to the sidewalk of the building, our hotel is only a few short blocks away. We all walked here so we might as well walk back. There’s no need to hail a cab.

He tucks his hands in his pockets and stares up at the dark night sky, not making any effort to continue our conversation, so I continue.

“Paying for their meal was really sweet. You took an extra step to make that family’s night magical.”

His eyes whip down to mine, his eyes back to their usual guarded stare. He doesn’t like something I said.

"That stays out of the article… in fact, all of tonight does. Got it?" he says.

"Your fans would love to hear about the boy with the cast and how you sat with them while they asked you questions about—"

"No," he says, cutting me off.

I hear the friendly chatter of the rest of the team pushing past the doors of the restaurant, completely unaware of the conversation that just passed between Bex and me.

He watches them head in our direction and then he turns and starts walking away from me.

Soon the sound of the rest of the group envelopes around me as I get gobbled up into the group and start walking with the herd of hockey players and staff.

Fine, if I can't use the moment with the family to show Bex in a different light than what he shows the world, I'll dig deeper into Bexley Townsend.

Something tells me that his stern stare and don't-touch-me attitude are only surface-deep. Now that I’ve seen that there’s more to him, I’ll have to find a way to flush it out of the man… whether he likes it or not.