Page 10 of Hometown Heart

My reflection didn't appear convinced.

With a sigh, I turned back to the kitchen. Those marshmallows weren't going to shape themselves into tiny hockey sticks. And if I spent a little extra time making sure each one was perfect—well, that was only professional pride.

Nothing more.

Right?

Chapter four

Jack

Cody's hockey stick clattered against the kitchen island, nearly falling on the floor, as he rearranged his gear for the tenth time. "Dad! Dad! Did you know Ziggy Knickerbocker set a UMaine record for goals scored by a first-year student? Like, more than anybody else ever!"

I smiled into my coffee mug, watching him bounce on his toes while I stirred hot chocolate on the stove. "Are you aiming to beat his record? Does that start with the shootout?"

"Yeah! Well, duh." He flopped onto a stool and then propped his chin on his hands. "Everybody at school's gonna be at the shootout, and they're all super good, and I just got here. What if I mess up, Dad, what if I—"

"Whoa, whoa. Take a breath, bud." My wooden spoon clinked against the pan as I added another splash of milk. Edward would have bought the instant packets, but some things were worth doing right. "You've been practicing like crazy. You're ready."

"But…" Cody's forehead hit the counter with a soft thunk. "What if I shoot and totally miss the net? Like, not even close? That would be so embarrassing!"

I poured the hot chocolate into Cody's favorite Canadiens mug and watched wisps of steam curl upward. "Hey, you know what? Even Ziggy Knickerbocker misses shots sometimes."

"Really?" He perked up, wrapping his hands around the mug. "Thanks for making the good hot chocolate. But um... Silas's is still better."

"Oh yeah? What's his got that mine doesn't?"

"He has those super cool marshmallows that look like hockey sticks! And he makes pictures in the chocolate part, and he always remembers to put extra whipped cream, and—"

I held up a hand. "Okay, yeah, I get it. I've been replaced by a barista with fancier marshmallows."

"No way!" Cody giggled. The sound echoed off mostly empty walls. We'd downsized dramatically from our Manhattan brownstone, but the rental house still felt too big for just the two of us—like we were rattling around in someone else's home.

I spotted Cody's winter hat tucked behind the coffee maker and grabbed it. "Here. Don't forget this."

He tugged it on, and then he crashed into me with a surprise hug that knocked the breath out of my lungs. "You're the best dad ever. Even if your hot chocolate's not the best. It's still pretty good. Like, maybe second best in the whole world."

I ruffled the hat, making him squeal in protest. "Get your gear together, kiddo. Carnival starts soon."

"Oh man, I gotta find my lucky socks!" He thundered up the stairs.

I leaned against the counter. My coffee had gone lukewarm, but I sipped it anyway, trying to silence the voice in my head that always seemed to whisper:Are you doing enough? Are you doing this right?

***

The Whistleport Ice Arena parking lot had transformed into an impromptu winter village. Strings of white lights zigzagged overhead, casting a gentle glow on a fresh dusting of snow. Kids in puffy jackets darted between cars, their laughter mixing with the distant scrape of skates on ice.

"Look, look!" Cody pressed his nose against the passenger window, fogging up the glass. "They've got an ice maze! And those statues—Dad, that one's a giant lobster! Can we go see it? Please?"

"Let me park first, bud." I guided our SUV into one of the few remaining spots, grateful we'd arrived early. "Then we can—"

"Jackson St. Pierre!" A woman in a violet cardigan materialized at my window before I could kill the engine. "And young Cody, too! Wonderful, wonderful."

It was Dottie Perkins. She'd already cornered me three different times to ask about "life in the city" as she called our New York experience.

"Hi, Mrs. Perkins!" Cody called to her as soon as he opened his door. "Are you judging the ice sculptures? That lobster is super cool!"

"Oh, sweetie, I'm coordinating the whole sculpture garden. Did you know our own Brooks Bennett donated the ice blocks? Such a generous boy, always was, even before the NHL..." She peered at me through her glasses. "You simply must see the seahorse near the hot chocolate station. Reminds me of the summer of '82 when my Harold—"

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