Page 25 of Hometown Heart

For the first time in weeks, I wasn't thinking about Cody's schedule, unpacked boxes, or how much everything about life still felt temporary and up in the air.

These moments on the ice with the men of Whistleport were easy.

Silas laughed.

It wasn't a quiet chuckle or accompanied by a smirk. It was genuine, arising from somewhere in his gut. The sound was low, warm, and unexpected.

Rory skated close, and Silas asked, "Did you just tell me Cody took his dad down?"

I glanced from one to the other and shook my head. "I wiped out practicing slap shots with Cody. When I lost my balance, I hit the ice."

Silas grinned. "You're finally admitting this?"

"No point hiding it. My kid's ruthless."

Brooks skated by, overhearing just enough. "Falling for a ten-year-old's shot. That's gotta be a first. Maybe we should be scouting Cody instead."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm glad I'm providing entertainment for all of you."

Silas laughed again. "Welcome to the club."

A warm sensation rose from deep inside me.

By the time the final whistle blew, sweat pasted my jersey to my back, and my thighs were like lead weights I had to drag off the ice.

Still, I'd managed to keep up—mostly.

I coasted toward the boards, catching my breath and watching as the others peeled off in groups, sticks tapping in lazy farewells. A few of the younger guys were still goofing around—firing pucks at impossible angles, betting beers on trick shots—but most of us were done for the day.

Brooks skated up beside me, knocking his shoulder into mine. "Not bad, St. Pierre. You might actually survive next week."

I snorted. "That sounds like high praise from the likes of you."

Rory grinned as he flicked his helmet strap loose. "You'll earn your real badge of honor when you survive the one-on-one round robin."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Brooks and Rory skated off toward the locker room, and I turned to follow. Before we reached the edge of the rink, I paused.

Silas was still on the ice, idly sliding the puck along his blade, his gaze distant.

He wasn't waiting for anyone but wasn't rushing to leave either. I hesitated before deciding to skate back toward him.

"You played well," I said, watching how he flicked the puck against the ice and then caught it again.

He didn't look up right away. "You held your own."

"That supposed to mean something?"

Finally, he lifted his eyes. "It means you didn't look completely out of place."

"I'll take it."

The rink was nearly empty. Only a few stray voices echoed from the tunnel leading to the locker room. The world quickly narrowed down to the two of us and the scrape of our skates.

I don't know what made me do it. Maybe the easy rhythm we'd found or how Silas laughed earlier as the weight of whatever was on his mind had lifted.

I reached out—enough to touch his arm, brushing my fingertips against the sleeve of his hoodie. It wasn't enough to pull or ask for anything. It was only a touch.

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