Page 44 of Hometown Heart

The room hummed with anticipation. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as latecomers squeezed into the packed space. I retreated to my station behind the counter while Rory welcomed everyone.

"For those new faces—and I see a few tonight—we've been gathering monthly to share words and community." Rory's teacher's voice resonated. "And we're incredibly honored tonight to welcome back one of Whistleport's own, fresh from breaking scoring records at UMaine. Ziggy Knickerbocker."

A ripple of applause passed through the room. Whistleport loved its hockey heroes almost as much as it loved its lobstering fleet. Ziggy unfolded his long frame from a corner stool and approached the microphone with the same easy confidence he showed on the ice.

He adjusted the mic with one fluid motion while his dark eyes scanned the room. "Been a while since I've been nervous about performing here at home." His voice had a hint of his father's rasp. "But poetry's different from hockey. You can't body-check the audience if they don't like your metaphors."

Laughter spread through the room. I watched as he rolled his shoulders once, twice, settling into himself like a player before a big game.

Then, he began.

Blue line boundaries, white ice stretching endless—

The moment before collision, suspended,

Heartbeat pounding against armor that never quite protects

What matters most.

Somewhere amid his recitation, the cocky grin disappeared. in its place was something raw and electric.

The puck skids on winter's breath,

Shadows chasing fire, chasing ghosts,

Every bruise a story, every scar a history,

Written in blood beneath the surface.

I glanced toward Jack. He sat with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. The blue sweater stretched across his shoulders, rising and falling with each measured breath. Even in profile, I saw the intensity in his expression.

We collide at center ice, at center heart,

The crack of contact echoing through empty arenas,

Long after crowds forget our names—

What remains is what we risked.

Ziggy's voice dropped lower. It was barely above a whisper. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand.

Not the victory. Not the score.

But the willingness to bleed.

When he finished, the room was silent. Someone exhaled and broke the quiet. Massive applause followed.

Ziggy accepted it with a small, humble nod. He stepped away from the mic back into his usual confident personality.

Across the room, I saw Jack tilting his head toward the microphone. It wasn't my turn yet, but he was eager to hear my words.

Several others took their turns—Vi with her gentle nature poems, Mr. Peterson's surprisingly sensitive recitation about his late wife's garden, and a high school student nervously sharing verses about climate change.

Through it all, I remained camped behind the counter, brewing coffee for my customers.

Rory approached between readers, sliding an empty mug across the counter. "You're up soon."

"I can't do this."

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