Page 80 of Hometown Heart

Cody accepted the puck with reverence, turning it over in his gloved hands. "Whoa. Thanks, Mr. Bennett!"

"Just Brooks, remember?" He ruffled Cody's hair. "And remember what I told you about that top-shelf shot? Angle matters."

"You called it," Cody nodded solemnly. "Exactly like you said."

Something brushed against my back—Silas's hand, gentle and reassuring. The touch lasted only a moment, but its warmth lingered, a quiet anchor in the sea of post-game chaos. When I glanced his way, the openness in his expression caught me off guard. This wasn't Silas the observer, standing apart from Whistleport's rituals. This was Silas fully present—part of it all.

The PA system crackled to life, announcing the rink closure in fifteen minutes. The crowd began to disperse, players reluctantly dragged away by parents, discussions of the game continuing out into the parking lot.

"We should probably get going," I suggested as Cody stifled a yawn. "Champions need their rest."

Cody's face scrunched in protest. "I'm not even tired."

"That's the adrenaline talking," Silas said. "Trust me, you'll crash hard once it wears off."

"Fine," Cody sighed dramatically.

As we headed toward the exit, Brooks fell into step beside me. "Good game," he said, voice pitched for my ears only. "And I don't just mean the one on the ice."

I followed his gaze to where Silas was walking ahead with Cody, listening intently as my son recounted his goal yet again.

"It's nice," Brooks continued, "seeing him like this. Part of things."

I nodded, unable to articulate the peculiar mixture of pride and wonder I felt watching Silas and Cody together—two pieces of my world fitting together in ways I'd hardly dared to hope for.

"Don't mess it up," Brooks added, clapping me on the shoulder before peeling away toward the coaches' office.

Outside, the April night carried hints of approaching spring. Cody raced ahead to the car, hockey bag bouncing against his legs, still riding the high of victory.

Silas paused at the edge of the parking lot, his face lifted toward the star-speckled sky.

"What is it?" I asked.

His smile was soft, private. "Nothing. Everything." He turned to look at me. "A great night."

It was. One of the best.

"Can we walk home?" Cody asked, surprising me as we reached the car. "It's not that cold tonight."

He was right. The brutal Maine winter had relented enough to make the idea appealing rather than punishing. The temperature hovered just below freezing—practically balmy.

"Sure," I agreed, glancing at Silas. "If you're up for it?"

"Sounds perfect," he replied, adjusting his scarf. "Nothing like a post-victory parade through town."

We left the car in the arena lot and set off along Main Street, Cody bounding ahead with inexhaustible energy. His hockey bag now rested in the trunk, but he'd insisted on carrying the game-winning puck, occasionally pulling it from his pocket to examine it under each passing streetlamp.

Whistleport transformed after dark. During daylight hours, it was all practical New England efficiency—lobster boats, hardware stores, and residents going about their business with salt-of-the-earth determination. But at night, a certain kind of charm emerged. Streetlamps cast golden pools on cobblestone sidewalks. Fairy lights twinkled in shop windows. The smell of the ocean hung in the air, mingling with woodsmoke from chimneys.

"We should celebrate properly," I suggested as we passed Miller's Bakery, its windows dark but the faint aroma of the day's baking still lingering. "Maybe dinner tomorrow? Championship preparation feast?"

"Pizza!" Cody called over his shoulder, now walking backward to face us. "With those garlic knots from Gino's that Silas likes."

I raised my eyebrows at Silas, who smiled faintly.

"Observant kid," he murmured.

"He notices everything," I agreed, watching Cody pivot back around and skip ahead, now humming something that sounded suspiciously like his school's fight song.

---