Page 39

T he rubber mat in front of the rink doors hadn't changed—still curling at the corners, still dusted with salt and grit. I nudged it with my boot and pushed the door open.

Inside, the rink echoed with the peculiar music of kids trying hard not to fall over—scrapes, squeals, hollow thuds, and the occasional triumphant yelp when someone stayed upright. It had been a year since I accepted the invitation to coach the kids.

"Tyler!" I called, barely raising my voice. "Bend your knees, not your spine—you're not bowing to the puck."

He grinned over his shoulder without correcting his form. His stick clattered to the ice as he lost his balance anyway, legs going in two directions at once like a startled deer. He popped back up quickly, cheeks flushed.

"Better," I called again. "But I'll show you what happens to people who don't listen if my knee gives out."

A few of the kids giggled. One of them—Milo, always serious—raised a hand. "Would you really fall down just to prove a point?"

"Absolutely," I said. "And I'd do it with style."

I stepped onto the ice and leaned forward, bracing my arms on the boards.

Across the rink, Brooks was helping a smaller kid re-lace his skates. Rory had a clipboard in one hand and a coffee in the other, scribbling something I probably wouldn't agree with. I often argued with him about drills, though never about why we showed up. That part was settled.

A rogue puck clanged off the boards near my elbow, and I turned just in time to see Junie looking horrified.

"Sorry, Coach!"

I waved her off. "No harm, but aim for the net next time, not my ribs."

She gave me a salute with her stick.

Practice bled into free skate time. A few older teens had shown up to work out drills on the far end, and the chaos of the younger ones gave way to a more rhythmic thump of practiced passes and boots crunching across the rubber flooring.

I joined the younger kids as they converged on a bench. They peeled off gear in heaps and untying skates with mittened fingers. I knelt to help with a stubborn knot, my knee protesting with a steady ache that reminded me not to get cocky.

"You're not gonna leave next year, are you?" Milo asked, looking up at me while I tugged at the lace.

"No," I said. "I'm right where I'm supposed to be."

His eyes narrowed like he was measuring the truth of it. Then he nodded once and darted off to find his mom.

The rink quieted slowly, like tidewater rolling out to sea. The bleachers emptied, the clatter faded, and my breath steadied. When the last kid walked off with his mom, I headed for the arena exit. And there, leaning against the side of the building like he'd been waiting all day, was Eric.

He hadn't seen me yet. He was watching the treeline behind the parking lot, where a few stubborn birch trees still clung to their coppery leaves. His scarf—striped, probably something Mrs. Lin had knitted—moved slightly in the breeze.

I paused a beat before walking toward him. Sometimes, I still marveled at how he existed in my life, not like a visitor passing through, but someone I got to keep. His camera case hung from one shoulder, the strap creased from regular use.

"You waiting for someone? Or is this brooding practice?"

Eric turned his head, smiling. "I'm refining my technique. Brooding into the wind is an advanced skill."

"You smell like kids with questionable hygiene." He crinkled his nose.

"Good guess. And you smell like cedar and old paper."

"Research library," he nodded. "Spent the morning in the archives. Did you know a shipwreck off the coast in 1926 involved smuggled goats?"

"I don't know whether I believe that or if I just like believing that."

He bumped my arm. "I brought you something."

I looked down at his hands. "If it's more chili from Mrs. Knickerbocker, I'm not eating it cold."

"Not chili."

He slipped one hand into his coat pocket, then hesitated. That pause told me whatever was coming was important.

Eric pulled out a small wooden box. He turned it over in his fingers once, then opened it without fanfare.

Inside sat a ring. No flourish and no engraving. It was only a band of brushed silver.

I didn't speak. Eric looked up, and I saw every nerve ending in his face fire at once.

"I want to keep showing up," he said, voice low. "To the rink. To Ironhook. To you. No spectacle. Only me."

The box shook just a little. So did my hands.

"I figured I've learned a thing or two about weathering things. And I want to weather it as us."

He offered the box like it was part of him—like if I said no, he'd still stay, but something in him would ache forever.

I took the ring and held it between my thumb and forefinger. It was cool and solid.

"I've never worn jewelry in my life," I said.

"That's fine. We'll get you one made of driftwood or rebar if this one's too polished."

I slid the ring onto my finger.

It fit.

Eric let out a breath that ended in a laugh.

"Well," I said. "You know what this means."

He blinked. "That we're getting married?"

"No," I said. "That we have to tell Mrs. Knickerbocker. She's going to out-chili herself."

He leaned in and touched my cheek. "Absolutely worth it."

We ferried back home that night. I stood at the bow with Eric at my side, our shoulders touching as we watched Ironhook approach through the settling dark.

The lighthouse beam swept across the sea—silent and steady.

By the time we reached the island, the sky had cleared into a sharp, ink-washed night. An impossible sprawl of stars spread above the pines.

We didn't even bother stopping at the cottage. Just walked past, still carrying our bags and crunching over frost-hardened soil, up toward the cliffs.

We'd reconstructed parts of the trail since the collapse last year, but we already knew it by heart.

At the overlook, Eric sat down on a dry patch of grass and looked up. "Think it's still there?"

I lowered myself beside him, letting the night settle around us like a second skin. "Only one way to find out."

He pointed, arm steady, finger extended. "There's the spout, tilted just enough. Handle's a stretch tonight."

I followed his gaze. Stars blinked, a little shy at first. Then I saw it. The constellation only we knew—except for the thirsty polar bears.

"The Coffee Pot of the North," I said. "Still brewing."

Eric leaned into me, his head against my shoulder. We didn't say anything after that. We didn't need to.

The wind moved through the brush, and the sea kept crashing against the rocks below. And above us, our little stitched-together constellation hung steady, even if no one else could see it.

It was enough that we could.

***

Thank you for reading Hometown Harbor . Please consider leaving a review .

It is the fourth book in the Whistleport Hockey series. If you haven't read them, please check out Brooks's and Rory's story in Book 1, Hometown Hero , Ziggy's story in Book 2, Hometown Heat , and Silas's story in Book 3, Hometown Heart .