“It’s just lasagna, Monroe. Let me drive you home.”
Roe’s head snaps up. “I’m good to walk.”
“Not hearing it, Roe.” Goddamn first name. “It’s late. Let me just tell Jamie I’m leaving.”
Chapter seven
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Ash Patel: Roe Monroe was back at The Blue Line again this morning. Third day this week. Same booth. Hoodie up.
Riley Novak: If he’s trying to hide, he picked the one coffee shop in town and sat under a damn window. Bless.
Patti Jensen: What is his obsession with the old bar on the square? Hockey superstition?
I reluctantly take Thatcher up on his offer for a ride home.
Close confines with him might not be the best idea I ever had, though.
Thatcher’s truck smells as good as his lasagna. Maybe better. It’s a faint smell of fresh wood and something comforting underneath. Vanilla maybe.
“Where am I headed?” he asks, putting the truck in reverse.
I tell him and he doesn’t need more than the name of my townhouse complex. Fox River Falls is a small town, after all.
“Thank you, for today,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, but only enough for the words to be heartfelt.
“Jamie’s a good kid,” I tell him. “And thanks for dinner.” I clutch the leftover lasagna close to me. I truly hadn’t had a home cooked meal in years, and something about being part of Jamie and Thatcher’s domestic scene had been nice. Unexpected, but nice.
“Look,” I begin, not really thinking ahead about my words, although they need to be said. “I don’t want to overstep my place here.” Thatcher gives me some side-eye. “But for what it’s worth, Jamie doesn’t feel as though he can talk to you about hockey.”
I can see the corded muscle of his arms flex as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. I think he’s going to ignore me, but instead he nods.
“I am aware.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Jamie knows why.”
“Maybe I want to know too. And maybe Jamie isn’t as clear on it as you think he is.” I don’t know why I want to know, but I do.Gabe Thatcher is a mystery to me, and I want to figure him out. Even just a little bit.
Thatcher sighs and a long pause stretches out between us. It’s well past dark and the lights from the parts of town that are still lit play off Thatcher’s handsome face as we drive by.
“My dad played hockey,” Thatcher finally says. “He was good, I guess. Just not good enough. He spent his entire life chasing a hockey career that never happened. Still, it was the most important thing in his life.”
Something clicks and I think I get it. I’ve seen guys do that, chase their hockey dreams instead of taking care of their kid or their home. Sacrificing a full life for some half-life long after it should have been over. Seeing that is a part of why I want to end my career on my own terms, not have it ended for me.
“I don’t want that for Jamie,” Thatcher continues. “I want him to know he has more than hockey.” He sighs after another long pause. “It’s hard to straddle this line, to support him—because of course I do—but to also try and have him see there’s more. I don’t want to be unsupportive, but at the same time, I can’t let hockey be his entire life.”
“Tell me if I cross a line here, but what about his mom?”
Thatcher gives me a side-eye once again, and I smirk in return. It’s funny how the subject of hockey seems to be one I have to step around carefully—almost tiptoe—but Jamie’s missing mom has Thatcher damn near relaxing in contrast.
“His mom—that’s Liz—she loves hockey or whatever Jamie’s into. She’s supportive from afar.”
I nod. “So the divorce wasn’t—“
