By the time I park at The Keep that evening, I’m ready to see both of them. Jamie’s been here with Arch since after school, and Roe of course had practice. He has a three-game home series coming up, and I have tickets for Jamie and me to go, but I haven’t said anything to Roe yet.
I find him looking down at the kids as they skate their warmup. He has one leg on the railing, pushing out his ass that fills the team-logo knit joggers.
He turns back, maybe because he feels my gaze on him, and smiles when he sees me. His hair is dark—still damp from the post-workout shower—and the dark blue Iceguard pullover is molded to his muscular arms and chest. It makes his blue eyes even bluer, and for a moment I lose track of my thoughts.
He smirks but doesn’t move. Later, I’ll realize he was letting me determine how much space should be between us. But right now, all I can think is how damned lucky I am and how unbelievably gorgeous Rory Monroe is.
I pull him close for a quick kiss, loving the smell of him filling my nose as his lips brush mine.
“I like when you look at me like that,” he teases.
I push back a bit of his hair. “You made me forget words for a moment.”
Roe grins and kisses me hard on the lips.
We turn to head to our usual seats when Stan Gordon stops us. I mean literally us, because when Stan calls Roe’s name I notice that somehow our fingers had become entangled as we walked.
“Young man.” Stan greets Roe, who surprisingly seems to know the guy, a former NAPH standout in the goaltending position.
“Mr. Gordon.” Roe shakes the man’s hand. “Good to see you. What can I do for you?”
I watch as Roe steers the man over to a quieter part of the arena. It’s only a few steps, but even I can tell the difference in the reduced background noise of the kids warming up. Stan’s the fittest seventy-year-old I’ve ever seen, not to mention he’s on social media more than me and Jamie combined, but he is still seventy and his hearing isn’t what it once was.
“I hear you bought the Johnson brothers’ bar,” Gordon says.
“Well, I bought the place on the square, but I bought it from a Hendrix, not a Johnson.”
“Is that so? The old bakery, though, right? Before it was a bar.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Stan seems to ponder this for a moment.
“Well, I hope you do something with it, son,” he finally says. “Folks would come to a hockey bar. And you probably don’t want any of it, but I just wanted to let you know I still have a few things from the old days. If you wanted them.”
Roe smiles so bright I can’t believe people don’t stop to see it.
“Like what?”
“Oh . . .” Stan moves his hand dismissively like it’s nothing, but I see the pride in his eye, and I know Roe does too. “Maybe a jersey or a poster or a stick or two. Just thought if someone could get a use out of that old stuff, I should let you know.”
Roe puts his hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Sir, I would be honored to hang anything from your time with the Knights on my wall.Maybe I can come by next week, before our travel games, and get inspired?”
Stan visibly straightens. “Well, of course. That’ll be alright.”
Roe offers him a hand and leads him to his usual seat. Stan has season tickets to the Iceguard and sits there for every event at The Keep. I follow behind as they make plans to meet.
Stan takes his seat and turns his gaze to me.
“Monroe’s been playing the best hockey of his career, Gabriel Thatcher. Not sure if that’s because of you or despite you.”
I try not to smile. As one grumpy old man to another, I like Stan’s style.
“I do my best not to get in his way.”
Stan pulls his Chicago Knights stadium blanket over his lap and nods to me. “That’s what we’re all hoping. Good luck to you two.” He gives us a little wink and I remind myself that he was a goalie back in the day. A position known to draw a few quirky characters, not to mention longevity. Goalies last longer than most positions, which would account for how long Stan’s career was. “Jamie’s looking good too,” he says as we say our goodbyes.
“So,” Roe says, sitting down. “I guess real estate transactions are public knowledge.”
