I found Wes exactly where I'd left him that morning—settled into a wooden chair on his porch with a coffee mug cradled in both hands, watching the water. The sun had climbed higher while I'd been exploring, burning off the last wisps of fog and turning the harbor into a sheet of sparkling silver.
He glanced up as my boots hit the porch steps, taking in my grass-stained jeans and the camera still hanging around my neck. A few burrs clung to my jacket sleeve.
"Find something interesting?"
"Maybe." I settled onto the top step, close enough to share the photos but not so close as to crowd him.
I pulled the Polaroids from my jacket pocket. The top photo showed the full rink in the morning light, with overgrown goal frames centered in the composition. I handed it to him first.
The change in his expression was immediate.
His features rearranged into something more guarded. He stared at the photo, his thumb running along the white border.
I did my best to keep my voice light. "What was that place like back in the day?"
The silence stretched long enough to hear a gull cry somewhere out over the water, its call sharp and lonely. "The heyday ended before my time, but I have skated there."
I handed him the second photo—the close-up of the goal frame wrapped in vines—and watched his reaction. Everything about his posture suggested a man working hard to appear unaffected.
Pushing would be the wrong move. Instead, I tried a different approach—something that might open a door.
I began to tell my story. "I was a total disaster on skates until Ziggy dragged me onto the ice and held on to keep me from falling."
I settled back against the porch post. "This was back when we were ten, and I had somehow convinced myself that hockey was like riding a bike—something you could figure out through pure determination and a complete disregard for physics."
Wes glanced at me, and a flicker of curiosity broke through his composure.
"Ziggy had been skating since he could walk, so naturally, he assumed teaching me would be simple. Show up, strap on some skates, and let natural ability take over."
I grinned at the memory. "First thing I did was trip over my own stick and take out half the youth league practice. Kids went down like dominoes. The coach made me sit in the penalty box for the rest of the session, which was probably a public safety measure more than punishment."
The corner of Wes's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough to suggest I was heading in the right direction.
"Ziggy felt so bad he bought me a hot chocolate afterward and promised to teach me properly, even if it took all winter." I shook my head, still amazed by Ziggy's eternal optimism.
"It took him three winters, but eventually, I could stay upright long enough to pass the puck without falling over. By the time high school was over, I could hold my own pretty well."
Wes looked at me and set the Polaroids down between us.
"Local kids could be ruthless." His voice was soft and deep.
"We had these uniforms that were basically museum pieces," he continued. "Hand-me-downs from three different decades, maybe four. Mismatched socks, jerseys with numbers held on with fabric glue, and helmets repaired so many times with electrical tape they looked like they'd survived actual combat."
I leaned forward, eager to hear his story.
"The worst part was the skates." A smile began to play at the corners of his mouth. "Most of us were wearing whatever we could find at the secondhand shop in Rockland. My first pair was two sizes too big and resoled with duct tape. But we thought we were hot shit, you know? Like we were practically professionals."
He paused and stared out at the water. I wondered whether he could see ghosts of kids skating on the glistening ocean.
"My friend Tony scored his first goal with his skate blade. It was a total accident—the puck bounced off the boards weirdly, caught some crazy angle, and hit his foot just right. Went straight into the net like he'd planned it that way."
For the first time since I'd met Wes, he appeared genuinely relaxed, caught up in the memory of being young and ridiculous.
"Kid was so surprised he fell over backward." Wes shook his head and laughed. "He went down like a tree chopped down, flat on his back in the middle of his celebration. The whole team dogpiled him anyway, acting like we'd won the Stanley Cup."
I grinned along with the story, caught up in the image of the kids in their secondhand gear, celebrating a fluke goal like it was the most important thing that had ever happened. The storytelling was infectious.
Suddenly, something changed. Mid-gesture, Wes's hand froze in the air, and the smile faded from his face.
