Wes stood near the locker room entrance, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, watching Brooks Bennett and Rory Blake sort through equipment bags. I positioned myself three rows up in the stands, watching from a distance.
Brooks noticed him first, glancing up from a tangle of practice jerseys to offer a slight nod of acknowledgment. There was nothing dramatic.
Rory straightened, a hockey stick in each hand, and he tossed one toward Wes without ceremony. It arced through the air in a lazy spiral, tape-wrapped handle rotating.
"Still remember how to tape one of these?" Rory's words were clear even from a distance.
Wes turned the stick over in his hands, thumb running reverently along the blade's curve. "Muscle memory's funny that way. Some things stick around even when you try to forget them."
Brooks stepped closer, clipboard tucked under one arm. "And do you want to remember?"
"I don't know if I'm the right guy to coach. I've been out of the game longer than most of these kids have been alive. What if I've forgotten too much?"
Brooks shrugged. "You showed up. That's half the job."
From the far end of the rink, a voice rose above the general chatter. "Hey! That guy was on TV!"
Heads turned throughout the arena, focusing on Wes. The local news had covered the cliff rescue with the kind of breathless enthusiasm small-town media brought to any story involving Coast Guard activities.
Wes looked startled, like a deer caught in headlights. Color rose in his cheeks, and I watched him fight an impulse to retreat toward the exit.
Rory grinned, clearly enjoying Wes's discomfort. "Guess you're famous now. Local hero returns to the ice. The story practically writes itself."
Wes visibly sighed, then looked down at the stick in his hands. When he raised his head, he was smiling.
"All right, let's see if I remember how to do this without completely embarrassing myself."
Wes approached the gate leading to the ice with Brooks and Rory flanking him. He paused at the threshold, stick balanced inone hand while the other gripped the boards. For a heartbeat, I thought he might change his mind.
Instead, he stepped onto the ice.
The transformation was immediate and profound. His posture straightened, shoulders settling into a configuration I'd never seen before. He pushed off from the boards with a gentle stroke, nothing fancy. It was the simple act of a man remembering what it felt like to glide.
From my perch in the bleachers, I watched Wes Hunter reclaim a piece of himself that had been dormant for too long. He completed one slow lap, then another, gathering confidence with each stride. After the third lap, he introduced himself to the kids, and they beamed with pride at being noticed by the man who'd been on television.
He caught my eye across the ice and smiled. I smiled back and opened my notebook. I wrote:
Sometimes coming home isn't about returning to a place you left. Sometimes, it's about finding the courage to become who you were meant to be all along.
Then I crossed it out and tried again:
Today, I watched a man teach children to fly on ice and remembered that some kinds of magic never disappear—they just wait for the right moment to surface again.
Chapter twenty-four
Wes
The wind had dropped by the time we reached the clearing. Just a light breeze swept over the rocks and the water beyond. The island appeared to be holding its breath.
We didn't say much on the walk out. Didn't need to. Eric had pulled on his thickest sweater, the collar a little stretched, sleeves half-shoved up his forearms. His flashlight bounced against his thigh, unused—the moonlight was enough. I carried a half-full thermos of what had once been decent coffee.
The broad granite shelf was still there, a stubborn landmark waiting. We stood on it facing the open sky.
Eric tilted his face upward. "Still here," he said.
"Ironhook?"
"The Coffee Pot," he murmured.
