Page 9 of Love in Kentbury

Henrik

It’s been almosta year since I traded the arenas and my hectic life for the quiet streets of Kentbury. The transition from being Henrik, captain of the champion Boston Blizzards, to just plain old Henrik was two years ago. Now I’m just the hermit of this quaint town. This move has been rockier than I expected. However, there is one place that’s starting to feel like home—The Maple Moose Tavern.

This hole-in-the-wall bar is where I usually meet up with Paul and the guys—Bishop, Damian, and sometimes the Miller brothers if they can peel themselves away from their duties. I may not have the same social calendar as my pro hockey days, but I’ve lucked out with having a great group of friends to grab a beer with.

Damian owns the Harris Ski Resort, which he runs with his best friend and brother-in-law, Landon Miller. Bishop manages the family’s orchard, while Holden Miller is a retired Air Force pararescue jumper trying to become a winemaker. Sometimes I wonder if I should lend a hand there, even if I don’t know the difference between pinot noir and merlot.

Tonight, I’m just hanging out with Damian and Bishop. Paul’s tied up with family stuff, Landon’s with his wife and kids, and Holden, as usual, steers clear of crowds.

“We should head up to Boston this weekend,” Damian suggests between sips of his IPA. “Blow off some steam.”

“My fiancée and I plan on spending the weekend watching movies and planning our wedding,” Bishop says. I swear that if I look very closely, tiny animated hearts float around his head. Yep, he’s whipped alright.

Damian makes a sound halfway between a snort and gag. Then tilts his head my way instead. “What about you, Henrik? You in for a Boston run?”

“Why are we going there?” I ask, my tone noncommittal, silently thinking I’d rather endure a root canal than head to Beantown.

“This town’s dating scene is as thrilling as watching paint dry,” Damian declares, gesturing for the waitress to bring another round. “I’m betting we’ll find more exciting prospects in the city.”

He couldn’t be more wrong, but I’m not about to correct him.

“Not all of us need a revolving door of new faces, Damian.” Bishop chuckles, lifting his beer. “Is this because Landon and Knightly are really enforcing their ‘no fucking the guests’ policy?”

Damian scowls into his IPA. “Yep. It’s not like I’m not careful about it. I just want to have fun—and make the guests feel welcome.” He swivels my way again. “But, seriously, Henrik, how do you do it? A whole year in this sleepy town—don’t you miss the thrill of big city life? You must have had girls eating out of the palm of your hand back in the day.”

“You know,” Bishop interjects, his tone more serious now, “sometimes I wonder if all these flings are just a way to avoid dealing with . . . well, real stuff, you know?”

I’m not sure what he’s referring to, but it reminds me of my long-term relationship. We were monogamous, but we weren’t really in love. Just two people in a convenient arrangement.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “But finding something real, something lasting . . . it’s not that easy. And some of us aren’t too keen on being alone.”

Bishop nods, smiling dopily with that look of smitten idiocy. “It’s about more than just fun and games. When it’s right, you just know—it clicks on a deeper level.” He chuckles, drunk on love not so much on the alcohol. “That’s how it is for me and Mac.”

I stare into my beer, wishing I too could find a love like that. One that defies logic or convenience and simply feels fated. But Damian’s grumbling words from earlier resonate in my mind. Kentbury’s microscopic dating pool means casual flings are pretty much off the table. And anything more serious? Every wrong move would be town gossip for decades.

Maybe I’m better off embracing the hermit life after all.

Thankfully, Bishop changes the subject. He starts rambling about the organic hard ciders and apple brandy he’s been concocting. He asks Joe, the owner of The Maple Moose Tavern, requesting samples of his cider that they’ve recently stocked. I hadn’t realized Bishop was a chemist, let alone that he was the one who crafted the ciders and drinks that are sold not just locally but nationwide.

All this time I believed he only took care of the trees and sold things in his store.

Two hours later, it’s time to leave, and I can feel the weight of the evening’s indulgence. My head is swimming, and my coordination is questionable at best.

“Come on, Henrik, I’ll take you . . .” Damian starts, his thought trailing off.

“Nobody is going with you,” Bishop says, plucking Damian’s keys from his clumsy grasp. “You’re staying at my place, and Henrik . . . Well, I’ll take you somewhere close, not all the way to your big ass cabin. Neither one of you are in any shape to drive or walk alone.”

* * *

The next morning,my head throbs as I peel my eyes open. My mouth tastes like something died in it. Ugh. Note to self: ease up on the apple brandy next time.

I slip on last night’s rumpled jeans and t-shirt, desperate for some caffeine to help clear the fog from my aching brain. Shuffling downstairs toward the enticing scent of coffee, I enter the main living area of the B&B . . . and stop short.

As I descend, there’s a woman I don’t recognize standing by the fireplace, clutching an iron poker. Her eyes narrow when she spots me.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demands, brandishing her makeshift weapon.

I instinctively raise both hands. Who is this beautiful woman? It’s definitely not Knightly. I continue walking toward her to get a better look.

---