Chapter 2 — The Harborfront Encounter
Katherine
The Harborfront Promenade hummed with its usual symphony of life—a warm blend of laughter, the faint strum of a street guitarist’s melody, and the rhythmic lap of water against the docked boats. Katherine tugged her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders, the evening breeze slipping through her scarf and brushing cool against her skin. She had always come here to think—or to not think. The promenade, alive with movement yet steady at its core, mirrored the balance she craved in her own life: the chaos of survival tempered by the small, precious moments of stillness.
Settling onto a weathered bench near the railings, Katherine set her sketchpad on her knee, the pencil twirling between her fingers. People passed her in vivid, fleeting impressions—snippets of laughter, clinking bracelets, the blur of a red balloon bobbing in the grip of a child weaving through the crowd. A couple meandered hand in hand, their whispers curling into the ocean breeze. Boats drifted in the distance, their silhouettes sharp against the amber hues of the fading sunset.
Her strokes on the page were deliberate but loose. It wasn’t about perfection—her sketches never were. Each line was a brief escape, a way to quiet the noise in her head. Tonight, though, the noise clung stubbornly, nagging at the edges of her focus. Her pencil stilled, hovering mid-stroke as her thoughts pulled her inward.
Her gaze dropped to her wrist, where the faint indentation from a dialysis band still marked her skin. Her fingers brushed the spot absently, the ache in her muscles a quiet protest against the hours tethered to the machine. The unrelenting rhythm of her life—treatment, recovery, repeat—stretched before her like a long, dim road. Waiting. Always waiting. For the call, for a miracle. For the strength to keep hoping.
The scrape of footsteps on cobblestones tugged her out of the spiral. She glanced up, expecting to see a passerby or maybe one of the promenade’s regulars. Instead, her gaze locked with a pair of warm hazel eyes she instantly recognized.
Blake Carter.
He stood a few feet away, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his faded jeans. His wavy brown hair was tousled in that effortless way that should have annoyed her, and his easy, almost bashful smile softened the angular planes of his face. He looked different tonight—less like the polished, larger-than-life athlete she’d met at The Icebox and more like someone searching for his own quiet corner of the world.
“Hey,” he said, his voice warm and tentative, as if testing the waters.
“Hey,” Katherine replied, her pencil still poised over the paper. “Twice in one week, huh? Didn’t peg you for a stalker.”
His laugh came easily, filling the space between them. “I swear, it’s a coincidence. Hockey players are allowed outside, you know.”
“I thought you all lived in mysterious, exclusive bubbles.”
Blake grinned, stepping closer but keeping a polite distance. “Not all the time. Sometimes we mingle with the common folk. Mind if I sit?”
She hesitated, her gaze flicking over him, looking for any sign of pretense. But all she found was sincerity, a quiet curiosity that caught her off guard. She shifted her sketchpad to make room. “Sure. But no promises I won’t charge you for the view.”
“Fair enough,” he said, lowering himself onto the bench beside her, his movements unhurried and easy.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled with the sounds of the promenade—the faint strains of a street performer’s saxophone, the rustle of palm fronds in the breeze, the distant clang of a bike bell. Katherine’s pencil hovered over the page, her focus flickering between the boats in the harbor and the man now seated beside her. He seemed content to let the quiet settle, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sea swallowed the last of the sunlight.
“You come here often?” he asked finally, his voice soft against the gentle din.
“Often enough,” she said. “It’s easier to think here. Or to not think, depending on the day.”
Blake nodded, his profile turned toward the water. “Yeah, I get that. It’s… grounding. Reminds me that the rest of the world isn’t always a circus.”
Katherine tilted her head, studying him. “Didn’t peg you for the introspective type.”
“Don’t let the hockey stick fool you,” he said, and his grin turned self-deprecating. “I’ve got layers. Like a very poorly made lasagna.”
Her laugh came unbidden, a soft burst of sound that surprised even her. “You’re shameless, you know that?”
“I’ve been told,” Blake said with mock solemnity, leaning back against the bench.
His humor disarmed her, but it was his tone—casual yet thoughtful—that kept her from retreating behind her usual defenses. Her pencil traced idle patterns on the sketchpad. “So, what brings you here tonight? Shouldn’t you be at practice or signing jerseys?”
He shrugged. “Needed a breather. It’s been… a lot lately.”
She didn’t pry, though the faint shadows beneath his eyes hinted at sleepless nights and untold worries. Instead, she offered a soft hum of acknowledgment, letting him share—or not share—at his own pace.
“What about you?” he asked, turning the question back on her. “What brings you here?”
Her fingers tightened incrementally around the pencil. She could deflect, make a joke, keep the conversation safely surface-level. But something in his gaze—steady, unassuming—made her pause. Maybe it was the way he seemed genuinely interested, not just filling the silence.
“I had dialysis earlier,” she said finally, her voice quieter now. “It’s part of the routine. Treatment, recovery, and… trying to keep moving forward. When I can, I come here. It helps.”
Blake didn’t flinch or look away, the weight of her words settling between them like stones on still water. His expression softened, a flicker of empathy in his hazel eyes. “That sounds… hard. I’m sorry.”
“It is,” Katherine admitted, her lips quirking into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “But what’s the alternative? Giving up? Not really my style.”
Blake nodded, his gaze dropping briefly to his hands. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, a small, restless movement. “I get that. Not the same thing, but… I know what it’s like to feel like you’ve got to hold it all together. Like the world’s watching, waiting for you to slip.”
Her chest tightened as she studied him. She’d seen the headlines, the tabloid photos that turned his breakup into entertainment for the masses. But the weight in his eyes told her those stories barely scratched the surface. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I think I know what you mean.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it felt like an understanding, a thread connecting their separate battles. Katherine’s pencil hovered over her sketchpad again, but this time, she couldn’t quite bring herself to draw.
Blake broke the quiet, his tone lighter now. “So, what do you sketch? Boats, sunsets, mysterious hockey players?”
She snorted softly. “Definitely not hockey players. Mostly places. People. Things that catch my eye.”
“Like where?”
Her fingers brushed the edge of the sketchpad, her expression softening. “Places I want to go. Europe, Asia… South America. I’ve got a whole list.”
Blake tilted his head, a curious smile playing at his lips. “What’s stopping you?”
Her throat tightened. The obvious answer—her health—felt too raw, too final. She glanced at the boat lights winking in the distance. “Money, for one. And, you know, life.”
He didn’t press her, but his gaze lingered, warm and thoughtful. “Well,” he said after a beat, “when you do make it to Europe, let me know. I hear they’ve got great hockey over there.”
Her laugh came easier this time, light and unguarded. “Subtle pitch. You’re relentless.”
“Just passionate,” he replied, his grin widening. “But seriously. Dream big. You never know—it might just happen.”
The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. For the first time in what felt like forever, the idea of a future—of something beyond survival—didn’t feel entirely out of reach.
Maybe hope.
The evening breeze carried the scent of salt and street food as Katherine closed her sketchpad and stood. “Thanks for the company,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I should probably head home.”
Blake rose too, his movements slow and unhurried, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. “Anytime. And, hey—if you’re ever back at The Icebox, let me know. I still owe you that drink.”
“Maybe,” she said with a small, enigmatic smile. “If you’re lucky.”
She walked away before he could reply, the sounds of the promenade fading behind her. The weight on her chest felt lighter somehow, the ache less sharp. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.
Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to look up.
