Chapter 20
Jamie
Abbott called Marty from the kitchen. I could hear him, his voice low in that professional tone.
I was making coffee, standing in Clay Abbott's kitchen barefoot, and wearing his t-shirt because mine was somewhere in the living room.
I was making coffee in his machine with his coffee. I knew how he took it (black, the darkest roast he could find) and I knew where he kept the filters (top shelf, left side). I knew the exact ratio of grounds to water that he preferred, because I'd been paying attention for years.
"Marty, I need to withdraw my acceptance."
I could hear the pause on the other end, the silence of an agent who was about to ask a question he already knew the answer to.
"I'm sure," Abbott said. "I understand there may be consequences. I understand Denver will be unhappy. I need you to make it work."
He listened, nodding at something I couldn't hear. His posture, which I'd been watching from across rooms for years, was the composure of a man who had made a decision. There was no second-guessing.
"Thank you, Marty. I'll handle Chicago from my end."
He hung up and turned around. I was holding two mugs, his black, mine with cream and sugar. He looked at me standing in his kitchen in his shirt, holding coffee I'd made for both of us.
He crossed the kitchen and took his cup, his other hand covering mine where I held my own cup. His thumb rested against my knuckle, a small deliberate point of contact.
"Done," he said.
"Done?"
"Marty's handling the withdrawal. There'll be some cleanup. Denver won't be happy, and Chicago's front office will have questions. But it's done."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." He took a sip of coffee, making that small sound he made when his coffee was perfect. "You made it exactly how I like it."
"I've been making you coffee for three years, Abbott. I'd be embarrassed if I got it wrong."
"Clay."
"Clay." I was still learning the sound of his first name from my lips. It felt different, more intimate. It belonged to him as a person rather than just the player. "Clay. Are you sure? This is your career. This is what you've been working toward."
He set the mug down. He put his hands on my waist, his thumbs resting against my hip bones, and looked at me with an intensity that spoke volumes.
"Jamie. I've been sitting in the backup net watching you play hockey for years.
I've been riding in cars with you and stealing your protein bars and sitting in your kitchen drinking from that damn blue mug.
I've been watching you take care of every single person on that team while nobody takes care of you.
" He pulled me an inch closer. "I'm not going to Denver.
I'm not going anywhere. This is where I want to be. "
"Backup money. Backup role."
"I don't care about the money. I care about the net." He paused. "I care about you. The net is secondary."
I kissed him.
I kissed him because I could. He was standing in his kitchen telling me he was staying. His hands were on my waist and his coffee was getting cold.
I had thought this was impossible.
"We should tell the team," I said.
"The team already knows."
"The team suspects. That's different."
"Hayes." He said my name the affectionate way he said it in locker rooms and parking lots. "Bishop has had money on this since the Minnesota series. Theo has been vibrating about it for weeks. Luca looked at me in the locker room yesterday like he was going to drag me to your apartment himself."
"Luca knew?"
"Luca always knows."
I leaned against the counter. Abbott leaned against me. We were done pretending.
I was, for the first time in my adult life, someone's person.
The man who had been watching me for years had decided, when it came down to it, that watching was not enough.
I was enough.