Chapter 21
Abbott
The team found out on Tuesday.
Not through the group chat. Not through an announcement.
Through the natural, organic osmosis of a locker room that had been watching two people orbit each other for years and had been collectively and individually betting on the outcome.
Jamie walked into the facility with me. That wasn't unusual; we'd shared rides before.
But we walked in together differently—his shoulder against mine, his hand brushing the small of my back as we went through the door. It was the little things that, in a locker room full of men trained to read body language at competitive speed, weren't little at all.
Theo saw it first. Theo always saw things first.
He was at his stall, lacing up for morning skate, and looked up when we walked in. His golden eyes tracked from Jamie to me to the space between us.
"FINALLY." He said it loud enough for the entire room to hear. He stood up, one skate on, one skate off, and pointed at us with the energy of a man who'd been waiting for an overly long time. "FINALLY. Do you have any idea— I've been WAITING—"
"Theo," Luca said from across the room in his captain's voice. It wasn't loud, but it recalibrated the room's temperature with a single word.
Theo sat back down. He was grinning so hard it looked painful.
Luca looked at Jamie. Not at me, at Jamie.
I'd seen that expression in photographs of him after the Cup, after the press conference, after the moments in his life where something impossible had become real.
His dark eyes were steady and his mouth twitched, which was—coming from Luca—the emotional equivalent of a standing ovation.
Jamie saw it. His eyes went bright for a second before he nodded. Luca nodded back.
That was the full conversation.
Bishop leaned back in his stall. He had his arms crossed. His expression was one that, on a man with tree-trunk arms and a terrifying grin, somehow managed to convey smugness. "I had fifty bucks on this happening after the Minnesota series. I'm collecting from Garrett."
"You had a bet?" Jamie said.
"The whole room had a bet." Bishop gestured broadly. "You two have been the worst-kept secret in professional hockey. I'm frankly insulted it took this long."
Eriksson stood up from his stall. He crossed the room, put his hand on Jamie's shoulder, and said something in Swedish. Then he caught himself and translated. "It means, roughly, 'the one who waits for spring must survive winter first.' It's better in Swedish."
"It's always better in Swedish," Theo said.
Volkov stood up and crossed to where Jamie and I stood in the doorway. He kissed me on both cheeks, then kissed Jamie on both cheeks. Then he crossed himself with the sincere dramatic flair that only Volkov could execute without it being ironic.
"I am very happy," Volkov said. "I am also very upset that I did not win the bet. But mostly happy."
Kieran was still at his stall; he hadn't moved. He hadn't spoken. He met my eyes across the room. His expression was the Kieran version of everything Theo had said out loud—the quiet satisfaction of a man who had asked the right question at the right time.
Nico was beside him. He glanced at Kieran and then at us. Something passed across his face, the recognition of knowing what it's like to let yourself have something—someone who'd spent time in his own version of not-enough and had come out the other side.
Mikkola looked confused and then, when Nico said something to him in Finnish, looked delighted.
The group absorbed it the way they always did. The family held.
What happened in this locker room was what had always happened. Men who chose each other and showed up built something together that was stronger than the sum of its parts.
That afternoon, I sat in David Park's office.
The GM was behind his desk.
"Denver is not happy," Park said.
"I understand."
"I've spoken to their front office. The withdrawal is processed. No trade. You remain Storm property." He studied me with the pragmatism of a man who cared about winning first and everything else second. "I'd like to extend your contract. Two years. Team option for a third."
"Not starter money."
"Not starter money. Backup money—but appropriate backup money, which is an improvement on your current deal." He leaned back. "You're valuable to this organization, Abbott. Not just as a goalie."
I understood what he meant—the film work with forwards, the locker room presence, the steadiness of a man who stood in the backup net and held the team's confidence without requiring the team's attention.
"I'll take it," I said.
"Good." Park stood and extended his hand. "For what it's worth, I've been in this business for twenty-two years. I've learned that the decisions players make about their personal lives are not my business, as long as they show up and perform."
"I will."
"I know."
I walked out of Park's office.
Jamie was waiting in the hallway. I hadn't asked him to, but he knew I was in there, and he'd positioned himself where I'd see him when I came out.
"Two years," I said. "Team option for a third."
His face split into a real grin. The grin that made rooms warm and made me feel, every time I saw it, like the luckiest backup goalie in the history of professional hockey.