Chapter 3
JAMIE
SKETCHMULE RELIEF
“Good morning, you big, silly ray of sunshine.”
Jamie opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. He groaned; the fluorescent light above him looked nothing like the cream-painted ceiling of Mitch’s guest bedroom.
But that voice… “Mitchy?” His voice came out in a croak.
“I’m right here, Captain Dumbass.”
He tried to sit up, only to be blinded by a sharp pain in the back of his head.
Gritting his teeth, he forced his eyes to focus, and found Mitch sitting in the corner of a strange, white-walled room.
His friend was watching him with a look of concerned amusement as he tried to wet his lips with a sticky, dry tongue. “Where?”
“Hospital.”
That was a curtain around his bed, and shit, that was an IV in his arm. “What the hell?”
Mitch was wearing his wire-frame glasses and a gray Muskies hoodie and sweats.
His eyes crinkled the way they always did when the rookies did something especially stupid.
Only now, he was looking at Jamie. “Out of all the idiots we share the ice with, I didn’t expect to get a call for you, old man.
You’re not supposed to be the problem child! ”
Jamie took a quick inventory of his body.
Left hand: still in pain, still in a splint.
Head: throbbing, like he hit the back of it on something, and there was an ache behind his eyes.
Jaw: aching, like he’d been punched. Stomach: roiling.
Whatever had happened last night, taking those shots was probably part of the problem.
As an infrequent drinker beyond the occasional couple of beers with the guys, hard liquor tended to put him on his ass for days at a time. Idiot, Sully. Fucking idiot.
“What happened?” His mind–though battered and liquor-drenched–was already racing, trying to piece together apologies to teammates for being such a shit captain, on, and now off, the ice.
Mitch got up and ambled over, perching on the edge of the bed by Jamie’s covered feet. “The nurse said you slipped on some ice and hit your head. Knocked yourself out for a minute.”
“Shit.” No wonder he felt like he’d been sucker punched in the back of the head.
The end of the night started to come back to him: the desperate need to get to the comfort of Mitch’s house; the clumsy, crooked snowman wearing the Muskies home jersey, the unmistakable C embroidered on its chest. He knew the walk well, but must have underestimated how drunk he was.
He remembered wondering if it was a Sharpe jersey. There were still plenty of those around the city and in the stands, the legacy of the last Muskies captain undeniable even after his retirement.
But no. It wasn’t a Sharpe jersey. There was a number three on the sleeves, and across the back, his own last name.
Sullivan. The poor bastard who had to follow in the footsteps of a future Hall of Fame forward who’d set a new franchise scoring record.
Who’d lead them to a Stanley Cup six years ago.
The man who’d effortlessly knit their team into a family.
Who’d shown up on his doorstep when the news got out that Jamie’s grandmother had passed away.
Who’d held him in his long arms while Jamie wept and wept and wept.
“Apparently some guy in a yellow coat brought you in. You were in rough shape, barely able to walk, so he was helping you out.”
Jamie blinked, and even that hurt. “Damn it. I fucked up.”
“It’s not your best look, Sully.” Mitch leaned forward. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I’m a fucking joke, Mitchy. Can’t do the thing I’m paid to do, and now I’m wandering into a fan’s front yard and beating up their snowman.” Jamie tried to gather his thoughts, to come up with a plan to fix the mess he’d gotten himself into. “My phone?” He asked.
Mitch pointed to the table. “It’s there, but it’s dead.”
Shit. “What do you think I should do?”
Mitch looked at him, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip, and then shrugged. “This is your mess, Sully. I’m here for you, but you’ve got to figure out the plan.”
Letting out a groan, Jamie scrubbed his hands over his face.
He’d ruined a kid’s snowman–a freaking kid who had his jersey–and he didn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t try to make amends.
It’s what Sharpie would do, he told himself.
“Get me out of here so I can apologize to the kid whose snowman I beat up.”
“What even was that, man?” Mitch asked, shaking his head. “Did the snowman look at you funny or something?”
“No,” Jamie felt his cheeks flush. “It was wearing my jersey.”
“Oh my god.” Mitch made what he probably thought was a valiant effort to contain his amusement, but then doubled over, his loud, honking laugh filling the sterile room.
“It’s not funny!” Jamie protested, even though he knew it was. It was ridiculous, and embarrassing, and probably a sign that his life was going off the fucking rails.
Mitch took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, his grin so big it creased his cheeks. “There’s a lot to unpack there,” he said, exhaling loudly. “Let’s go find this kid, then.”
Of all the ways Jamie could have nursed his hangover, trying to retrace his drunken path through downtown Madison was at the bottom of the fucking list.
The pounding in his head mirrored the throbbing of his jaw where he’d taken a punch during the game. He was nauseous, trying to breathe in through his nose so he wouldn’t get sick, and his injured hand ached.
He needed to get to the rink and start his rehab plan. He needed to put something in his stomach and drink some fucking water.
But he knew himself well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to relax until he made some attempt at an apology for what he’d done to that kid’s snowman.
“This is it.”
Jamie didn’t recognize the house itself, which was one of those big, three-story monstrosities that barely fit on its lot. Faded siding framed wooden windows that showed signs of decay. A Pride flag flapped on the sagging front porch.
But there, in the small front yard, was a pile of dirty snow and sticks scattered around a bright orange and green jersey.
“Jesus, man. You did a number on that thing,” Mitch said, nodding in the direction of the snowy remains.
Jamie felt like the biggest piece of shit to ever exist. “Better showing than I had against Dorren,” he muttered.
“Alright, bud. That’s enough of that. Let’s do this.” Mitch led the way up the path.
The front door opened as they reached the steps.
A tall, gangly guy with a shaved head came out with a joint tucked into the corner of his mouth.
He lit up and took a deep drag, giving Jamie an up-nod.
“Sup,” he said, blowing the fragrant smoke from his mouth like he was completely indifferent to their presence.
When they didn’t move, the guy waved them toward the door. “Just go on in,” he said.
Jamie opened his mouth to ask about the guy who had helped him last night, but Mitch was already nudging him forward.
The front door was cracked, and Jamie hesitantly pushed it open. He found himself wondering if it was normal for strangers to show up at the house.
Mismatched couches lined the walls of the living room. Beside the door, a hodgepodge of shoes were piled, and a row of hooks were overflowing with coats.
A woman sat cross-legged on the floor with headphones on, various art supplies and papers spread around her. Her blue hair was up in pigtails. Someone bundled in one of those can’t really tell if it’s a blanket or a hoodie things lay on one of the couches. They looked asleep.
Jamie cleared his throat. No one moved. “Hello?” His voice sounded too loud in the room.
He could make out the murmur of voices down a hallway, and, exchanging a shrug with Mitch, they walked toward the sound.
The kitchen was small, the counters cluttered with dishes, pots and pans. At one of the counter tops, a toddler stood on a chair, obviously occupied with something on a plate in front of them. And next to the toddler–
Oh, fuck.
“You’re not dead,” the man said, crossing his heavily tattooed arms over his chest.
Jamie stared. A lot of the night was blurry, but this face, this man, was branded in his memory.
He had wild brown hair cut short in the front and long in the back like the frontman of an eighties rock band the morning after a bender.
Sharp, dark eyes. Heavy lashes. A gold ring through his nose.
He looked so far removed from the men Jamie spent his days with at work, like he was another species of human entirely.
“Ah, no,” Jamie managed to say. His voice came out in a low rasp. “Not dead.”
The gorgeous man, who wore nothing but holey socks, plaid boxers, and a baggy knit sweater that hung off of one shoulder, didn’t say anything else. Jamie couldn’t take his eyes off of him–the slender lines of his body, the way his mouth seemed stuck in a soft frown, and his tattoos.
Black, precise lines were scattered over his pale skin without any sort of discernible pattern.
A flower on his left kneecap. What looked like an ancient mask with empty eyes and an extended tongue on his right shin.
An intricate geometric design started on his thigh and disappeared under the hem of the boxers he was wearing.
There were symbols on his long fingers, the word compromise in clear print on the side of his hand. And the one that had inexplicably left Jamie with a dry mouth: a moth of some sort at the base of his throat, outstretched wings curving below his Adam’s apple.
He looked between Jamie and Mitch, his expression unreadable.
Finally, Mitch stepped forward, extending his hand. “I’m Mitch,” he said, his voice as warm and kind as always. “This is my friend, Sully. He wanted to stop by.”
“To apologize,” Jamie rushed to add. He frowned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I wasn’t in my right mind last night and I…I’m so sorry.”
“Papaaaaa!”