Chapter 5
JAMIE
A MULLET, FOR FUCK’S SAKE
“Sully!”
Jamie blinked, glancing up from where he’d completely zoned out on one of the stationary bikes at the Muskies practice rink. He waved at Pauly, who’d just walked into the training room with Cody, who had noise canceling headphones pulled tight over his shaved head.
Jamie had come in early to do x-rays and sit down with the team doctor.
The verdict was clear: his hand was broken, and even if everything went perfectly, he’d still be out of the lineup for four to five weeks.
After that, he met with Morgan, the team trainer, and got started on a rehab plan for his hand.
Unfortunately, her directive was equally harsh: Don’t move it, come in for treatment, and we’ll see.
He had to be back for the Winter Classic, which would take place early in the new year. He couldn’t fucking miss it, not after how shitty his start to the season had been. He owed it to his team, to the fans, to be back and better than ever.
Practice would start in an hour, which meant most of the guys were starting to roll in to go about their varying warm-up routines.
Esa Couri, Jamie’s winger on the second line, flopped down on the mat and started talking loudly in Finnish to Onni Koskinen, their young backup goalie and a fellow Finn.
The bike vibrated beneath him. His quads hummed, muscles primed and warm.
This was all normal. It felt normal, at least. The team coming together in the training room, getting ready for practice. Warming up their bodies while casually socializing, gravitating toward the little friend groups that inevitably crept up on such a large team.
Jamie had spent years with many of the guys in this group.
He’d been drafted alongside Hugo Andersson, a thin, lethally fast Swede, and Mitchy, who had, at eighteen, quickly become his best friend.
He’d roomed with Zach Baker for his first four years on the team, and they’d bonded over tracking down the best bakeries on the road in search of the ultimate cinnamon roll.
The past few seasons, Jamie’s house had even become the de facto living space for the young rookies–this year he had Onni, their backup goalie, and Oliver Campbell, their third line winger, living in his basement.
Now, though? Jamie was their captain.
Jamie had been an alternate captain for the past four seasons, and had worn the A proudly.
Being a leader was something he’d always taken seriously.
It was a responsibility and an honor to be a voice who commanded respect on and off the ice.
And then, when Sharpie announced his retirement, all eyes had turned to Jamie.
The letter C on his chest, combined with the large contract he’d signed last season…it was a lot. A lot of pressure and a lot of scrutiny. More than what Jamie had been expecting.
He knew he deserved it.
He’d been off his game for the first few months of the season.
He was fully aware of that. But he didn’t know how to turn off the panicked voice in his head that screamed at him to do more, work harder, score goals, every time he set foot on the ice.
The stress had bled into his play like an infection.
He was taking shots he’d never have taken before.
Trying to beat defenders one on three–odds even the best players in the league couldn’t handle.
Jamie was a good player. He knew that. But he needed to be better, for his team and for the Muskies fans. He was their captain now, and he needed to earn it. Every day, every practice, and every game.
Injuring his hand in a losing fight was just icing on the cake. The bruise on his jaw was a painful reminder of his mistake, and his left hand was wrapped up in a velcro brace, cradled in his lap while his other gripped the bike handle. At least he could still do some cardio.
Oliver, who they all called Ollie, climbed onto the bike next to his, a huge, uninhibited smile splitting the younger man’s freckled face in two. “Morning, Cap.”
Jamie had left the house before the two rookies had gotten up. “Morning, kid.”
“How’s the hand?”
Shrugging, Jamie held it up. “Broken, but could’ve been worse. Four to five weeks.”
“Bummer, man.” Ollie’s legs started working the pedals, his floppy brown hair hanging down on his forehead. “Have to say, it was kinda badass to see you fight Dorren. Not sure it was worth the broken hand, but...”
Rather than respond, Jamie reached over and lightly shoved Ollie’s shoulder with his good hand. “If you keep that up, I won’t make that grilled chicken you like so much.”
Ollie mimed locking his lips, but his eyes still danced with amusement.
Kids these days.
Jamie followed the team to the locker room, but while everyone got on their pads and skates, he headed to the showers.
Afterwards he tossed on a team hoodie and a pair of sweats with his clean, white Nikes, and started toward the stairs, planning to watch the team practice from the stands, where he could see the flow of things on the ice.
Watching practice was horrible. Jamie felt like he was losing his mind, his muscles twitching as he imagined working through the motions with his teammates on the ice.
All his reflexes were firing with nowhere to go, and when he realized his fingers were curled like he was gripping an imaginary stick, he tore his gaze from the ice.
He pulled out his phone and opened one of his social media apps.
While many guys in the league had sworn off having a personal, online presence, Jamie hadn’t.
He liked taking pictures on his phone–it was silly, he knew, but he liked playing with light and colors, even though he was a total amateur.
But being on social media also meant he saw everything the fanbase said about him.
When he was playing well, a picture of Mitch and Cody smiling on the team plane would get comments like: Nice powerplay goal, cap! Or Keep it up, #3!
This morning, those same people had flocked to a photo he’d put up of the lake from his back porch. Now, the comments were: Waste of cap space, or Put this guy on waivers.
There were also about a hundred versions of: Biggest captain downgrade in NHL history and #bringsharpieback
His phone rang.
There was only one person who called him rather than texting. “Hey, Mom,” he said, leaning back in the uncomfortable stadium seat.
“Jamie, that lovely young father and his son are moving in this afternoon. Can you come over and use all those muscles for something other than bumping into boys on the ice?”
Jamie sighed, shaking his head. “I’m injured, remember?”
“Bring over the rookies who live in your basement,” his step-mom, Dotty, cut in. “Ollie’s been getting bullied on the boards. He could use the extra workout.”
“And carrying boxes is going to help?” Jamie asked, chuckling.
“Sure couldn’t hurt,” his stepmom said. “We’ll make a pan of something to feed everyone.”
“I’ll ask them after practice,” Jamie said. He watched the rink, the blur of bodies flying down the ice in perfect unison, hating how far away he was from the action. He was supposed to be down there with the guys. “So Tyler’s going to move in, then?”
He could hear the fondness in his mom’s voice as she replied. “He sure is. Sent us the deposit and everything.” She paused. “He seems like a wonderful young man. And that Rowan is a sweetheart.”
Jamie smiled, remembering the little brown-haired kid who’d asked if he was a warrior. “Yeah, he is.” Before he could stop himself, he thought of Tyler. The way the overhead lights in the tiny kitchen had illuminated his lashes, his sharp eyes, and the artwork covering his skin.
“I’m glad your spot was open,” Jamie said.
“Us too,” his mom said. “Let me know what the boys say. Love you!”
“Love you, Jamie!” Dotty’s voice echoed.
“Love you both.” He hung up, tucking his phone into his pocket, and settled in to watch practice.
“They’re here!” Jamie’s mom stood at the front window, watching the street with her hands braced on her hips. Turning back to the room, she gave them her best, no-nonsense teacher glare. “Be nice. Tyler’s a little skittish, but he’s a good one. I can tell.”
Jamie rose from the couch, wincing at the stiffness in his back. Not skating was kicking his ass. With any luck, he’d be cleared to skate again, without a stick, in the next week.
Beside him, Oliver and Onni stood up.
Oliver had brown wavy hair that took about half an hour of careful grooming in the morning, and alarmingly blue eyes that had fans falling over themselves to buy his jersey.
He knew he was cute, too, but he was so fucking nice it offset any potential annoyance.
He’d had a strong start to his rookie season, earning a spot on the third line.
Oliver was never seen without Onni. They were a bit of an unlikely duo–Oliver’s loud, vibrant personality and charisma couldn’t be more different from Onni’s stoic quiet.
Onni had the kind of build that guys in the league spent years trying to achieve.
Being six-three helped, sure, but he had wide shoulders and thighs that could crush a coconut between them.
He had white-blonde hair that he wore buzzed close to his head, and, when he smiled, he revealed a small gap between his two front teeth.
He was coming in as their backup goalie, but everyone knew Anders was approaching the end of his career.
A lot of hope rode on Onni panning out to be a beast in net.
The two young guys hadn’t hesitated to help when Jamie had asked them.
Ollie looked like all the kids nowadays–joggers, a black hoodie, and a canvas coat that looked like it was intended for someone who worked on a farm instead of a fashion statement.
Onni was a bit more refined in a green fleece and brown beanie.
They dutifully followed Jamie’s moms out onto the porch. It was cold, and a bitter, slicing wind cut through Jamie’s own down coat, but at least some of the snow had melted.