Chapter 7 #2
But Sharpie had always worn the pressure well. He’d been a steady, sure presence for years. He’d put up consistent points. Won awards. And when he’d been the first of the Muskies to hoist the cup, the world had sung his praises.
They’d long finished their drinks when Sharpie said he needed to head out. “You take the dishes. Maybe you will get the chance to say something nice to the pretty man.” He shot Jamie a grin. “Maybe he believes in giving second chances to big boys with silly mustaches.”
“Asshole,” Jamie muttered fondly, but still accepted the offered hug from his old friend.
“You will find it,” Sharpie said softly. “You will figure it out, yes?”
Jamie nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude as Sharpie walked away. Grabbing both of their mugs, he walked up to the counter.
Tyler straightened as Jamie approached. “Hey,” he said, pausing where he was wiping down the counter.
“It was great,” Jamie said, setting the mugs down carefully. “The mocha. Really tasty.”
Tyler smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
A woman with at least ten different facial piercings came up to Tyler and bumped him with her hip. “Take your break. It’s slowing down and I’ll be fine up here.”
Tyler glanced over at her. “You sure?”
She looked pointedly at Jamie before looking back at Tyler like he’d lost his mind. “I’m sure.”
Jamie watched as Tyler worked his lip with his teeth. “Um, you probably have somewhere to be,” Tyler muttered. “I usually just sit and chill for fifteen minutes.” He waved a hand toward the tables.
“I’ve got nowhere to be,” Jamie said, a little kernel of something blooming in his chest. “If you don’t mind the company?”
Tyler stared at him. It was a calculating look, like he was trying to figure out what Jamie’s angle was. “If you want,” he finally said. “I’m going to make myself a drink real quick.”
Jamie stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, as Tyler made himself a drink. His hands moved quickly, decisively, and Jamie had the offhanded thought that Tyler could be a savvy stickhandler with hands like that.
The coffee shop was loud, full of the low rumble of voices layering on top of each other. But the hum of conversation faded as soon Tyler walked out from behind the counter.
What Jamie’d thought was a blouse was actually the top of a short silk dress that barely reached Tyler’s mid-thigh. Below that, black fishnets encased his tattooed legs.
A sound slipped from Jamie, something a little bit broken and completely out of his control.
“Come on,” Tyler said, walking toward the back of the building like Jamie wasn’t on the verge of keeling over.
Jamie willed his legs to move, following Tyler around the tables to a round booth in the back corner of the coffee shop. Jamie noticed he still wore the black Doc Martens that he favored. His eyes traced up slender ankles, calf muscles and knees covered in fine dark hair.
Oh.
Jamie was fucked. Completely, and utterly, fucked.
They sat down at an empty table along one of the walls, and Jamie watched Tyler closely.
He cupped his mug in both hands, blowing gently over the surface of the green drink.
Jamie had shared a locker room with plenty of men who had tattoos, but he had never been presented with the opportunity to openly look at someone who was as covered with ink as Tyler.
“Did they hurt?” He asked.
“The tats?”
Jamie nodded.
“Yeah. But it’s a good kind of hurt. When you sign up for pain, there’s something heady about it.”
Jamie thought of bag skates and summer training sessions when he’d pushed his body to the brink. When his quads trembled, spasming, and he still had to push through for five more reps.
He knew a little something about that kind of pain.
“Maybe I should try it,” he offered.
Something sparked in Tyler’s eyes, and he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “What would you get?”
Jamie considered the question. “The obvious answer would be something to do with hockey.” He chuckled at Tyler’s unimpressed look. “What? I really do love it. I know it’s a cliché, but I fucking love hockey. It’s my favorite thing in the world.”
A little smile played on Tyler’s lips. “I admire that,” he said softly. “I think it takes a lot of courage to love something like that. To go all in without constantly keeping an eye on the exit.”
“Do you love anything like that?”
Tyler’s long fingers spun his mug in a slow, careful circle.
“Rowan, but that’s different. Loving a child isn’t a choice, really.
Loving him is the same as breathing or waking up.
It’s a part of me.” He frowned, shaking his head.
“Before I had Rowan, I used to write poetry. I had a wild life, lots of partying and live music and loud friends and sex, and I tried to put words to my life. At that time, I loved it.”
Poetry?
Jamie remembered struggling through sonnets and Shakespeare in high school, and a poem by Mary Oliver about geese. But other than that, outside of the endless rhyming children’s books he’d read to teammates’ kids over the years, he didn’t know a damn thing about poetry.
“Are your poems out there in the world?”
“Nah. It was just something I did for myself.”
“That’s so cool.”
Brown eyes blinked at him, thick, heavy lashes casting a shadow on his pale skin. “It was a different time in my life. Everything is different now.”
“So, do you still write?”
Tyler’s eyes sharpened, and the laugh that fell from his mouth was harsh.
“There’s no time for the things that used to inspire me.
Everything I wrote was inspired by hookups in tents at music festivals and being high under the stars.
I don’t miss that life–not at all–but without those things I don’t know what the hell to write.
” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I miss the writing. That, out of everything, is what I miss.”
The statement echoed between them.
Jamie opened his mouth. Closed it. Pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond.
He watched as Tyler’s expression shuttered. Eyes still open, still looking right at him, but the window of light peeking through them had closed.
Wait, Jamie wanted to say. Don’t go yet.
He wanted more of Tyler. More admissions and more sincerity and more of those teasing grins.
“Have you thought about the hockey tickets?” Jamie asked, not wanting their conversation to end. “There’s a game on Saturday night.”
Tyler looked down, sipping at his drink. He set the mug down, and there was a thin line of pale green foam tracing the curve of his upper lip. “Sure,” he said. “That’s really generous of you to offer them.”
Jamie’s tongue slipped from his mouth, tracing his own lips subconsciously.
Belatedly, he realized it was his turn to talk.
That’s generally how conversations work, Jamie.
“Of course. Yeah. It’s no big deal. If you want to go, I can text you the tickets.
And there’s parking nearby so you won’t have to walk too far. ”
“Will you be playing?”
“No.” Jamie held up his braced wrist. “Not for a few more weeks.”
He thought maybe Tyler looked disappointed.
“I’ll text you,” Jamie went on. “The details. For the tickets.”
Tyler grabbed his mug and flashed a quick, crooked smile at him. “Thanks for the company,” he said, and then Jamie watched him go back to work. Watched him smile and laugh with the baristas behind the counter, watched him put the mug away in the dish bin until he finally decided he should leave.
As Jamie walked out the door, he thought about what Sharpie had said.
You are a person outside of hockey.