Chapter 13
JAMIE
JUST BE SULLY
Jamie pulled his beanie down as a sharp, cold wind whipped around the corner of the modern, stone house. He rapped his knuckles against the door again.
“Come on, Sharpie,” he muttered under his breath, shifting on his feet in an effort to keep his blood moving.
Finally a shadow passed behind the door. As soon as it opened, Jamie crowded in, not waiting to be invited. “Took you long enough,” he said as he nudged his boots off beside the pile of shoes by the front door.
“You know I retired to get away from you, right?” Aaron Sharpe shook his head with an amused smile.
“I am supposed to sleep in, spend time with my beautiful wife, and enjoy some peace and quiet. Instead I am sewing these sequined and sparkly dance costumes, learning K-pop dances, and barely have time to exchange more than a high-five with Celina, now that she’s working. ”
Jamie followed his captain–even retired, Sharpie would always be his captain–into the sleek slate and tile kitchen. “Coffee with all the sweet crap in it, no?” Sharpie always teased Jamie in a way that made him feel seen, like his former captain really, truly knew him.
He watched Sharpie make coffee, grumbling under his breath as he poured hazelnut creamer into one mug while leaving the other black.
Once they both had their coffees, Sharpie led them over to the leather L-couch where they’d spent hours and hours talking over game video and the team and, well, anything.
Jamie had always been able to talk to Sharpie about anything.
“How’s the hand?”
“Close,” Jamie said. The brace was just a precaution at that point.
He was still doing PT daily, and was now putting in an hour of conditioning on the ice in addition to some light stick work without contact.
Unless he did something else idiotic, he’d be cleared to practice in time to join the team on the road after Christmas.
He’d get a few games under his belt before the Winter Classic, when all eyes would be on the Muskies. On him.
Sharpie watched him carefully, his expression concerned. “Why are you stressed?”
Jamie scoffed. “I’m always stressed.”
“You’re still worried you are not a good captain,” Sharpie said, tilting his head to one side. “Why?”
“I’m not like you!” Jamie scrubbed his free hand over his face.
“I’m not putting up points like you did.
And the harder I try out there, the worse I get.
I’m better than this, Sharpie, but I don’t know how to get there, and I’m fucking scared I’m taking the team down with me as I try to find my game again. ”
“You really think this way?” Sharpie looked confused, affronted, even. “And here I thought I raised you better than to believe that crap.”
“I’m not a good captain, Sharpie.”
Sharpie scoffed. “I call bullshit. You are not like me, and that is okay. The team knows this. Management knows this. The fans know this. And still they chose to make you the captain.”
Jamie’s hand found its way to the back of his head, yanking on the curls there.
Finally, he managed to get his voice working again.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, the words coming out rough.
“When I get back out there, I have to be better. I can’t be this bad.
Not for the fans. Not for the guys. I want to do right by them so fucking badly, Sharpie, and I don’t know what to do. ”
Sharpie leaned over, one of his hands landing heavily on Jamie’s shoulder. The firm squeeze was so familiar, something he’d done countless times in the locker room. “Management asked me who should be the captain, you know. When I started talking to them about retirement.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course. And I told them they’d be crazy to pick anyone other than you.
” Jamie opened his mouth, but Sharpie shushed him.
“Before you ask me why, I will tell you. You are a pro. I know that is a silly thing to say, but there are hundreds of guys in this league who are skilled enough to work just hard enough. Not you. You show up every day with effort and commitment to work–not for yourself, but for the team. The guys respect that. They admire that. And on the ice, you may not have the most points or goals, but you are pulling some of the toughest matchups against the top lines in the league. You are doing everything out there to create opportunities for your teammates. That is being a captain.”
“But you–”
“I was myself. Now it is your job to be yourself. They signed you, knowing exactly who you are. They made you captain, knowing exactly who you are. All anyone needs you to be is Sully. Just be Sully.”
Jamie sank into the cushions. “You make it sound easy,” he muttered, but already he was recalibrating, rebuilding the story he’d told himself about his role on the team.
Just be Sully.
“Now that we’ve solved this crisis,” Sharpie said, his mouth curving into a smile. “We need to talk about getting you a boyfriend. You need to relax, and sex will help.” His eyes widened. “What ever happened with the pretty boy from the coffee shop?”
Jamie absently fingered the phone in his pocket as he told Sharpie about Tyler. About the push and pull, about the tiny moments of intimacy between them. About how much he cared about his son.
How badly he wanted Tyler to take a chance on him.
So far, there hadn’t been any more messages. It had only been a few days since they’d talked, but he couldn’t help the anxious need to know where they stood. He wanted to know what Tyler was thinking. If they had a real chance.
When they’d sat there together on the couch in Tyler’s small, comfortable house, Jamie had felt like they were on the edge of something. Tyler had been right there with him, ready and willing to jump.
Jamie was ready.
It felt good, after months of shaky confidence on the ice, to feel so certain about something. To be confident in himself, in his ability to show up for someone else and make it work.
He knew it wouldn’t be simple or effortless, but the best things in life rarely were.
Nothing about Tyler felt like an obligation.
They would figure out a way to include each other in the quiet moments of their lives.
Jamie could easily imagine it: sitting on the floor playing with Rowan, or visiting The Daily Grind on an off-day.
Tyler joining him for family dinner at Mitch and Layla’s house.
If there was a way to be with Tyler, he would find it.
When his phone buzzed, he almost dropped his coffee in an effort to get it out of his pocket. Sharpie laughed, but Jamie ignored him, eyes quickly scanning the message.
Tyler
I’m in.
Jamie felt his heart rate kick up. His fingers tapped quickly on the screen.
Jamie
Where are you?
Getting ready for work. I picked up an afternoon shift.
The coffee shop?
No.
Jamie paused. Did Tyler have another job?
“I’ve got to run,” Jamie said, standing up and jogging over to the sink to rinse his mug.
Sharpie just looked amused. “Thank goodness. I am so busy, as you can see.”
Jamie dried his hands on a towel and walked back to his captain, pulling him up from the couch and wrapping him in a hug. “Love you, Sharpie. Thanks for keeping my head straight.”
Sharpie clapped his back. “Ah, Sully, there is no straightening out your head.”
“What?”
“You are gay, Jamie. Very gay.”
Snorting, Jamie withdrew. “I don’t miss you at all.”
“No?” Sharpie grinned. “Then stop showing up at my house.”
“Pain in the ass.”
“Man-child.”
Jamie shut the door behind him, bracing himself against the wind as he ran to his truck.
Tyler had given him an address for a strip club.
It was out on the west side of town past Middleton. Jamie never had a reason to go out that way, and had to consult his phone as he pulled into a large parking lot surrounding a moderate-sized commercial building with tan siding.
He knew he was in the right place when he saw Tyler’s old Subaru parked in the back corner.
Jamie approached the front doors, frowning up at the driftwood sign, which read: THE BLUE BARN.
A well-built man in a black t-shirt stood in the sparse entryway. “ID,” he barked in a low voice.
On autopilot, Jamie fished his license from his pocket, handing it over.
The man looked surprised. “Oh, shit, man! You really are Jamie Sullivan.”
“Hi,” Jamie said, not entirely sure what he was doing there.
“How’s the hand?” The man leaned over to look at Jamie’s hand, like maybe he could see the state of his injury. “You feeling good?”
Jamie offered him a smile. “Yeah, feeling really good.”
“So stoked to have you here, man. Head on back. No cover for the afternoon, and thirty-five bucks for a dance until six.”
It took Jamie’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim room. A high ceiling. Low lighting tinted red and pink. A bar along one wall, shelves of bottles glinting behind it. Low tables, cushioned chairs, and a round stage.
He took a deep breath, forcing his hands to relax.
So. Tyler worked in a strip club.
Cool. This was cool. He was cool.
Maybe half of the seats were filled. Jamie found a spot off to the right of the stage, and tried to get comfortable as he waited. Maybe he should have asked someone if they knew where Tyler was, but he needed a moment to himself.
Newer country music played over the speakers, and he noticed other subtle nods to a country-Western theme around the space.
A yellow spotlight flashed on, illuminating the middle of the stage. Loud guitar filled the room. Someone in the front row whistled.
And then, there he was.
Tyler strutted–there was no other way to describe the way he moved–to the front of the stage.
His arms and chest were bare, and a pair of denim overalls hung by one strap.
His nipple piercings flashed in the light.
He wore a pair of unlaced work-boots on his feet, and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat on his head.
Holy fuck.