Chapter Ten Mateo #2
This breaking news has yet to be confirmed, but reliable sources have told our site that the team plans to formally announce on Monday that they've hired Sinclair.
He's expected to serve as an assistant alongside Taylor McKeon, who just wrapped up his second successful season as New Jersey’s head coach.
The two men never got along on the ice, and were thought to dislike each other off it as well, the superstars' egos colliding over multiple NHL records and even more beautiful women.
Since suffering the horrific injury that ended his stellar career, Sinclair has made numerous appearances as an on-air analyst, his talent there apparently drawing the attention of McKeon.
The two of them were spotted vacationing together at McKeon's home right around the time an announcement was made about McKeon's new position.
One has to wonder if the two Hall of Famers may have first discussed the idea of working together then, but regardless, the entire NHL community should be eager to see the sparks fly between them now.
We will have more for you once New Jersey confirms the news and we have the opportunity to talk to both Jameson Sinclair and Taylor McKeon about their future.
I want to throw my phone across the bedroom, but I have to respond to Sophie first.
I had no idea.
When I don't call Jamie by midday, he tries calling me. I don't answer.
I get a series of texts throughout the afternoon.
Are you awake?
Can you call me?
I need to talk to you
I should've talked to you last night
I guess this means you know
Nobody was supposed to say anything until Monday
Please Mateo
Call me
I ignore those, too.
Sophie comes over and we watch terrible movies that don't remind me of love. Other than her apology for sending me the hockey link without thinking it through, she says nothing about Jamie's new job, nor does she tell me I need to talk to him. I already know that.
I consider calling in sick on Monday, but then Harper would tell Jamie I wasn't there, and I don't need him showing up at my door.
I'm a little surprised he hasn't done that already, but maybe he knows holding my hand and turning away will only get us so far.
In class, I make myself as busy as possible, but Harper's already talking to a small group of students around her, and I get pulled in. Dragged, really.
"It's so perfect. The timing? I was a little nervous about moving away for school, but if he's moving away too, we'll both have big adventures.
And yeah, it means he'll probably only make it to a few of my games early in the season, which definitely sucks because he was gonna fly up a few different times, but he's missed being on a team, so I know he's really excited to be back.
" She pauses and looks at me. "Did you hear, Mr. Z?
My dad's gonna be coaching? He'll be on the ice again.
I mean, not like, playing. But you know. "
"I heard, yeah," I say. "And I know."
Over the next few days, I think about how much I know now, and always have.
Two years ago, we sat with our feet in his pool while we talked about Taylor McKeon, and how much Jamie missed hockey, and the idea of him coaching someday.
Then it was only a year ago that we sat on the bench, and I realized he'd only chosen me because I wasn't competing with an arena full of everything he'd lost.
That isn't true anymore.
As the nausea fades and something like exhaustion settles in, I finally pick up my phone.
"Mateo," Jamie breathes, his relief washing over me more than I'd like it to. "Thank you, I—fuck, I didn't—"
"Please stop," I interrupt.
"Okay."
"I don't want to do this over the phone."
"Okay," he says again. "Can we meet on the bench?"
It would be so easy to say yes to him. It's where we started, and if our story has to end, I think it should happen there, too.
But we spent that first night together because neither of us wanted to walk away from feelings we barely understood, and I don't want to walk away from the bench now that I understand everything too well.
"No, let me come over. When Harper is at work or with friends or whatever. Let me into your house."
"You say that like you haven't come over any other nights," Jamie sighs. "Or like I haven't wanted you to stay until morning after every one of them."
"I won't stay this time."
"That's fair. I didn't stay on prom night."
I rub my tired eyes, and nothing becomes clear. "Is that a yes?"
"Yeah, she works tomorrow night. I'll be home."
Our goodbyes are quick and quiet after that.
I have one more day of teaching to get through before I'll see him, and that's quick and quiet, too.
When I make it home, eating is a challenge, but I successfully shower for the second time that day.
In the foggy bathroom, I lament the pictures I can't take for Jamie tonight.
Then I pull on a t-shirt and jeans and take a picture for myself without knowing why.
I park in Jamie's driveway, and he's waiting for me at the front door by the time I get there.
I'm not sure he's slept much all week—it's a feeling I know well—and the shadows under his eyes make me want to apologize for things I've only sort of done.
Instead, I stop a few feet short of where I could reach out to sweep the darkness away.
"Congratulations," I say. "I guess that's probably overdue, huh?"
"You owe me nothing."
"I'd rather give you everything."
He nearly winces at that, so close to what he'd said to me the second night we met, but then he turns to walk further into his house, leaving me to lock up behind us like I've done before.
Jamie's wearing nothing but pajama pants that hang too low on his hips, and I'd ask him to put a hoodie on if I weren't afraid he'd pick up mine again.
When I catch up with him in the kitchen, there's an unopened bottle of bourbon on the counter, and I raise an eyebrow.
Jamie shrugs. "Impulse buy. You can take it home if you want."
"A consolation prize?"
"Mateo."
"When did you know?"
"Officially?" he asks. "The morning of prom. I went to your apartment to tell you, and then I—it wasn't right."
"But holding my hand while I jerked off was fine?"
"It was as close to perfect as I could get."
"When did you unofficially know?"
He leaves the liquor alone and reaches for his water bottle. "We've been talking for the past few months, off and on."
"We?" I echo. "You and Taylor McKeon?"
"He doesn't get to call all the shots, no matter what he thinks," Jamie snorts. "But yeah, he was part of it. Most of it was the GM, or other front office people."
"Did all of this start at McKeon's house? When you were there for spring break?"
"Nope, that's just a rumor. All of it happened recently."
I shake my head. "You still had time to tell me."
"Yeah, I did," Jamie agrees. "But at first, it felt impossible.
Like I was dreaming, and at any second, I'd wake up and be in the hospital again, and have nothing.
Then even after a few meetings, my attorney reminded me none of it was a sure thing until they put something in writing.
But then they did, and it still wasn't supposed to be announced so soon.
It shouldn't have been a big deal anyway.
I'm just an assistant coach, for fuck's sake. "
"You're you, for fuck's sake. You're Jameson Sinclair."
He tosses the water bottle toward the sink, the landing louder than the throw was hard, and he marches past me and through the great room.
For a second, I think he'll go into the backyard—maybe even to the bench from a path I still haven't approached from this side—but he stops at the patio doors, his back to me.
I want the distance between us to lessen the pressure in my chest, but it does nothing to help, and I follow him because I'm hurt enough to want to share.
"It wasn't just you—I didn't tell anyone. Not Harper, not Kai. I didn't want to jinx it."
"Sure. It wouldn't be a decision you'd necessarily have to talk through with us, right?
" I sigh and hope my breath against the back of his neck is why Jamie has goosebumps.
"Harper will be away at school and doing her own thing even more than she already is.
Kai's watched hockey take you away since you were kids.
And I'm just the guy you said you'd wait four years to be with. "
"I didn't lie to you."
I think he means he wasn't lying about waiting these past four years.
He might mean he wasn't lying when he remained silent about his new coaching position.
Or it could be about loving me. It doesn't really matter, and I'm only angry when I curl a hand around his waist, my thumb brushing against his bare skin because I’ve never been able to help myself.
"I can't move to New Jersey with you," I say. "I've got my family and my job and—"
Jamie tenses, and I'm not sure if I caught it in his reflection or against the palm of my hand, but either way, his reaction forces me to take a step back. He whirls around immediately, his fist in my shirt because I've already let him go.
"Please don't leave."
I laugh, and it's so ugly, and I'm so tired. "Pretty sure that should've been my line. Especially because you weren't going to ask me to go with you. You don't want me there."
"What I want and what I can have are not a circle. They never have been, and maybe that's true for everyone, but hockey has always meant sacrificing other things."
"I think it's mostly meant compromising other things," I argue.
"So much time away from home—away from your family.
Fewer lazy weekends full of pizza and beer with your friends.
Less anonymity when you want to spend a private night out with someone you care about.
But you never actually had to give up your relationships. Not until now."