21. Annette
Chapter twenty-one
Annette
Jamie's therapy finishes earlier than usual.
The session is shorter, but not easier. His shoulder continues improving, and the exercises become more precise with every visit. There is less emphasis on simply getting the joint to move and more on teaching the muscles to work together again.
When he finishes the final repetition, he rolls his shoulder experimentally and smiles.
"I think that one finally stopped arguing with me."
I look down at his chart. "I'll admit it behaved much better today."
"I've worn it down."
"You've learned to listen."
He grins. "That too."
I finish making a few notes before closing the folder.
Over the past several weeks I've come to enjoy this quiet part of the appointment almost as much as the therapy itself.
Jamie usually waits while I finish my paperwork instead of moving toward the door.
Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we simply enjoy the silence.
Today feels different. Not uncomfortable. Just...thoughtful.
Jamie lingers beside the treatment table, turning his truck keys slowly through his fingers.
"You look like you're trying to decide something."
He laughs softly. "Am I that obvious?"
"To me?" I smile. "Usually."
He looks down at the keys again before meeting my eyes.
"Our foundation is holding a charity skate tomorrow evening."
I nod. I remember seeing the posters around town.
"It's mostly for kids. We raise money for adaptive sports programs and equipment grants."
His voice grows quieter, almost cautious.
"I was wondering..."
He stops, something I've noticed he rarely does. Jamie usually speaks with the confidence of someone accustomed to making decisions. Today he sounds more like a man hoping the answer won't be no.
"I wondered if you'd like to come."
The invitation catches me completely by surprise.
"As a guest," he quickly adds. "Not because you work with me."
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
"And not because I need another therapist."
"Definitely not."
His ears redden just enough to make me wonder if he realizes it.
"I just thought..." He searches for words. "...I thought it might be nice."
There is something wonderfully uncomplicated about the way he says it.
No grand gesture. No hidden agenda. Just one friend asking another to share an evening.
"I'd like that."
The relief that crosses his face lasts only a second before he covers it with his familiar easy smile. "Good."
"I should probably ask one question first." His expression becomes cautiously serious. "What question?"
"Will there be skating?"
He blinks. "At a charity skate?"
"I've learned not to assume anything where fundraisers are concerned."
He laughs. "There will definitely be skating."
"Good."
"Can you skate?"
"Poorly."
"That's all right."
He slips his hands into his jacket pockets.
"I'll be there."
"I wasn't worried about that."
"No?"
"I've seen you refuse to let a shoulder injury beat you." I smile. "I don't think a pair of skates has much chance."
He shakes his head, still laughing. "I may come to regret inviting you."
"I certainly hope so."
***
The following evening, I park outside Frostholm Arena twenty minutes before the event begins.
The building rises above the surrounding streets exactly the way it always has whenever I've driven past it. Bright banners hang from the entrance, each bearing the Blizzards' storm crest, while volunteers carry boxes of donated equipment through the front doors.
I've been here before for one other community skate night with some of the PTs from work. But tonight feels different. Tonight I'm not arriving as a fan. I'm Jamie's guest.
The realization makes me unexpectedly nervous.
I smooth an imaginary wrinkle from my sweater and remind myself that I'm attending a fundraiser, not walking onto national television.
Even so, my pulse quickens as I step through the main entrance. The scent of fresh ice, popcorn and coffee wraps around me almost immediately. Some smells never change. They simply remind you where you are.
"Annette." I turn toward the sound of my name. Jamie is walking across the lobby toward me. He's wearing dark jeans, polished boots and a navy Blizzards jacket with the captain's C stitched proudly over his heart.
For just a moment... I don't see the man who struggles through shoulder exercises or laughs over coffee after therapy. I see Captain Jamie Walker.
NHL captain.
Face of the Frostholm Blizzards.
Leader of one of hockey's most respected franchises.
He notices me looking at the crest.
Almost unconsciously, his fingertips brush the embroidered C before his hand falls away again.
He doesn't say anything. Neither do I. Some moments deserve better than quick answers.
Instead, I smile. "You clean up pretty well, Captain."
His grin appears immediately. "I was hoping you'd still be calling me Jamie."
"I was planning to."
"Good."
His eyes meet mine, warm and impossibly steady.
"And for the record...I've never seen you without scrubs before."
I smooth an imaginary wrinkle from my sleeve.
"Better or worse?"
His smile deepens.
"Definitely better."
He offers his left arm almost automatically before remembering the shoulder.
The movement falters for the briefest instant. I simply fall into step beside him as though nothing happened. Sometimes kindness isn't noticing, sometimes it's pretending you didn't.
Together we walk toward the arena doors. The sounds of excited children echo across the concourse: laughter, skates scraping against rubber flooring, and parents calling after little ones who are already racing toward the ice.
Jamie slows almost imperceptibly as we reach the entrance. His shoulders rise with a quiet breath, not from pain but from memory. This building has witnessed almost every important moment of his professional life.
Victories.
Defeats.
Milestones.
Championship dreams.
Tonight he is returning in a different way.
I don't interrupt his thoughts. Some homecomings deserve silence before celebration.
After a few seconds, Jamie opens the door. "Ready?"
I smile. "I thought you were supposed to ask the nervous one that."
He chuckles. "I think we both might qualify."
Side by side, we step into the arena. And within seconds, the world remembers that Captain Walker is back.
***
The arena changes the moment Jamie walks through the doors. It happens so naturally I doubt he even notices anymore. A volunteer carrying a box of hockey pucks spots him first.
"Captain!" The young man immediately changes direction, setting the box on a nearby table before hurrying over. "It's good to see you back."
Jamie smiles and reaches out with his left hand to shake his. "It's good to be here."
"Shoulder coming along?"
"Getting there."
"Everyone's been pulling for you."
"I appreciate that."
The exchange lasts less than thirty seconds, but as soon as the volunteer walks away another family approaches. There’s a little boy, no older than seven, clutching a miniature Blizzards jersey against his chest.
His father leans down. "Go ahead, buddy."
The boy looks up at Jamie with enormous blue eyes. "Are...are you Captain Walker?"
Jamie's smile softens instantly.
"I am."
"I wore your number today."
"You did?"
The boy nods so hard that his winter hat slips over one eyebrow. "My coach says captains always help their teammates."
Jamie kneels carefully so they're eye level. "Your coach sounds like a smart guy."
The child beams. "Can you sign it?"
"I'd be honored."
Jamie takes the tiny jersey, asking for the boy's name before carefully writing across the number on the back.
When he hands it back, he doesn't stop there. "You know what makes the best captain?"
The boy shakes his head. "The one who notices when somebody else is having a tough day."
The child thinks about that seriously.
"I can do that."
"I know you can."
His father quietly mouths thank you before leading him toward the rink.
I stand a few feet away watching the entire exchange.
Not once does Jamie glance around to see who's watching. Not once does he appear impatient. For that little boy...there is nobody else in the building.
Another family approaches.
Then two sponsors.
Then a woman who introduces herself as the director of one of the adaptive hockey programs.
Every conversation is different.
Jamie remembers names.
Asks about surgeries.
Congratulates someone's daughter on making varsity.
Checks whether a volunteer's husband is recovering after knee replacement surgery.
He doesn't simply recognize people. He remembers them.
The realization settles over me slowly. This isn't a performance. There are no cameras nearby. No reporters asking questions. No social media team recording every interaction.
Jamie behaves exactly the same way he does in the rehabilitation clinic. The only difference is the number of people needing a small piece of his attention.
I finally understand something that has been sitting right in front of me for months. Captain Walker isn't an image he puts on for the public. He's simply Jamie multiplied by hundreds of people.
"He's impossible, isn't he?" The amused voice beside me makes me turn. Liam Mercer has appeared so quietly I'm not entirely sure where he came from. He's balancing two hot chocolates in one hand while somehow eating a cookie at the same time.
"I didn't hear you walk up."
"I've spent years sneaking up on Captain Serious." He offers me one of the cups. "I brought insurance."
I accept it, laughing. "Insurance?"
"If you stand here long enough watching Jamie greet everyone, eventually you'll need caffeine."
He nods toward the growing crowd surrounding the captain. "Give it five more minutes."
I follow his gaze. Jamie has somehow become the center of a loose circle of children, parents, volunteers and sponsors without ever trying to gather one.
Liam takes a sip of his hot chocolate. "See?"
"Does it always happen this way?"
"Every single time."
He says it with affection rather than frustration. "I've watched him miss dinner because a kid wanted to tell him about scoring his first goal."