Chapter 37
Jamie
I text him at eight thirty on a Tuesday night.
I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling, which has become my main hobby since the shoulder, and I’ve been thinking about the session we had before everything went sideways and how clean his release was getting and how much ground we’ve probably lost in weeks and it’s a practical decision that has nothing at all to do with the fact that I can’t stop thinking about him and hockey is all I can offer.
Before the punch, things were actually getting kind of nice. And it’s finally past the two weeks, so I’m back and ready.
The thought of seeing him alone again also settles something restless in my chest, but I decide not to think too hard about that.
Jamie:
Be there tomorrow. 6AM.
I put my phone down.
Pick it up again.
Jamie:
Don’t be late.
I put it down.
Thirty seconds later:
Rhys:
wow okay hi to you too
Then I respond:
Jamie:
yeah alright, very cute
And I almost throw my fucking phone across the room for texting him that. I’ve never said cute in my life. Then, after a pause long enough that I’ve almost put my phone through the nightstand, he texts back:
Rhys:
Can't wait for you to tell me everything I'm doing wrong <3
I look at that last message for a long time. Then I put my phone down and stare at the ceiling and think okay fine, he is cute.
――――――――
He’s there at three minutes past six. Which I’m choosing to count as on time just this once given that I was an asshole the last couple of weeks and I’m trying to be nice.
Nicer at least.
He comes down the tunnel with his hair still slightly damp from a shower, gear sorted this time, and he stops at the boards and looks at me already on the ice and a very real thing passes between us that neither of us puts words to.
Like it’s different between us, but not really.
My stomach definitely feels different when I see him, though.
Like we both have an unspoken promise that things are changed now.
We’re both trying this time. I mentally tell the butterflies flying around my stomach to fuck off and put on my captain face.
“Nash,” he says, in greeting.
“Callahan,” I respond.
He steps onto the ice. And we just — start.
No talking, no warming up. I pass him a puck and he takes it and we fall back into the rhythm of it like the last couple of weeks didn’t happen, except they did happen and we both know it.
And the knowing follows us around the ice like a shadow neither of us can skate away from.
Coiled up like a snake ready to bite.
But I play through it and focus on my game, which always comes easy to me.
We work for forty minutes and it’s even better than before.
His game is sharper, whereas mine is looser now that the shoulder isn’t something I’m managing every second, and there are stretches where we’re moving together on the ice with a synchronicity that I’ve only ever felt with players I’ve known for years.
We’ve known each other for months. A lot of months of fighting and tension and stress, but I know exactly how he moves and so does he.
The strain between us was affecting everyone and none of us realized that for a long time. Coach was right, we needed some time alone together to mend the rift.
I bet he didn’t think it would take a good dick sucking and an apology to get there.
“Your gap on the weak side,” I say, skating up behind him. “You’re leaving it open a fraction too long.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’m compensating for Bryce’s positioning and Bryce keeps cheating left.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Which you’d see if you were watching the full picture instead of just me.”
I hold his gaze.
Motherfucker.
“I’m watching the full picture. Not just you. Barely you, if anything,” I say. He turns back to the drill.
“Sure you are,” he says, smugly. “I’m cute. Remember?” He skates away with a smile.
I knew that was going to bite me in the ass and I swore I wouldn’t punch him again. Even if he doesn’t stop pissing me off.
But I smile back anyway.
The texts start being about other things after that.
Not immediately. But gradually, over the course of two weeks, they shift.
It starts with hockey — positioning questions, opponent analysis, the kind of tactical back and forth that makes sense given what we’re doing at six AM — and then it becomes something else without either of us deciding that’s what’s happening.
Rhys:
Blake made this risotto thing and it’s incredible do you cook?
I stare at that one for a full minute.
Jamie:
No
Rhys:
no like actually no or no like you’ve never tried?
Jamie:
Actually no
Rhys:
that’s so sad
Jamie:
I don’t have time to cook
Rhys:
everyone has time to cook nash you just have to want to
Jamie:
I don’t want to
Rhys:
what do you eat?
Jamie:
Coffee shop. Dining hall. Snacks.
Rhys:
you eat dining hall food by choice? I’m fully depressed now
Jamie:
It’s fast, I have too much to do. I need to focus.
Rhys:
oh my god
Jamie:
Is there a point to this conversation?
Rhys:
yeah the point is you’re a sad boy and you should let me make you food sometime
I look at that last message for a long time and reread it, unsure if he’s saying what I think he’s saying.
Jamie:
That’s not necessary
Rhys:
didn’t say it was necessary said you should let me ;)
I put my phone down.
Pick it up.
Jamie:
Fine
Three dots appear immediately. Then:
Rhys:
wow okay didn’t actually think that would work, you’re kinda easy <3
Jamie:
Don’t push it Callahan
Rhys:
going to sleep goodnight Nash
Jamie:
Goodnight
I put my phone on the nightstand.
Stare at the ceiling.
Fine.