56. Jamie
Jamie
“So, I have a confession to make,” I say to Maya as we help move some of Beau and Colt’s boxes into the house. Gally and Simmons moved out last weekend after graduation, and now Beau and Colt are officially taking over the two basement bedrooms.
“What?” she asks, setting down the tote she’s holding on the floor of Beau’s new room. I offered to help carry one end with my one working arm, but she told me she was a big girl and didn’t need my help, so I’ve just been guiltily hanging around the house as all of my friends do the hard work.
“Last night, after you went to sleep, I may have uploaded a video from last week of you tattooing my leg and a photo of the finished product on my guitar account…and you may now have over six-hundred-thousand people who love your work and would get a tattoo from you if you did widespread commissions.”
Maya’s eyes grow incredibly wide. “What?!”
“I didn’t put your name or where you worked in the post, but the comments on it are outrageous, and still growing. The people love your work.”
“Oh my God, I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Maya says, pacing the room with a little bounce in her step, her eyes wide with shock. “Why didn’t you tell me? Wait, why would you even do that?”
I laugh, because she’s cute when she’s excited. “Because it’s your dream, and I have the means to help you reach it.”
She walks over, taking my face in her hands and kissing me hard on the mouth. “I cannot believe you did that, but I love you for it.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it yet, but just know that if you ever decide to do the travel tattoo business thing, I’ve got your back.” Grinning down at her excited smile, I lean in and kiss her again.
“You two are not making out in my new room right now,” Beau groans, coming through the door with another stack of boxes. “I haven’t even gotten to break it in yet,” he pouts.
Maya snickers, pulling away from me. “I’m going to go see if anyone wants me to order pizza for dinner,” she announces, walking away.
“Yes!” Beau and I both say in sync, making her laugh as she climbs the stairs.
“You two are so fucking cute it makes me sick,” Beau teases, setting his stack of boxes on the floor beside the door.
I shove his shoulder with a snort. “Shut the hell up.”
He moves to take one of the boxes he brought down into the bathroom, and I catch a glimpse of his pensive face and tightened jaw before he disappears from view.
Following behind him, I lean against the door frame. “You good, B?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. All good here, Cap—or, actually, I guess you’re not Captain anymore. Sorry, but I’m not calling you Coach,” he jabs, and I smirk, rolling my eyes.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Warren. But seriously, what’s with the look you had out there?”
“Nothing, really…sometimes I just wish I could have what you guys have. What Colt and Stella have.”
“Why can’t you?” I ask, brows furrowing.
Beau shrugs. “I’m just not built like that, man.”
I’m not sure what he means, but Beau’s not the kind of person you push for answers. Looking at him now is like looking at myself in a mirror six months ago—on edge and defensive and unsure what direction I wanted to go.
“Well, whatever’s holding you back, I’m sure you’ll work it out. Hell, if I can do it, anyone can. And I’m here to talk if you change your mind.”
Beau nods, turning and clapping a hand down on my uninjured shoulder. “Thanks, Jay. Now, I gotta find someone with two working arms to help me get my damn bed down here, so I can break in my new room, thank you very much.”
I roll my eyes but smile, letting him keep up the facade that he’s fine and unbothered, and follow him up the stairs.
“Do you ever think maybe you should come out about who you are on your guitar account?” Maya asks, laying in bed with me, four weeks after my father’s death.
Bending my neck to meet her gaze, I reply, “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but I feel like part of the intrigue is the mystery. Why?”
“Because I’m sick of people talking about you online like you’re some sort of criminal.
You have so many fans, and I feel like if they knew who you were and if you told your side, people wouldn’t be so hateful.
They’re lumping you in with Ross because they don’t know your story; but you have the means for people to hear you.
Hell, maybe there’s a way for you to help other people with your platform. ”
Biting my cheek, I mull over her words. “People are going to hate me for what Ross did the rest of my life, probably.”
“But if they knew you were one of the victims, too, that number would go down exponentially.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll have to ask the Flyers’ PR team about it.
So far, they’ve been telling me I shouldn’t have to share my personal trauma with the world, and that it’ll all blow over eventually.
But I do like the idea that I can help other people.
Maybe I’ll talk to Beau’s parents—figure out how to go about starting a foundation of some sorts.
As Ross’s only living relative, I get his entire estate…
but I don’t need his money with my NHL contract.
I should use it for good—maybe I can even help fund to find those missing girls. ”
“I think you can really make a difference, Jamie. You’re so much more than his son, and you have more to offer the world than hockey.
” She brings a hand up, cupping my cheek and I have to hold back the wave of emotion that washes over me.
Maya Winchester always knows the perfect thing to say—and she’s always seen me, even through all the bullshit.
“Actually, I do want to show you something,” I say, sitting up and grabbing my phone from the nightstand. “I wanted to play it for you, but unfortunately, I seem to be down an arm, and playing the guitar one handed is harder than it looks.”
Maya chuckles as I open my photos app and pull up a video from a couple of months ago, turning up the volume and handing it to her.
The video on the screen isn’t like my usual guitar videos. The lights are on—and I’m wearing a shirt. My face is in the center of the frame, and Maya goes still as I start to play a slow introduction to an unfamiliar song.
A song I wrote..for her.
Her brown eyes stay glued to the screen as I start singing in the video, about a broken shell of a human who stumbles upon his golden guardian angel.
I sing about being brought back to life, and about seeing color again when the world was black and gray.
I don’t sing about love, but I sing about second chances, about redemption, and about healing the fractured pieced of myself with the help of my saving grace.
When the video ends, Maya doesn’t cry, or jump up and kiss me. Instead, she leans into my body, letting me wrap my arm around the front of her chest and hold her tight. She starts it from the beginning, listening to it for a second time, and then a third as I feel her heartbeat against my palm.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers, finally setting the phone down on the blankets. “It’s perfect, and when you’re ready for the world to realize you’re ten thousand times the artist he ever was, it’ll be the song you let them hear first.”