Making Time

Chapter 1

JAMIE

LIKE A DINGUS

Daniel: Oh boy, are they ever. Since Aaron Sharpe’s retirement at the end of last season, the Muskies have struggled to find an offensive player who can single-handedly score those clutch goals and create the high-danger opportunities.

The first line is predictably strong and generating, but the Muskies need more offensive production from their second and third lines.

Tabitha: Three may have slipped past him this game, but Berglund has been good in net for the Muskies.

No one can deny the power and skill of the Muskies D-core, led by their top pairing, Jackson and Roberts.

Like you just said, it’s the offense that is under fire right now, especially the new captain, Jamie Sullivan.

Daniel: Sullivan has never been a forty-goal per season player in the years since the Muskies drafted him. He provides solid offense, has a great two-way game, strong on the forecheck, obviously well-liked in the locker room, but do you think the coaching staff is looking to him for more this year?

Tabitha: Given the hole left in the wake of Sharpe’s retirement, I would imagine they are. Unless one of the rookies steps up, I think all eyes are on Sullivan.

Daniel: Should I pull out my old skates and get out there? I’m not sure if I’ve told you before, but–

Tabitha: You had a hat trick in the Quebec Peewee tournament, Dan. You only remind us every week.

Daniel: (chuckles) Well, I’m just saying, if the Muskies need offense badly enough, I’m happy to throw my hat in the ring.

Tabitha: Let’s see if Sullivan can get the team going out there.

Daniel: I'm Daniel Cummings for the Muskies–don't go anywhere, we'll be back for the start of the third period after this.

“Let’s go, boys! Matty, you’ve got the space! There it is. There it is! You’ve got Emmy down below–” Shit. “Come on, let’s get it back!”

Jamie Sullivan grabbed a towel, and wiped it across the inside of his visor.

Tossing it aside, he nudged his thigh against his Finnish teammate and linemate, Esa Couri, raising his voice so he could be heard above the roar of the crowd at Culver’s Arena.

“Once we’re in our zone, I’ll try to get position in front of the net. Get a screen for you.”

Esa didn’t take his eyes from the game, but nodded in understanding. “Got it, Cap,” he said, his words heavily accented. “We need to score.”

Yep. They needed to fucking score.

“Sully, your line’s up,” their assistant coach Sam Miller called out from behind the bench.

Get your ass out there and get your team a point, Jamie. Do whatever it takes, but there better be another one on the scoreboard by the next time you’re going back to the bench.

Jamie swung over the boards, pushing out into the neutral zone with Esa and their other winger, Cooper Bell.

Their top D-pair was still on the ice. Mitch Jackson held the puck behind their net, waiting for them to complete their change, and Cody Roberts hung out on the left wing in anticipation of Vegas’ brutal forecheck.

The shift started well. Textbook. Just like they’d done it a thousand times in practice.

Mitchy passed to Cody. Cody pushed up the ice, hitting Jamie’s stick perfectly as he cut across the neutral zone. Jamie managed to get past Vegas’ forward before dropping the puck back to Mitchy, who’d trailed him down the ice.

Jamie skated hard, muscling his way into position in front of the goalie, using his body and stick to push against Tanner Dorren, Vegas’ veteran defenseman who was infamous in the league for his dirty play and tendency to run his mouth.

At 6’ 2”, Jamie wasn’t the tallest guy on the ice, but he made up for it with a thick body he didn’t hesitate to throw around for the sake of his team.

“Looking fucking slow out here, Sully,” Dorren grunted, lifting their locked sticks before shimmying to get in position. “Got the C and let it all go, eh?”

Jamie tried to ignore him, popping out to the corner. Cooper fed him the puck. Jamie swung around and surveyed the ice. Vegas had them fully covered Shit. Nothing.

Dorren advanced on him, his stick extended to cut off any possible passing lane. He needed to do something.

Do it, Sully. Fucking do something.

He dug his back skate into the ice and charged forward, doing his best to guard the puck. He managed to catch Dorren off guard. With his vision narrowing on the net, Jamie willed his legs to pick up speed.

Three Vegas guys dropped down to cover him. The window of space Jamie had previously seen was gone, and now he was smothered. He tried to use his body to hold onto the puck, tried to find a teammate to dish it to, but fuck.

Vegas took the puck.

He lunged after the player, making one last effort to get it back. Frustration tugged at him, but he fought it. His team needed him to be better.

What the hell was wrong with him? It was like the hockey instincts that lived somewhere between his muscles and his brain had gotten tangled. He was working harder than he ever had, pushing his body to the brink, and still nothing was going right.

He’d made it a few feet up the ice when Cody picked off Vegas’ attempt to pass up the wall. A wave of relief left Jamie feeling almost lightheaded. At least his mistake hadn’t cost his team a point.

He needed to focus. The puck was…there. On the left wing with Cooper. There wasn’t an open window for Coop to shoot, but if he could get it across to Mitch there was a chance Jamie could hold his position on Dorren long enough for Mitch to take advantage of the open lane to the net.

Cooper passed up to Esa in the middle of the ice. Jamie held his position, skates dug in as he leaned heavily into Dorren’s side. Esa faked the shot, and then dished to Mitch. Come on, Mitchy. Come on…

He felt the whoosh of the slap shot move the air beside him, and heard the thunk of the puck against the goalie’s blocker.

Jamie tried to extract from Dorren, his eyes searching the ice for the rebound.

There, just to the right of the crease. Jamie lunged forward with his stick, reaching with his off hand, and managed to get a piece of the puck, tapping it back toward the net.

A hard body slammed into him, sending him careening backwards. Shit. He flailed his arms, trying to get his footing, but a well-placed elbow from Dorren sent him to the one place he didn’t want to be: directly into Vegas’ goalie.

They both fell back, the goalie’s heavy pads breaking Jamie’s fall. Distantly, he heard the whistle, the ref calling the play dead. Jamie tried to scramble to his feet, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the netminder as possible.

“The fuck, man!’ Dorren shouted, eyes wide and mocking as he bumped his chest in Jamie’s. “You trying to fuck with my goalie?”

“Class act as always, Dorren.” Jamie shook his head, trying to skate away. “Acting like your ass didn’t shove me into your own fucking net.”

Dorren’s sneer turned cold. “Hey, at least I’m doing my job,” he said. “Major downgrade from the last captain, huh? I’m shocked your old ass hasn’t gotten traded.”

Any other night he would have ignored the comment. Talking shit was a part of the game. He’d been in the league for eleven years, and had been playing as an openly gay man for the last five. He’d heard it all.

But tonight, Dorren’s words hit right where it hurt, and with his team down and all eyes on him to score or do something, anything to warrant the white C stitched on his chest, Jamie didn’t give a flying fuck about taking the high road.

Both of Jamie’s gloves dropped in perfect synchronicity, and he cocked his left fist back as his right hand gripped a handful of Dorren’s white jersey.

Jamie had played many roles throughout the course of his professional hockey career: a two-way center matched against the league’s top scorers, a loud, authoritative voice in the locker room, a player who’d had consistent seventy-five point seasons and the guy who always knew the best place to get a pastry on the road.

One role he’d never had? Fighter.

The first punch to Dorren’s jaw was sloppy, the awkward angle sending a sharp pain up Jamie’s forearm.

By the time he drew back for another hit, Dorren had reacted, landing a solid blow to Jamie’s jaw.

He tried to hold his own, he really did, but his left hand was throbbing and all he could manage was to take each hit and think about how badly he’d fucked up.

By the time the linesman pulled them apart, Jamie could feel the beginnings of a bruise spreading over his jaw and knew his punch had seriously messed up his hand.

He climbed up from where he’d fallen to his knees on the ice, and ignored the half-hearted applause from the home crowd, keeping his head down as he skated over to the penalty box.

“Number 3 for Madison and number 43 for Vegas, 5 minutes each for fighting.”

Goddammit. Jamie felt the eyes of his teammates on him, and gave the bench what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

“Don’t see you in here often, Sully.” Pete, the penalty box attendant who’d been there since Jamie’s rookie year, closed the clear, plexiglass door behind him.

Jaime gave him a strained grin before looking down at his left hand.

He flexed his fingers, a sharp hiss escaping him as the bright pain radiated from his middle knuckle and down the back of his hand.

Unconsciously, he lifted his right hand to twist and tug at the wet hair curling at the nape of his neck.

A bad habit, he knew, but it was one that had grounded him for years. One that kept his head clear in a game, that helped him move past a mistake.

Dammit Sully. Damn it all.

“They think it’s broken.”

“How long?”

Jamie couldn’t look his best friend, Mitch Jackson, in the eye as he responded, trying to hide the frustration in his voice. “Don’t know yet. I’ll get x-rays tomorrow and then follow up with the doc.”