Chapter 1 #2
“The Winter Classic, Sully…” Mitch started, his typically relaxed face marred with a frown that creased the warm brown skin between his eyebrows.
“Fuck, man. I know.” The outdoor game was less than two months away, and Jamie couldn’t stomach thinking he might miss the chance to play because of a stupid fucking fight.
He’d gone down the tunnel as soon as he was out of the penalty box to get his hand checked out by the Muskies medical staff. They’d strapped him into a brace and sent him to get showered early. He’d hated every second of it. He was supposed to be on the ice with the team.
Depending on what the docs said, he could be out for months.
Mitch shook his head, sweat sliding over his bronze, clean-shaven cheeks. He’d taken off his helmet, leaving the tight black curls that covered the top of his head sticking out in all directions. “What the hell happened out there?”
“You know how Dorren is.”
Tossing his game jersey into the laundry cart, Mitch started to work on unstrapping his shoulder pads. “Of course I know how Dorren is, but you know he’s always going to say some stupid shit to get under your skin. It’s who he is. What I’m not used to is seeing you lose it.”
The locker room was quieter than usual. A 4-2 loss, even in the first half of the season, had an impact on the room.
Their coach, Jeff Hollister, spoke to the team, the usual combination of acknowledging what had gone well while not pulling any punches when it came to how they’d come up short.
Hollister had been with the team for the past three seasons, and Jamie admired the hell out of him.
He was tough and old school, but respected hard work and effort and went out of his way to acknowledge the guys who were playing well.
As their captain, Jamie was supposed to be making the rounds. He needed to check on the guys, reassure the rookies that this was just one game, and help the team move on.
He couldn’t bring himself to get up. He didn’t think he could look his teammates in the eye when he hadn’t done his part. When he hadn’t done what the team needed him to do.
Jamie stared down at the brace strapped around his left wrist. He’d taken the mild pain killers the trainers had given him, but they had barely dulled the throbbing.
Usually he’d take the time to wash his hair after a home game, but had barely managed to soap his body with one hand.
It had been humiliating to ask Mitch to help him with the buttons of his shirt and tie, but Jamie wanted nothing more than to go home, curl up on his couch, and watch Grey’s Anatomy reruns until he fell asleep.
“Want to come over?” Mitch asked. “The kids are probably down, but Layla made chicken and dumpling soup again.”
Honestly, hanging out with his best friend sounded like the perfect way to spend the rest of his night, but that wasn’t what the team needed. Jamie looked around the room, shaking his head. “Nah. I’m going to take the boys down to grab some beers at Caps. See if we can get our heads straight.”
Mitch clapped him on the back. “Good man. Do me a favor and have a few yourself. You need it.”
Jamie smiled fondly, inexplicably grateful for Mitch. “Will do. Give the kids a hug for me.”
As Mitch wandered off to the shower, Jamie stood up. He could do this. He could be the captain the guys needed. Forcing a smile, Jamie pushed his shoulders back. “Drinks on me at Caps tonight, boys!”
He was met with cheers, and, finally, felt a tiny sliver of relief.
Jamie exhaled. Tomorrow morning, he’d come back to the arena to start rehab on his hand.
He’d start to fix things. Get back on track.
Tonight, he needed to get it together and be the captain he hadn’t been able to be on the ice.
He’d have a few beers, kick back with the boys, and show them he hadn’t completely lost touch.
“Sully! You’re up for media!”
He got up, wincing in pain as his bandaged hand throbbed at this side. Sharon Parish, the Muskie’s no-nonsense media relations manager, stood by the door, eyes fixed on her tablet.
“Sullivan,” she said, leveling him with an unimpressed look.
“Bad?” Jamie asked.
He’d worked with Sharon for years, although this was the first time he’d ever been on this side of a PR situation.
Typically he was one of the guys who was encouraged to bring more personality to his conversations with the media.
He wasn’t used to facing a room of reporters asking why his play was crap or why he’d decided to fight Dorren, a notorious heavyweight.
“It’s not good,” she said.
Jamie felt his stomach sink. “Right. I figured.”
“Just be the captain,” Sharon said, looking directly at him. “Own up and be accountable. They want to see you’re still the leader of this team.”
Nodding, Jamie lifted his uninjured hand to tug on the still-damp curls at the back of his head. “Right,” he said again, because he couldn’t tell her that he had no idea what being the leader of his team meant anymore.
“Randall from Muskies Daily. Jamie, how do you feel the season is going so far?”
It was taking every bit of control Jamie possessed to keep his shit together. He tried to keep his facial expression neutral, to keep his posture upright when all he wanted to do was slump down on the table and scream.
“We have a talented team,” Jamie began, leaning forward to speak closer to the mics, phones, and recorders lined up along the edge of the table.
“We’re two months into the season, and so many of our guys are showing up and playing their best hockey.
Our record isn’t what we want it to be, but I still believe in what this team can accomplish this year. ”
“Sam, from League News. What is the status of your hand? You aren’t generally known to be a fighter–can you tell us what happened on the ice out there?”
Jamie wet his lips, dropping his gaze to his braced and swollen hand.
“At this point I’m being cautious until I get the hand x-rayed and speak to the team doc.
As for what happened in the game…” He trailed off.
What the hell was he supposed to say? He cleared his throat.
“Sometimes the wires just get crossed out there. I’m not proud of what happened, but in the moment, I did what I thought needed to be done. ”
“Veronica, The Madison Gazette. This team saw success for years under Aaron Sharpe’s leadership. Now that he has retired, what are you bringing to the team as the new captain?”
Not enough. Nowhere near enough.
“Um, we all know Sharpie will go down as one of the best leaders and players in the history of the national league. I’ve spent my whole career in Madison, and had the chance to learn from him.
” He paused, swallowing. “I’m committed to being the best captain I can be for this team, and that means I need to keep stepping up my play.
I can’t afford to make mistakes like the ones I made tonight.
I need to do better for the team and for the fans. ”
“That’s it for the captain,” Sharon called out from her spot next to the table.
Jamie forced a tight smile and a wave, leaving the media room. He felt his shoulders relax as he walked down the empty hallway toward the parking garage.
He didn’t blame them for asking the questions.
What the hell was he bringing to his team other than an inability to provide the points Sharpie used to put up every night?
Jamie knew he was a good hockey player. He’d grown up, like so many other Canadian kids, working his way up through junior hockey, and at some point he started making a name for himself.
He hadn’t made it to this point in his career without talent.
But he wasn’t Aaron Sharpe. He wasn’t anywhere close. No matter how hard he’d trained that summer, no matter how many extra hours he’d put in at the gym, he couldn’t seem to become the captain the team needed him to be on the ice.
And now that the season was underway, there was nothing to do but keep showing up and filling his days with hockey. He had to make the time. For himself, for the team, for the fans.
Get to Mitch’s house. Don’t eat shit on the ice, and get to Mitch’s house.
It should have been easy. Or it probably would have been easier if Jamie’s brain hadn’t been sloshing around in his head every time he took a step. His face was numb–he wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the three shots of whiskey he’d downed at last call.
Thank fuck for the beanie and long wool coat he wore over his suit. His loafers were shit for walking on the icy sidewalk, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
He was close to Mitchy’s. Or maybe not? Caps was over by the university, and he thought he knew the way to his best friend’s house like the back of his hand. On a good night the walk took him twenty minutes.
Tonight was not a good night. He should have gone home and right to sleep after the game. Give his brain a break from the clusterfuck in his head.
Twenty-five minutes into the walk, he was still surrounded by student housing.
Most of the houses had overgrown yards, bikes cluttering the porch, and political flags hanging in the windows.
Madison was one of those weird cities where neighborhoods seemed to bleed from one to another with nothing but a street dividing them.
Shit, he needed to pee. Maybe he could find a bush–
A flash of unmistakable orange and green caught his eye. He blinked, trying to focus on what was in front of him.
It was a snowman, built at the edge of a small front yard. It was short, with an impressively round head and an actual carrot for a nose. But it was the Muskies jersey that caught Jamie’s eye, especially the bright white C emblazoned on the chest.
“Aw, come on,” he slurred, shuffling through the snow toward the snowman.
He circled it, frowning at his name stitched across the back.
“Why’d you want to support this guy,” he said, throwing his hands out, waving at the white number three on the arm.
“This guy sucks! He can’t score goals. He can’t captain the Muskies for shit!
He broke his hand throwing a stupid punch like a… like a dingus!”
Fuck this snowman.
The first kick was clumsy, barely knocking against the snowy base. “You can do better than that,” he muttered, resetting his feet. He swung out with his good hand, letting out a loud whoop when he made a significant dent in the snowman’s face.
“Take that, Snow Sully!” His voice cracked and he stumbled, his footing unsteady on the brittle snow. His stomach roiled and his vision went blurry. The moment it cleared, he kicked his knee out in front of him, hitting the snowman square in the chest.
The whole thing crumbled, landing in a shapeless heap of dirty snow and fabric. Jamie grinned, pleased with his work.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Jamie glanced up, momentarily blinded by a porch light that had switched on somewhere above him. Stumbling back, he felt his heel hit the slick sidewalk. He swung his arms out, tried to get his balance, but it was too late.
I’m really good at skating, some part of his mind protested as he went down.
Thunk.
Fuck.