Chapter 7
JAMIE
THE PEOPLE’S CAPTAIN
The Daily Grind was busy, a winding line filling the front of the coffee shop.
Jamie let the door close behind him, scanning the room.
The team was on the road–a short trip down to play St. Louis–and while Jamie had begged to go, he’d been reminded that he had an appointment with a local specialist the team doctors had found.
After doing his rehab on his hand and getting some cardio in at the practice rink, Jamie had gotten tired of pacing his house.
It was easy to pick Aaron Sharpe out of the crowd. He was as tall as Jamie, with dark brown hair he’d grown out since his retirement. It was long enough that sometimes, like now, he pulled it back in a little bun at the back of his head. Stupid bastard could pull anything off and still look good.
“Look here,” he said when he saw Jamie, his Québécois accent still as strong as ever. “It is my son all grown up.” He pulled Jamie into a hug, clapping his back with a big, warm hand. “I see you are still experimenting with this mustache?”
Jamie shoved Sharpie away, shaking his head even as he smiled. “Good to see you, old man.”
Sharpie grinned and joined the end of the line. “So, this is where the cool kids are getting their coffee these days?”
“Matty recommended it.”
“He is playing well,” Sharpie said, gazing up at the menu, which was neatly printed on chalkboards hanging from the ceiling. “All of you are.”
Jamie scoffed.
Sharpie turned to him, looking at Jamie in the same calculating way he always had.
It was a look Jamie swore could see right through his skin.
“We will deal with you later,” he said finally, returning his attention to the board.
“What are you getting? Wait.” He held up a hand.
“Let me guess. Hot chocolate with some fancy drizzle on top, yes?”
Jamie scowled, but didn’t argue.
There was a gap in the line, and Jamie’s breath hitched.
There, behind the counter, was Tyler.
Jamie had thought about him, caught himself imagining his competent, slender hands, his tattooed thighs, that fucking throat…
And now he looked–fuck, he looked beautiful.
He wore a sheer black top that plunged down to his sternum. A cardigan sweater in a patchwork of colors hung from his shoulders. And then there, on his chest, the distinct round bumps of nipple piercings.
It hit him then, like hunger pains in the morning after a game–Tyler was what he wanted.
The timing of it all was terrible. Inconvenient.
But fuck. Just…Fuck.
Tyler was affectionate with his customers, reaching a hand out to brush a wrist, winking at a red-haired woman when he handed her her coffee. As they got closer to the counter, Jamie started to overhear their conversation.
“If you like a dark roast then I recommend the Midtown,” Tyler said to a younger woman in a denim jacket, leaning her elbows on the counter. “It’s got a real full-body flavor I think you’ll enjoy.”
Jamie’s jaw throbbed. He hadn’t realized he was clenching his teeth, and tried to force himself to relax.
They’d reached the front of the line, and his hands itched at his sides.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with them.
Touch Tyler? Grab his hips and give his mouth something to do that wasn’t flirting with every single customer?
Calm the fuck down, Sully.
Tyler’s brows shot up when he saw Jamie. “Oh, hey,” he said, something uncertain in his voice.
“Hi.”
Beside him, Sharpie cleared his throat loudly and bumped him with his shoulder.
“This is Sharpie.” Jamie pointed his thumb at the man next to him. “Aaron. Aaron Sharpe. My captain. I mean, the last captain.” Jamie laughed then, the sound panicked and way too high-pitched to be natural. Jesus, man. “He’s the people’s captain.”
Sharpie stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
Tyler cleared his throat. “Nice to meet you,” he said quietly. “What can I get started for you guys?”
“Americano for me,” Sharpie said, going for his wallet.
“I’ll take a mocha,” Jamie said, feeling his face heat.
Tyler’s fingers flew over the tablet. “Do you want the seasonal crumble topping?”
“No, thank you.”
“He is lying,” Sharpie said, exasperated. “Give him twice the normal amount, and then his sweet tooth might be happy.”
“Seriously?” Jamie turned to Sharpie, indignant.
Sharpie looked completely unfazed. “What, I am wrong?”
Jamie heaved a sigh. He’d forgotten what a pain in the ass his old captain was. Turning back to Tyler, he offered him a smile. “The topping would be great,” he admitted.
“He likes that too,” Sharpie went on. “Topping.”
“What the fuck?” Jamie hissed, feeling his face and ears burn.
Sharpie just shrugged, looking pleased with himself.
Tyler looked like he was trying to hide his own amusement as he looked alternately at the two men. “That’ll be twelve eighty-five.”
“I should make you pay,” Sharpie muttered as he handed over his card. “You’re the one making big money now.”
“You’ve made more in your career than I’ll ever see in my bank account,” Jamie shot back.
He looked at Tyler, wanting to say something.
He wasn’t ready to walk away from him. Not yet.
“You look nice,” he said, immediately wishing he could take the words back.
Not because he regretted saying them, but because Tyler looked so much better than nice.
There were so many words that would do a better job of describing how Tyler looked to Jamie then. Beautiful. Breathtaking.
Tyler stared at him. “Um, thank you.”
Jamie felt Sharpie’s hand on his arm guiding him away. “If I let you stay there any longer, I am afraid of what you will say to that poor, pretty man.”
They found an empty table, and Jamie sat down, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god,” he groaned.
“That was bad.”
“I know.”
“Have you always been shit at flirting?”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“Okay,” Sharpie said, like he didn’t believe him. “But you know him, yes?”
Jamie glared at his captain, but then told him the whole story.
He told him about the game and the fight and the shots and the snowman, how he’d hoped it was wearing a Sharpie jersey, only to find his own name on the back.
About the ER and the hangover, about the tattooed dad and the adorable kid living in chaos.
“Now he and his son live with my moms.” He finished.
“You like him.” Sharpie’s expression was amused. “Ask him on a date.”
Jamie looked up at that. “I can’t do that.”
“Why? Are you worried about what people will say about you being gay?”
“No, it’s not that.” He’d been out for years, and other than the occasional comment online, people seemed to forget about Jamie’s sexual orientation.
He’d had boyfriends here and there over the years, but he hadn’t found someone who would stick around through the madness of the season. “I don’t have time to date anyone.”
Sharpie frowned at him. “Explain.”
“Drinks for The People’s Captain!”
Sharpie let out a barking laugh. Jamie groaned, dragging his hands over his eyes. “Kill me,” he muttered, feeling the heat of embarrassment climb up the sides of his neck.
As Sharpie walked over to get their drinks, Jamie took a chance and glanced over his shoulder at the counter. Almost like he could feel Jamie’s eyes, Tyler looked up from where he was busy making another drink.
He flashed Jamie a smile, a teasing, amused smile, and Jamie knew he was seeing something rare and precious, that Tyler didn’t let just anyone catch a glimpse of his dimples.
Sharpie slid a mug across the table. It looked incredible, the swirl of whipped cream dotted with crumbles of cookies and drizzled chocolate. Jamie took a sip, groaning at the rich sweetness on his tongue.
“I want to tell you this is disgusting, but you get very cute, like a big blonde baby, whenever you eat a sweet treat.” Sharpie waved a hand in front of him. “Now tell me again why you cannot have a boyfriend.”
There was no point in responding to the first comment. “I have no time during the season,” Jamie said, running a hand through his curls. “Between the practices and travel, I don’t have the time to give someone what they deserve.”
Sharpie took a sip from his own drink. “This is bullshit,” he said, looking right at Jamie.
“We are home for lunches, for long mornings, and sleeping. We go home after practice. We are busy, but we are around. When I was captain, yes, there were many demands on my time. Yes, it was hard for my family. But the minutes I was home added up, and having important people who waited for me, who needed me for something other than scoring goals? I think it saved me.” He reached across the table and put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder.
“It is good to remember there is a world outside of hockey. More important than that, you are a person outside of hockey.”
Jamie dropped his head. “Before my hand,” he started. “I was giving hockey everything. More time, more training, more effort than ever.”
“Why? You are very good already.”
“But I’m the captain now!” Jamie exhaled, frustrated. “I need to be better.”
“You need to be Sullivan–number three, good on the forecheck, very stubborn, silly mustache, bad taste in music, pastry man. The boys love you, just the way you are. That is who the team needs.” Sharpie leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now tell me what Coach is saying about the power play. It is looking…iffy.”
They talked about hockey for a while. Jamie missed Sharpie.
He’d always valued his direct commentary and eye for the game.
They laughed about Emīls, their fourth liner fresh from Sweden, who still got lost in the stadium.
Olaf Sandersson, one of their assistant coaches, had started driving him to games and walking him to the locker room.
It was easy to talk to Sharpie. There was an unspoken understanding of the pressure that came with a captaincy. The way people looked to him for answers when the team struggled. The way his play was under a microscope.