24. Jamie #2
Four months of calls, texts, and video chats have turned me into an expert on the distance between us.
I know the exact number of hours between Seattle and Los Angeles.
I know which hotels have the best Wi-Fi for video calls.
I know the sound his voice makes when he’s bone-tired but trying to stay awake for me anyway.
I know everything there is to know about his life in Los Angeles, travel times from his penthouse to the studio, his sleeping habits, the coffee shop he stops at when he has early calls, the times he spends with Julian and his husband Malik.
Yeah, one may call my knowing a bit obsessive, but knowing isn’t the same as having him here.
So I covet every bit of knowledge about Cyaire I can get my hands on.
I’ve been the calm one because one of us has to be.
Whenever Blue got frustrated about another cancelled call, I reminded him that the distance was temporary.
Whenever his schedule changed at the last minute and stole another evening from us, I told him we would adjust, we always do.
Whenever he looked at me through a screen with exhaustion in his eyes and apologized for something neither of us could control, I told him we were going to make it through this.
I believe every word of it, but enduring it is still killing me slowly.
Hockey doesn’t leave room for an impulsive flight to Los Angeles because I miss my boyfriend.
An off day isn’t truly an off day when my body needs treatment, recovery, and sleep to function at the level required.
There are practices, video sessions, team meetings, road trips, and games stacked so closely together that losing one night of rest can follow me onto the ice for a week, affecting everything from my reaction time to my decision-making.
Blue’s career is no easier. A film schedule owns him from the moment he steps onto a set until someone decides they have enough footage to release him back into the world.
Even when he’s not filming, there are rehearsals, interviews, fittings, reshoots, and meetings that appear with little warning and take whatever time we thought belonged to us.
Neither of us is doing anything wrong. We’re both living the lives we chose, pursuing careers we love. That almost makes it harder, because there’s no one to blame, no obvious solution, no clear enemy to fight.
I strip off my gear methodically, each piece feels heavier than it should.
The familiar weight of shoulder pads, the restrictive embrace of elbow guards, the shin pads that have molded themselves to my legs over thousands of games, all of it comes away like armor being removed after battle.
I head for the showers before anyone can pull me into another celebration, craving the solitude that hot water and tiled walls can provide.
Hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away sweat and the lingering tension from sixty minutes of controlled aggression without touching the heaviness beneath it.
I stand there longer than necessary, letting the noise of the room fade behind the tiled walls while steam fills the space around me. I picture going home to a quiet house.
Blue’s black hoodie is still draped over the chair in my bedroom from the last time he wore it.
I haven’t moved it, can’t bring myself to put it away because it feels too much like erasing evidence of his presence.
His toothbrush sits beside mine in the bathroom.
A half-empty bottle of his ridiculously expensive face wash sits on my counter because he forgot to pack, and I refuse to move it, using it as a bookmark for when he’ll be back.
Evidence everywhere that he has been there, small reminders of shared mornings and lazy evenings, but nothing that means he will be there when I open the door tonight.
By the time I return to my stall, most of the team is dressed or close to it. The transformation is always striking. Suits replace jerseys, watches go back onto wrists where they belong in the real world, and wedding rings return to fingers after spending the game locked safely away.
Devan is arguing with Tobias about going out for drinks versus going home to Lia and their kids, his voice animated as he gestures with his tie.
Ridley is texting with one hand while fastening buttons with the other, his face soft with whatever message he’s reading.
Tor has already announced that he’s going home to Jaz and their son, refusing to be persuaded otherwise no matter how much good-natured harassment the younger guys throw his way.
Derrick looks up from tying his shoes as I reach for my shirt. “We’re going out,” he says, not quite making it a question.
“Really? Bast hates going out,” I say with mild surprise.
“You’re coming.” Derrick looks up from his sitting position as I continue to dress.
“I’m not good company tonight, Shaw,” I reply with a sigh, already knowing this conversation isn’t going to go the way I want it to.
Sebastian, freshly showered and looking far too pleased with himself for someone who faced thirty-eight shots tonight glances toward his husband with an expression I can’t quite read. “He doesn’t sound interested.”
“He’ll survive one drink,” Derrick says with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how far he can push people.
“I don’t want one drink.” I reach for my tie a little too aggressively, the silk sliding through my fingers wrong. “I want to go home.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see several heads turn in my direction. Great, nothing like broadcasting your mood to the entire locker room.
Devan stops his argument with Tobias long enough to look at me with raised eyebrows. “You scored the game-winner with one second left on the clock and somehow look like somebody cancelled Christmas.”
“You’re miserable,” Ridley corrects without looking up from his phone, his observation delivered with the casual brutality that comes from years of playing together.
“Thank you for the diagnosis,” I say, rolling my eyes as I continue fighting with my tie. I don’t need the mother-henning from my teammates, even if it comes from a place of genuine concern.
Tor’s expression softens from across the room. He knows exactly what this is about, as do all of them by now. It’s not exactly a secret that I’ve been walking around like someone took my favorite toy away. “Have you talked to Cy today?”
“This morning,” I grumble, finally getting my tie to cooperate while frustration builds in my chest.
That was twelve hours ago. Cyaire sent a message before the game wishing me luck, complete with emojis that made me smile despite the pre-game nerves, and another during warm-ups that I wasn’t supposed to see until afterward.
I have already read it three times, memorizing every word like it might disappear.
Blue: Go be great, Seventeen. I love you.
“I’m trying to catch him before he goes to sleep,” I add, checking my watch and doing the mental math. If I leave now, eat, and call within the hour, I might catch him before exhaustion wins the battle.
“One drink,” Derrick repeats with the persistence of water against stone. “Then you can go home and stare into your phone.”
Sebastian studies him with the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, something amused but secretive passing across his features.
Something about the exchange feels strange, like watching a conversation where only half the participants know what’s really being discussed, but I’m too tired and too focused on getting home to figure out why.
“What’s going on? You two never go out when we’re home,” I tell Derrick, suspicion creeping into my voice. Derrick and Sebastian are notorious homebodies, preferring quiet evenings and early bedtimes to the bar scene that some of the younger players favor.
“We’re attempting to be more sociable,” he shrugs, completely unconvincing. Sebastian smiles, but he looks about as interested in a night out as I do, which is to say not at all.
I drag my tie into place with more force than necessary and look around at the collection of men apparently prepared to keep harassing me until I surrender.
“One,” I say finally, knowing I’m outnumbered and too tired to fight this particular war. “Then I’m leaving.”
Derrick’s smile spreads across his face like sunrise. “That’s all we’re asking.”
The room takes another twenty minutes to clear as the post-game rituals wind down.
Tobias and Devan change their minds about going out after receiving a message that makes them both grin at their phones like idiots, their earlier enthusiasm for drinks apparently forgotten in favor of whatever awaits them at home.
Tor leaves first, muttering something about Jaz and research for a chapter she’s writing, his voice warm with the kind of affection that comes from years of solid partnership.
Ridley follows soon after, already on a call with Brea before he reaches the door, his voice dropping to the intimate tone he reserves for conversations with his wife.
The rest of us drift out in smaller groups once the media staff confirms that the hallway has mostly cleared. The last thing any of us wants is to walk into another scrum of reporters and cameras when we’re trying to decompress.
I follow Derrick and Sebastian with my phone in my hand, opening my messages as we walk.
The familiar weight of the device feels heavier tonight, loaded with all the conversations it holds and all the ones it can’t quite replace.
The corridor is almost unrecognizable without the reporters packed shoulder to shoulder.
A few members of the arena crew move equipment in the distance, their voices echo off the walls as they break down cameras and microphone stands. Two security guards stand near the tunnel entrance, but the shouting and camera lights are gone.