I grit my teeth and tuck the phone in my pocket.
“You’re not gonna check it?”
“Later,” I mutter. “He’s probably just reminding me to grab groceries when I get back tomorrow morning. Nothing important.”
Those last two words are like poison—they burn my throat and rip my stomach to shreds. I feel sick and guilty for even saying that out loud. For implying that Jamie Canning isn’t important when I damn well know that he’s the single most important person in the world to me.
I am such a shit.
“So,” Blake says, oblivious to my pain, “I read that J-Bomb got drafted by Detroit. That’s killer. Why didn’t he go?”
For a second I just blink at him. “Where’d you read that?”
“Google, my friend. You heard of it? J-Bomb didn’t want to move to the Motor City?”
Shit! Blake is a nosy fucker. “He wanted to coach. The dude played goalie, you know? That organization has a prettydeep bench behind the net, and he didn’t think he’d ever get to play. This old coach of ours hooked him up with a job. Great opportunity.” I hear myself starting to babble and clamp my jaw shut. Did I give too much detail? Do I sound like I know too much? Now I’m sitting here hating my own paranoia.
“Uh-huh,” Blake says, looking distracted now. “So how do you think a guy could defeat a seventeen foot velociraptor, anyway? I mean, you’d need some serious weaponry. That fucker would be fast, too. Like Indy 500 fast.”
“Um…” I lost control of this conversation a long time ago. “Taser maybe?”
“Right. Good idea. Be fun to taser a raptor.”
Later, when Blake gets up to take a leak, I shield my screen and unlock my phone so I can see the message. The text saysMDISH. It takes me a second, but then I understand the abbreviation.How hard is it?I reply.
Hard enough to operate the remote.
The picture is a carefully angled shot from our sofa toward the television. But the focus is on Jamie’s cock, which appears to be aiming the remote at the television. One stick-drawn arm is pushing a button, and the other has its drawn hand on its…hip. Well, dicks don’t have hips. But still.
Tell him not to watch any Banshee, I reply.
He’s chosen Die Hard II.
Tell him I miss him.
He knows, was Jamie’s reply.
I spend the rest of the flight with my earbuds jammed in, brainstorming dick pics that might make Jamie smile.
FIVE
JAMIE
I watch the Chicago game on the sofa alone. While live games are more exciting, there are advantages to the privacy of my own living room. I can scream at the television and nobody stares.
“Come on, baby!” I yell, clapping supportively, even if nobody can hear me. “It’s gonna work one of these times!”
Wes has taken a million shots on goal tonight, but the biggest goalie in the NHL keeps swatting them away like flies, damn him. During the commercial break, I run for the fridge and grab a beer. The game is scoreless until the third period, and I’m super tense. Wes takes another shift with the second line, and I hold my breath.
When his next chance comes, I’m practically levitating with anticipation. Wes draws the goalie out of the crease with a long, risky cross to the left wing. But it works. When the wing snaps it back to Wes, he’s able to slip it into the back corner of the net before the goalie can react.
Now I’m jumping on the sofa and sloshing my beer a little, but it’s worth it. Another goal, another notch in Wes’s belt.He’s really doing it. He’s having a phenomenal rookie season, the kind that could end up in a record book. And I’m just so pumped for him.
The camera focuses on the giant goalie’s sweaty face, and I imagine I can hear the guy’s thoughts.Mountain must stay in front of net.
Snickering to myself, I sit down again and kick my feet onto the coffee table. My sister asked me the other day if I was jealous, if I regretted passing up the chance to have my own shot, and it was easy to say no. I can’t lie—my poor bank account could have used the signing bonus. But if I’d gone to Detroit (where last year’s goaltenders look as solid in their jobs as they always have) I would have missed being a part of this.
That’swhat I’d regret.
