It’s time for Jamie’s first game since he’s been working with me, and I’m nervous as hell.
Thatcher doesn’t sit with anyone at the game. I don’t know why this surprises me; he has a lone-wolf vibe. From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I can look down on the ice and the gaggle of parents.
He talks to them, waves and up-nods and exchanges pleasantries. The thermal shirt he wears stretches across his broad shoulders, and I can trace the faint ripple of muscle down his back as his waist tapers to his jeans-clad ass. Yep, Jamie’s dad is hot as fuck. Sexy voice too.
Still, Thatcher sits alone, like there’s some sort of invisible bubble between him and the rest of the world. A bubble I don’t hesitate to burst by sliding right up next to him. If you ask me, Gabe Thatcher needs someone to burst into the bubble he wants to place around himself more often.
“Hey, man. Jamie’s looking good in warmups,” I say as I sit. I love the startled look that crosses his face before he schools it, and I smile as he frowns. Maybe he thinks he’s shooting daggers at me, but frankly, it’s endearing.
I rub my hands together. Teasing Thatcher is exactly what my nerves need.
“I figured you’d be down there.” Thatcher gestures to the players and coaches.
“I’m not his coach, and if my advice would conflict with his coach, I wouldn’t want to confuse him. Jamie doesn’t need to worry about who he should be listening to.”
Thatcher gives me a long look out of the side of his eye, as if my answer surprises him, but he doesn’t say anything. Alex sees us together from where he’s running the scoreboard and gives us a big smile and wave, and I up-nod him, but Thatcher ignores him completely, which makes me chuckle.
“Besides,” I tell him. “I’ve never done lessons or mentorship like this before. I have no way to know how I’ll react to him in a game.”
Thatcher gives me a little chuckle, not much more than a puff of air. “It’s just a game, Monroe. Pre-season.”
He may be right, but for the first time in my life I act like an absolute lunatic hockey fan. I mean, for fuck’s sake, who made hockey games this long? And should the kids really be able to hit each other that hard? I thought there were rules about that kind of thing.
Every time the puck hits the ice and Jamie is out there, I can barely watch. I’m holding my breath at every play, yelling at the top of my lungs in cheers when things go right, and shouting encouragement when they don’t.
And God help the refs when they don’t call it the way I see it.
My throat is raw and I feel a little unhinged at how serious it all seems to me, but I can’t stop myself.
Beside me, Thatcher is quiet, his focus intently on the game, and the only tell he has for how closely he’s following the action on the ice is the clench of his hand and how he holds his breath when Jamie touches the puck. When the puck is against Jamie’s tape, I think he quits breathing altogether. Jamie’s team comes back onto the ice from their break before the third period when Thatcher finally speaks, but I don’t think he realizes he’s speaking out loud. His voice is low, more like he’s muttering to himself than speaking to me.
“Come on, Jamie, he’s been favoring the left all game. Take the five-hole. Angle right.”
It takes a few plays and turnovers, but Jamie does. He gets the shot, and it’s the exact shot I would want him to take—slap-shot, six inches off the ice. Masterful. Executed with skill and a little bit of burgeoning artistry as well. Just like Thatcher said, the goalie executes well with his left, quick to cover the five-hole, but leaves too much space to the right—the exact place Jamie puts it.
There are a few players in the league who are known for deadly accuracy—if that’s a skill Jamie can develop, it’s a big one.
Thatcher lets out a breath like he and breathing are finally getting reacquainted, and I walk down a step or two from our seats to high five another parent just so I can turn around and see Thatch’s face.
I’ve never, in all my life, seen such a sweep of love and pride and hope battle with fear and dread. Emotions run like ticker tape across Thatcher’s handsome face. Thatcher may be a quiet, brooding, lone-wolf type, but he feels deeply. About Jamie. About hockey. About Jamie and hockey.
I look at the score, and in truth, the game was never really close. Jamie’s team dominated the entire time. Yet Thatcher’s pulse is visible in his neck.
I slip back next to him, and I spend the rest of the game watching Thatcher’s reactions more than the ice.
After the game, when Jamie comes out of the locker room, his eyes immediately go to Thatcher’s and they hug, Thatcher not caring as he wraps strong arms around a sweaty Jamie. They share a silly handshake that makes me smile as I lean in to speak with Jamie’s coach and Alex.
When Jamie comes over to give me a high five, there’s a quiet sort of pride in Thatcher’s green eyes as he watches his son. I tell the kid he did a good job and that tomorrow we can watch film.
Of course, Jamie’s first game signals the beginning of the hockey season, which means my own season is set to start soon enough.
Over the next few weeks, The Keep is all decked out in new finery. Pendants of past wins are bright and colorful, new paint is on the upper deck where the concessions and entrances are, and there’s constant noise from Thatcher and the rest of his crew who are working quickly to make the updates necessary in the visitors’ locker room.
I’m on the ice, in the gym, and with the trainer, in a never-ending loop of hockey. The Keep will host an exhibition game with a European team first. It’s low stakes, but still the first game setting I’ve had in a year and a half. No pressure or anything.
And then there’s The Freeze. It’s coming, and Coach has already mentioned more than once that we’ll be expected to take part in it to some extent. Something about the Iceguard and the community.
The Freeze looms in the back of my brain because it’s a no-win situation. There’s very little for me to gain by winning a skills competition at a local festival. On the other hand, if I don’t perform—or take part in it—that could become a news story.
