“Oh my god.” Mitch made what he probably thought was a valiant effort to contain his amusement, but then doubled over, his loud, honking laugh filling the sterile room.
“It’s not funny!” Jamie protested, even though he knew it was. It was ridiculous, and embarrassing, and probably a sign that his life was going off the fucking rails.
Mitch took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, his grin so big it creased his cheeks. “There’s a lot to unpack there,” he said, exhaling loudly. “Let’s go find this kid, then.”
Of all the ways Jamie could have nursed his hangover, trying to retrace his drunken path through downtown Madison was at the bottom of the fucking list.
The pounding in his head mirrored the throbbing of his jaw where he’d taken a punch during the game. He was nauseous, trying to breathe in through his nose so he wouldn’t get sick, and his injured hand ached.
He needed to get to the rink and start his rehab plan. He needed to put something in his stomach and drink some fucking water.
But he knew himself well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to relax until he made some attempt at an apology for what he’d done to that kid’s snowman.
“This is it.”
Jamie didn’t recognize the house itself, which was one of those big, three-story monstrosities that barely fit on its lot. Faded siding framed wooden windows that showed signs of decay. A Pride flag flapped on the sagging front porch.
But there, in the small front yard, was a pile of dirty snow and sticks scattered around a bright orange and green jersey.
“Jesus, man. You did a number on that thing,” Mitch said, nodding in the direction of the snowy remains.
Jamie felt like the biggest piece of shit to ever exist. “Better showing than I had against Dorren,” he muttered.
“Alright, bud. That’s enough of that. Let’s do this.” Mitch led the way up the path.
The front door opened as they reached the steps. A tall, gangly guy with a shaved head came out with a joint tucked into the corner of his mouth. He lit up and took a deep drag, giving Jamie an up-nod. “Sup,” he said, blowing the fragrant smoke from his mouth like he was completely indifferent to their presence.
When they didn’t move, the guy waved them toward the door. “Just go on in,” he said.
Jamie opened his mouth to ask about the guy who had helped him last night, but Mitch was already nudging him forward.
The front door was cracked, and Jamie hesitantly pushed it open. He found himself wondering if it was normal for strangers to show up at the house.
Mismatched couches lined the walls of the living room. Beside the door, a hodgepodge of shoes were piled, and a row of hooks were overflowing with coats.
A woman sat cross-legged on the floor with headphones on, various art supplies and papers spread around her. Her blue hair was up in pigtails. Someone bundled in one of thosecan’t really tell if it’s a blanket or a hoodiethings lay on one of the couches. They looked asleep.
Jamie cleared his throat. No one moved. “Hello?” His voice sounded too loud in the room.
He could make out the murmur of voices down a hallway, and, exchanging a shrug with Mitch, they walked toward the sound.
The kitchen was small, the counters cluttered with dishes, pots and pans. At one of the counter tops, a toddler stood on a chair, obviously occupied with something on a plate in front of them. And next to the toddler–
Oh, fuck.
“You’re not dead,” the man said, crossing his heavily tattooed arms over his chest.
Jamie stared. A lot of the night was blurry, but this face, this man, was branded in his memory. He had wild brown hair cut short in the front and long in the back like the frontman of an eighties rock band the morning after a bender. Sharp, dark eyes. Heavy lashes. A gold ring through his nose. He looked so far removed from the men Jamie spent his days with at work, like he was another species of human entirely.
“Ah, no,” Jamie managed to say. His voice came out in a low rasp. “Not dead.”
The gorgeous man, who wore nothing but holey socks, plaidboxers, and a baggy knit sweater that hung off of one shoulder, didn’t say anything else. Jamie couldn’t take his eyes off of him–the slender lines of his body, the way his mouth seemed stuck in a soft frown, and his tattoos.
Black, precise lines were scattered over his pale skin without any sort of discernible pattern. A flower on his left kneecap. What looked like an ancient mask with empty eyes and an extended tongue on his right shin. An intricate geometric design started on his thigh and disappeared under the hem of the boxers he was wearing.
There were symbols on his long fingers, the wordcompromisein clear print on the side of his hand. And the one that had inexplicably left Jamie with a dry mouth: a moth of some sort at the base of his throat, outstretched wings curving below his Adam’s apple.
He looked between Jamie and Mitch, his expression unreadable.
