Now, though? Jamie was their captain.
Jamie had been an alternate captain for the past four seasons, and had worn the A proudly. Being a leader was something he’d always taken seriously. It was a responsibility and an honor to be a voice who commanded respect on and off the ice. And then, when Sharpie announced his retirement, all eyes had turned to Jamie.
The letter C on his chest, combined with the large contract he’d signed last season…it was a lot. A lot of pressure and a lot of scrutiny. More than what Jamie had been expecting.
He knew he deserved it.
He’d been off his game for the first few months of the season. He was fully aware of that. But he didn’t know how to turn off the panicked voice in his head that screamed at him todo more, work harder, score goals,every time he set foot on the ice. The stress had bled into his play like an infection. He was taking shots he’d never have taken before. Trying to beat defenders oneon three–odds even the best players in the league couldn’t handle.
Jamie was a good player. He knew that. But he needed to be better, for his team and for the Muskies fans. He was their captain now, and he needed to earn it. Every day, every practice, and every game.
Injuring his hand in a losing fight was just icing on the cake. The bruise on his jaw was a painful reminder of his mistake, and his left hand was wrapped up in a velcro brace, cradled in his lap while his other gripped the bike handle. At least he could still dosomecardio.
Oliver, who they all called Ollie, climbed onto the bike next to his, a huge, uninhibited smile splitting the younger man’s freckled face in two. “Morning, Cap.”
Jamie had left the house before the two rookies had gotten up. “Morning, kid.”
“How’s the hand?”
Shrugging, Jamie held it up. “Broken, but could’ve been worse. Four to five weeks.”
“Bummer, man.” Ollie’s legs started working the pedals, his floppy brown hair hanging down on his forehead. “Have to say, it was kinda badass to see you fight Dorren. Not sure it was worth the broken hand, but...”
Rather than respond, Jamie reached over and lightly shoved Ollie’s shoulder with his good hand. “If you keep that up, I won’t make that grilled chicken you like so much.”
Ollie mimed locking his lips, but his eyes still danced with amusement.
Kids these days.
Jamie followed the team to the locker room, but while everyone got on their pads and skates, he headed to the showers. Afterwards he tossed on a team hoodie and a pair of sweats with his clean, white Nikes, and started toward the stairs, planning to watch the team practice from the stands, where he could see the flow of things on the ice.
Watching practice was horrible. Jamie felt like he was losing his mind, his muscles twitching as he imagined working through the motions with his teammates on the ice. All his reflexes were firing with nowhere to go, and when he realized his fingers were curled like he was gripping an imaginary stick, he tore his gaze from the ice.
He pulled out his phone and opened one of his social media apps.
While many guys in the league had sworn off having a personal, online presence, Jamie hadn’t. He liked taking pictures on his phone–it was silly, he knew, but he liked playing with light and colors, even though he was a total amateur. But being on social media also meant he saw everything the fanbase said about him.
When he was playing well, a picture of Mitch and Cody smiling on the team plane would get comments like:Nice powerplay goal, cap!OrKeep it up, #3!
This morning, those same people had flocked to a photo he’d put up of the lake from his back porch. Now, the comments were:Waste of cap space, orPut this guy on waivers.
There were also about a hundred versions of:Biggest captain downgrade in NHL historyand#bringsharpieback
His phone rang.
There was only one person who called him rather than texting. “Hey, Mom,” he said, leaning back in the uncomfortable stadium seat.
“Jamie, that lovely young father and his son are moving in this afternoon. Can you come over and use all those muscles for something other than bumping into boys on the ice?”
Jamie sighed, shaking his head. “I’m injured, remember?”
“Bring over the rookies who live in your basement,” his step-mom, Dotty, cut in. “Ollie’s been getting bullied on the boards. He could use the extra workout.”
“And carrying boxes is going to help?” Jamie asked, chuckling.
“Sure couldn’t hurt,” his stepmom said. “We’ll make a pan of something to feed everyone.”
“I’ll ask them after practice,” Jamie said. He watched the rink, the blur of bodies flying down the ice in perfect unison, hating how far away he was from the action. He was supposed to be down there with the guys. “So Tyler’s going to move in, then?”
