Sharpie slid a mug across the table. It looked incredible, the swirl of whipped cream dotted with crumbles of cookies and drizzled chocolate. Jamie took a sip, groaning at the rich sweetness on his tongue.
“I want to tell you this is disgusting, but you get very cute, like a big blonde baby, whenever you eat a sweet treat.” Sharpie waved a hand in front of him. “Now tell me again why you cannot have a boyfriend.”
There was no point in responding to the first comment. “I have no time during the season,” Jamie said, running a hand through his curls. “Between the practices and travel, I don’t have the time to give someone what they deserve.”
Sharpie took a sip from his own drink. “This is bullshit,” he said, looking right at Jamie. “We are home for lunches, for long mornings, and sleeping. We go home after practice. We are busy, but we are around. When I was captain, yes, there were many demands on my time. Yes, it was hard for my family. But the minutes I was home added up, and having important people who waited for me, who needed me for something other than scoringgoals? I think it saved me.” He reached across the table and put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “It is good to remember there is a world outside of hockey. More important than that,youare a person outside of hockey.”
Jamie dropped his head. “Before my hand,” he started. “I was giving hockey everything. More time, more training, more effort than ever.”
“Why? You are very good already.”
“But I’m the captain now!” Jamie exhaled, frustrated. “I need to be better.”
“You need to be Sullivan–number three, good on the forecheck, very stubborn, silly mustache, bad taste in music, pastry man. The boys love you, just the way you are. That is who the team needs.” Sharpie leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now tell me what Coach is saying about the power play. It is looking…iffy.”
They talked about hockey for a while. Jamie missed Sharpie. He’d always valued his direct commentary and eye for the game. They laughed about Emils, their fourth liner fresh from Sweden, who still got lost in the stadium. Olaf Sandersson, one of their assistant coaches, had started driving him to games and walking him to the locker room.
It was easy to talk to Sharpie. There was an unspoken understanding of the pressure that came with a captaincy. The way people looked to him for answers when the team struggled. The way his play was under a microscope.
But Sharpie had always worn the pressure well. He’d been a steady, sure presence for years. He’d put up consistent points. Won awards. And when he’d been the first of the Muskies to hoist the cup, the world had sung his praises.
They’d long finished their drinks when Sharpie said he needed to head out. “You take the dishes. Maybe you will get the chance to say somethingniceto the pretty man.” He shot Jamie a grin. “Maybe he believes in giving second chances to big boys with silly mustaches.”
“Asshole,” Jamie muttered fondly, but still accepted the offered hug from his old friend.
“You will find it,” Sharpie said softly. “You will figure it out, yes?”
Jamie nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude as Sharpie walked away. Grabbing both of their mugs, he walked up to the counter.
Tyler straightened as Jamie approached. “Hey,” he said, pausing where he was wiping down the counter.
“It was great,” Jamie said, setting the mugs down carefully. “The mocha. Really tasty.”
Tyler smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
A woman with at least ten different facial piercings came up to Tyler and bumped him with her hip. “Take your break. It’s slowing down and I’ll be fine up here.”
Tyler glanced over at her. “You sure?”
She looked pointedly at Jamie before looking back at Tyler like he’d lost his mind. “I’m sure.”
Jamie watched as Tyler worked his lip with his teeth. “Um, you probably have somewhere to be,” Tyler muttered. “I usually just sit and chill for fifteen minutes.” He waved a hand toward the tables.
“I’ve got nowhere to be,” Jamie said, a little kernel of something blooming in his chest. “If you don’t mind the company?”
Tyler stared at him. It was a calculating look, like he was trying to figure out what Jamie’s angle was. “If you want,” he finally said. “I’m going to make myself a drink real quick.”
Jamie stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, as Tyler made himself a drink. His hands moved quickly, decisively, and Jamie had the offhanded thought that Tyler could be a savvy stickhandler with hands like that.
The coffee shop was loud, full of the low rumble of voices layering on top of each other. But the hum of conversation faded as soon Tyler walked out from behind the counter.
What Jamie’d thought was a blouse was actually the top of ashort silk dress that barely reached Tyler’s mid-thigh. Below that, black fishnets encased his tattooed legs.
A sound slipped from Jamie, something a little bit broken and completely out of his control.
“Come on,” Tyler said, walking toward the back of the building like Jamie wasn’t on the verge of keeling over.
Jamie willed his legs to move, following Tyler around the tables to a round booth in the back corner of the coffee shop. Jamie noticed he still wore the black Doc Martens that he favored. His eyes traced up slender ankles, calf muscles and knees covered in fine dark hair.
