Oh.
Jamie was fucked. Completely, and utterly, fucked.
They sat down at an empty table along one of the walls, and Jamie watched Tyler closely. He cupped his mug in both hands, blowing gently over the surface of the green drink. Jamie had shared a locker room with plenty of men who had tattoos, but he had never been presented with the opportunity to openly look at someone who was as covered with ink as Tyler.
“Did they hurt?” He asked.
“The tats?”
Jamie nodded.
“Yeah. But it’s a good kind of hurt. When you sign up for pain, there’s something heady about it.”
Jamie thought of bag skates and summer training sessions when he’d pushed his body to the brink. When his quads trembled, spasming, and he still had to push through for five more reps.
He knew a little something about that kind of pain.
“Maybe I should try it,” he offered.
Something sparked in Tyler’s eyes, and he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “What would you get?”
Jamie considered the question. “The obvious answer would be something to do with hockey.” He chuckled at Tyler’sunimpressed look. “What? I really do love it. I know it’s a cliché, but I fucking love hockey. It’s my favorite thing in the world.”
A little smile played on Tyler’s lips. “I admire that,” he said softly. “I think it takes a lot of courage to love something like that. To go all in without constantly keeping an eye on the exit.”
“Do you love anything like that?”
Tyler’s long fingers spun his mug in a slow, careful circle. “Rowan, but that’s different. Loving a child isn’t a choice, really. Loving him is the same as breathing or waking up. It’s a part of me.” He frowned, shaking his head. “Before I had Rowan, I used to write poetry. I had a wild life, lots of partying and live music and loud friends and sex, and I tried to put words to my life. At that time, I loved it.”
Poetry?
Jamie remembered struggling through sonnets and Shakespeare in high school, and a poem by Mary Oliver about geese. But other than that, outside of the endless rhyming children’s books he’d read to teammates’ kids over the years, he didn’t know a damn thing about poetry.
“Are your poems out there in the world?”
“Nah. It was just something I did for myself.”
“That’s so cool.”
Brown eyes blinked at him, thick, heavy lashes casting a shadow on his pale skin. “It was a different time in my life. Everything is different now.”
“So, do you still write?”
Tyler’s eyes sharpened, and the laugh that fell from his mouth was harsh. “There’s no time for the things that used to inspire me. Everything I wrote was inspired by hookups in tents at music festivals and being high under the stars. I don’t miss that life–not at all–but without those things I don’t know what the hell to write.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I miss the writing. That, out of everything, is what I miss.”
The statement echoed between them.
Jamie opened his mouth. Closed it. Pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond.
He watched as Tyler’s expression shuttered. Eyes still open, still looking right at him, but the window of light peeking through them had closed.
Wait, Jamie wanted to say.Don’t go yet.
He wanted more of Tyler. More admissions and more sincerity and more of those teasing grins.
“Have you thought about the hockey tickets?” Jamie asked, not wanting their conversation to end. “There’s a game on Saturday night.”
Tyler looked down, sipping at his drink. He set the mug down, and there was a thin line of pale green foam tracing the curve of his upper lip. “Sure,” he said. “That’s really generous of you to offer them.”
