The man winked. “It’s what we do here.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Tyler crawled into his double bed, tugging the heavy pile of layered quilts over himself as he tried to make his body as compact as possible, waiting for the warmth to come. Across the room, Rowan slept.
As he felt the tug of sleep dragging him under, he thought about blonde mustaches and tall men with tree-trunk thighs.
CHAPTER 3
JAMIE
SKETCHMULE RELIEF
“Good morning, you big, silly ray of sunshine.”
Jamie opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. He groaned; the fluorescent light above him looked nothing like the cream-painted ceiling of Mitch’s guest bedroom.
But that voice… “Mitchy?” His voice came out in a croak.
“I’m right here, Captain Dumbass.”
He tried to sit up, only to be blinded by a sharp pain in the back of his head. Gritting his teeth, he forced his eyes to focus, and found Mitch sitting in the corner of a strange, white-walled room. His friend was watching him with a look of concerned amusement as he tried to wet his lips with a sticky, dry tongue. “Where?”
“Hospital.”
That was a curtain around his bed, andshit,that was an IV in his arm. “What the hell?”
Mitch was wearing his wire-frame glasses and a gray Muskies hoodie and sweats. His eyes crinkled the way they always did when the rookies did something especially stupid. Only now, he was looking at Jamie. “Out of all the idiots we share the ice with, I didn’t expect to get a call for you, old man. You’re not supposed to be the problem child!”
Jamie took a quick inventory of his body. Left hand: still in pain, still in a splint. Head: throbbing, like he hit the back of it on something, and there was an ache behind his eyes. Jaw: aching, like he’d been punched. Stomach: roiling. Whatever had happened last night, taking those shots was probably part of the problem. As an infrequent drinker beyond the occasional couple of beers with the guys, hard liquor tended to put him on his ass for days at a time.Idiot, Sully. Fucking idiot.
“What happened?” His mind–though battered and liquor-drenched–was already racing, trying to piece together apologies to teammates for being such a shit captain, on, and nowoff, the ice.
Mitch got up and ambled over, perching on the edge of the bed by Jamie’s covered feet. “The nurse said you slipped on some ice and hit your head. Knocked yourself out for a minute.”
“Shit.”No wonder he felt like he’d been sucker punched in the back of the head.The end of the night started to come back to him: the desperate need to get to the comfort of Mitch’s house; the clumsy, crooked snowman wearing the Muskies home jersey, the unmistakable C embroidered on its chest. He knew the walk well, but must have underestimated how drunk he was.
He remembered wondering if it was a Sharpe jersey. There were still plenty of those around the city and in the stands, the legacy of the last Muskies captain undeniable even after his retirement.
But no. It wasn’t a Sharpe jersey. There was a number three on the sleeves, and across the back, his own last name.Sullivan.The poor bastard who had to follow in the footsteps of a future Hall of Fame forward who’d set a new franchise scoring record. Who’d lead them to a Stanley Cup six years ago. The man who’d effortlessly knit their team into a family. Who’d shown up on his doorstep when the news got out that Jamie’s grandmother had passed away. Who’d held him in his long arms while Jamie wept and wept and wept.
“Apparently some guy in a yellow coat brought you in. You were in rough shape, barely able to walk, so he was helping you out.”
Jamie blinked, and even that hurt. “Damn it. I fucked up.”
“It’s not your best look, Sully.” Mitch leaned forward. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I’m a fucking joke, Mitchy. Can’t do the thing I’m paid to do, and now I’m wandering into a fan’s front yard and beating up their snowman.” Jamie tried to gather his thoughts, to come up with a plan to fix the mess he’d gotten himself into. “My phone?” He asked.
Mitch pointed to the table. “It’s there, but it’s dead.”
Shit. “What do you think I should do?”
Mitch looked at him, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip, and then shrugged. “This is your mess, Sully. I’m here for you, but you’ve got to figure out the plan.”
Letting out a groan, Jamie scrubbed his hands over his face. He’d ruined a kid’s snowman–a freakingkidwho had his jersey–and he didn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t try to make amends.It’s what Sharpie would do, he told himself. “Get me out of here so I can apologize to the kid whose snowman I beat up.”
“What even was that, man?” Mitch asked, shaking his head. “Did the snowman look at you funny or something?”
“No,” Jamie felt his cheeks flush. “It was wearing my jersey.”
