9. Jamie

Jamie

My new friendschoose The Lantern House, which turns out to be a pretty big place. We snag a high table in the back, and Frazier wades through the crowd to get us a pitcher. The thump of music and the buzz of the chatter around me lifts my spirits. It startles me to realize how infrequently I get out to a bar like this. For a twenty-three-year-old guy, I’m practically a shut-in these days. Gilles tells a funny story about his team getting lost in Quebec, and I find myself laughing more easily than I have in a while.

I’ve missed this. Wes and I visit restaurants together sometimes, but it’s just not the same as carrying on at a bar for a few hours.

“Play some darts? That board just opened up.” Gilles points toward the back.

“Let’s do it,” I agree.

He lays out the rules for a three-man game, and we start shooting. And with that comes the inevitable smack talk. “You’re a goalie, Canning. Betcha can’t hit the bullseye,” Frazier crows.

When I do, he has to buy the next round.

Maybe it’s inevitable, but three attractive guys playing darts on a Saturday night will attract the ladies. It isn’t long until a trio of young women is watching, cheering us on.

Frazier and Gilles camp it up even more. We’re into our second pitcher when Frazier dares Gilles to let him shoot an apple off his head with a dart. The girls dissolve into giggles. And thank fuck nobody can find an apple, because I really don’t want to spend the rest of this evening in an emergency room with Gilles and the dart in his eye.

At any rate, the girls sort of descend on us when we give up the dartboard. The assertive brunette claims Frazier, who’s hotter than Gilles, with his dimples and impressive forearms that I really shouldn’t be noticing. The brunette isn’t as cute as her two blond friends, but she’s got a bossy vibe that’s sexy in its own way.

Apparently one of the blondes has a thing for plaid, because she soon attaches herself to Gilles’s arm. Even though I’ve quite intentionally avoided eye contact with all three of them, the law of the jungle applies. The third girl moves in, planting herself in front of me, nodding whenever I speak. She puts a hand on my back and laughs when I make a joke.

It’s not the first time someone has hit on me in a bar, so it’s not like I’m going to panic. And she doesn’t seem like the pushy type, either. I can buy a girl a couple of friendly drinks for an hour and then pull an oh-look-at-the-time-I-gotta-run. But part of me is just really weary of the charade. Because there is someone in my life and I’d feel completely differently about the next hour if he was here with me.

You can’t have everything you want, though.

That’s my last thought before I happen to turn my head and scan the front of the pub. My eye snags on a cluster of tuxedos near the bar. I recognize one of them immediately. The back of Wes’s head is all I can see from here. Just dark, spiky hair closely shorn where it approaches his neck. And I know that neck. I like to put my mouth on the smooth skin right there, and when I suck on that spot, he moans.

The blonde next to me is talking, her hand on my arm now. But I can’t even hear what she’s saying, because I’m so distracted by the pickle I’m in. Fumbling into my pocket I pull out my phone and open up my text messages. Behind you, I send to Wes. I want to warn him that I’m here. Turn around.

He doesn’t, though.

Meanwhile, my new BFF Tracie has me in one hand and a pint glass in the other. Suddenly this night out isn’t fun anymore.

WES

Eriksson is a mess.

I’ve never seen him so sloppy drunk. He’s in turn gregarious, angry and right on the verge of weepy. “Another round, guys?” he slurs. “Not like I have anyone to go home to.”

He is killing me. Eriksson is one tough motherfucker. I once watched him push his own loose tooth back into place right on the bench in the middle of a game after taking a hit to the face. He played the third period with a smile on his face and blood dribbling down his chin. But toughness, apparently, does not extend to having your family walk out on you. He’s dangling off an emotional ledge, and I don’t think I could catch him even if we were closer friends.

It’s getting late and he’s getting drunker. What to do? I keep praying that one of the others who knows him better will step forward and take charge—put him in a cab, or take ’im home for the night.

Eriksson is like a slow-moving train wreck that I’m forced to watch.

Unhelpfully, fans keep approaching us. A group of guys in tuxes in a pub is always going to stand out. But Toronto is a hockey town, and the faces around me are famous ones. Drunk well-wishers keep coming up and asking for autographs. One girl asks me to sign her tummy. This I do without actually touching her with my hands. “It tickles!” she shrieks.

“My house is, like, empty,” Eriksson moans.

I’m going to lose my mind within minutes.

There’s another fangirl shriek, and I feel another small clot of fans descending. A brunette steps in front of me. “Omigod, you’re the rookie Ryan Wesley! Loved your goal on Montreal last week! Will you sign my phone case?”

“Sure,” I say as she invades my personal space. I smile anyway, because what is the alternative, really? Then I raise my head to see who else is crowding us—and get a shock.

Jamie is standing five feet away, staring me down with angry laser eyes. He’s being dragged toward me by a slight, blond girl.

“Don’t you want to meet the team! You’re hockey players, too! This is so exciting.”

Three girls swarm, and two of their male companions hang back at a more comfortable distance, their hands in their pockets and “aw, shucks,” smiles on their faces.

Then there’s Jamie. He raises an eyebrow as if to ask, How the hell do we get in these situations?

The pushy brunette grabs one of the other guys. “This is Frazier and Gilles and Canning!” she says brightly, as if we’re all going to be BFFs now. I recognize those guys’ names, too. They’re Jamie’s co-coaches. “Say hi, boys! This is awesome.”

Her companions shake hands with my very tolerant teammates, even if Eriksson sways a little. Jamie keeps his arms crossed. And I can’t stand it anymore. I hold out a hand to him. “Hey—how are you? Long time no see.” I give him a wink, waiting for a smile.

Jamie takes my hand and gives it a pump. “It’s really been too long,” he mutters.

“Wait!” The blonde who’s sticking close to him squeals. “You know Ryan Wesley? No wayyyyy!”

Why yes. Biblically. “We go way back,” I say. “Hockey camp.”

Her pretty little mouth falls open, and I see her look at Jamie as if seeing him for the very first time. Her eyes widen and her hand tightens on his arm.

I hate seeing it there.

“You’ve been holding out on me!” she squeals, then punches him lightly in the chest.

“Is that so.” Jamie’s face probably looks friendly enough to everyone in this bar but me. You’d have to know him as well as I do to see how irritated he is.

She steps closer and tips her chin up toward his. The maneuver is unmistakably flirtatious. “What position do you play?”

I let out a snort before I can think better of it. But she doesn’t notice, anyway. This chick wraps her arms around my man and sort of backs him away from the group.

Jesus, I can’t stand the sight of it. So I turn my back. If I thought the night was grim ten minutes ago, we’re talking suicide alley now.

“Hey, Forsberg.” I reach through the scrum to appeal to the man Eriksson’s been skating with for the last three years. “What’s your plan for our friend, here?” If he won’t raise his hand to solve this problem, I’m gonna make him do it.

“Guess I should take ’im home.”

You think?I give it three more minutes, and when Forsberg doesn’t act, I nudge him again. “It’s only gonna get harder if he drinks more.”

“’Spose you’re right.” Finally—finally—he collars Eriksson and says, “Time to go, buddy. We did enough damage tonight already.”

No kidding.

I turn around to see how Jamie is making out, and holy shit. He is almost making out. The blond girl has pancaked herself against him, and her hands are wandering toward his ass. I’m completely unprepared for the surge of helpless, jealous anger that chokes me at the sight of their two golden heads so close together. Seriously, I feel like hurling a bar stool against the wall.

Jamie is attracted to women. Even after eight months together, it’s still hard for me to come to terms with that. I’ve seen the way he checks out girls on the street sometimes, and it kills me. Not that I’m a saint—I’ve checked out other guys before, too. It’s human nature to appreciate the hotness of others. But it’s so fucking scary to think that I’m competing with both men and women for Jamie’s affections.

You’re not competing for him, dumbass. He’s already yours.

The reminder calms me down. Slightly. But as I watch, a few more details of the scene between Jamie and this girl begin to stand out. Jamie is actually squirming with discomfort, not lust. And the hand that I thought was holding hers is actually trying to peel her palm off his butt cheek. “’Scuse me,” I hear him say. “Gotta hit the head.”

Swear to God I hear a sucking sound when he pries her off his chest. Then Jamie darts toward the restrooms faster than I’ve ever seen him move, even on skates.

And just like that I’m following him. I don’t give a shit who sees. The knot of jealousy in my gut is more urgent than my fear of being discovered.

Some guy who’s exiting the john holds the door open for me. I push inside the shadowy room, where I find Jamie standing at the sink, washing his hands. “Hey,” he says in surprise.

I say nothing. I grab his elbow and nudge him toward one of the three stalls. I practically shove him inside and bang the door shut. Then I push him up against the dented metal wall and kiss him. Hard.

He grabs my face in two wet hands and gives as good as he gets. He jams his tongue in my mouth and practically bruises me with his lips. It’s an angry kiss. I hear myself grunt with surprise and anguish.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s hot as hell. But we’re not about angry kisses, Jamie and me. We’re more of a pants-the-other-guy-tickle-his-ass-and-then-laugh-as-we-fall-on-the-bed couple.

But not tonight.

I smack my hips into his, and the stall wobbles. I attack his mouth. My hands clutch at his shirt. He tastes like beer, but there’s a cloying whiff of perfume that clings to him. I taste him even deeper to try to lose that foreign scent and shake off the disasters of the night.

But we hear the sudden sound of voices. They rise and swell and then quiet down again as someone opens the door and lets it fall shut again.

We freeze, mouth to mouth. Our eyes lock at too-close range, distorting the view, so Jamie appears to be a pissed-off blond cyclops.

I ease my mouth off his, but our foreheads remained pressed together. And we’re both trying not to pant from anger and exertion.

Whoever’s outside the stall whistles drunkenly to himself. I hear the telltale liquid rush of pee hitting a urinal. It’s probably only a minute later when the dude zips up and leaves. But it feels longer, because I have to stare into Jamie’s ornery eyes. They’re asking me why it has to be this way.

The bathroom door falls closed again, muffling the bathroom to silence, but it’s another moment before we speak. “Tell your friends goodnight,” I say roughly. “Let’s go home.”

“You first,” he snaps. “You’re the celebrity who can’t walk through this place without getting stopped.”

I want to argue the point, but that will only delay our trip home. So I do what needs to be done. I exit the stall and the bathroom. Only two of my teammates are left in the bar, and I say goodnight. Then I go outside to wait for Jamie on the sidewalk.

He takes longer, probably saying goodnight to his coworkers. I realize I haven’t met any of the guys he works with every day. How fucked is that?

My mind serves up the memory of that chick rubbing herself against him. I make myself a little bit ill wondering if she’s trying to persuade him not to leave alone. I know he won’t do it, but I’m nauseous even so.

Finally he emerges, hands in his pockets, a dark expression on his face.

I stick my hand in the air, hoping for a cab to swing past and put an end to this crappy night. To my relief, one slows in front of me immediately. I open the door and gesture for Jamie to get in first. When he does, I practically sag with relief, right on the Toronto sidewalk.

We don’t talk on the way home, and when we get into our apartment, Jamie heads right for the shower. Either he smells that perfume, too, or he’s prepping for some angry make-up sex.

When he finally emerges, I’m in bed. Naked. Ready.

But Jamie puts on a pair of flannel pants and punches his pillow before getting in, back to me. Still hopeful, I roll toward him and kiss his shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say. “Let me make it better.”

“My head kind of aches,” he mumbles.

If I were the crying type, that would have done me in.

Instead, I kiss his shoulder one more time. Then I roll onto my back and start counting the weeks until the end of the season. I don’t think I can take this anymore. Not if it makes Jamie unhappy.