Page 102 of Game On

“Isn’t Jamie out there with you? Why isn’t he directing?”

“One of your neighbours came out to see who was moving in,” Blair said, moving back toward the door, muscles straining against his T-shirt. “And now they’re talking about the latest hockey prospects.”

That was the thing about Jamie. He talked to everyone. If they were out walking their dogs and happened to cross paths with a cyclist or jogger or another dog walker, Jamie stopped to chat. Dorian had happily lived here for years without knowing his neighbours. Now he knew that the older couple on his right had six grandkids, the ones across the street and two houses down were building a tree fort for their twin boys, and the single guy just beyond the roundabout owned several successful garages that specialized in sports cars.

As he backed out of the house, Blair nearly tripped on Jamie’s dog and cursed.

“Murphy,” Dorian called. Jamie’s West Highland terrier rescue trotted inside, tongue lolling. “Come on, Murphy.” Dorian lured him into his office, then shut the door, locking him inside with Poppy. Otherwise, there was a very real possibility they’d get stepped on.

At least it was only the two dogs right now. Things got a little hectic around the house when Jamie had an emergency foster too, but he hadn’t had one in a couple of months. First, because the Orcas had made the playoffs for the third year in a row and Jamie needed to concentrate on hockey. Second, because with the move from Archie’s guesthouse and into Dorian’s house—permanently this time—Jamie also needed to pack.

He’d sold his house in Charlotte after the Orcas had narrowly missed winning the Calder Cup the season Jamie was traded to the Orcas. They’d made it all the way to the finals but had lost by only one goal in game seven. It had been a blow to the players, but they’d been consoled by the fact that they’d come from the bottom of the standings in the previous season and made it to the playoff finals in the next. The entire team had been praised, Matt especially, as the head coach, and he’d gotten offers to coach at every level—including the NHL. But he hadn’t been done with the Orcas yet, and he’d led his team to the playoffs the next two seasons too.

Where they’d won. Both times.

Jamie’s furniture from his place in Charlotte had ended up in a storage unit in Vancouver since Archie’s guest house had come furnished. This morning, Jamie had gone with Matt, Blair, and Niall to pack it up and move his things into Dorian’s home.

Which meant his basement suite would officially be a basement suite instead of a couple of rooms with beds and a handful of plates and cutlery. Adriana would be more comfortable when she stayed over, as would Niall and Gio.

Speaking of Gio, he walked into the house holding two matching table lamps. He held them up. “Upstairs guest bedroom?”

“Uh...” Dorian inspected the lamps in his living room. “Leave them here, actually. They go with the décor better. I’ll move mine into one of the guest bedrooms.”

Two years ago, Gio had arrived for a visit with Jamie that had been meant to last a couple of weeks while he recovered from his shoulder injury. Instead, he’d gone back to Kelowna with Niall.

And stayed there.

Through rehab.

Post-surgery, which he’d ended up needing on his shoulder.

Post-surgery rehab.

And after he’d officially retired from hockey.

And he was still in Kelowna. With Niall.

In fact, they were getting married next spring.

So yeah. Totally a thing. Dorian had called that one.

“Your neighbour thinks there’s no chance in hell of us winning the playoffs again next season,” Jamie said with a pout as he trudged inside with a box labelled random kitchen stuff.

Dorian rearranged the other boxes labelled random kitchen stuff on the island to make room for the new one. How much random kitchen stuff did one man need?

“Has any AHL team ever won three seasons in a row?”

“One,” Jamie said. “In the early sixties. Nobody since. Your neighbour’s betting against us, so we’re no longer friends.”

“Well.” Dorian tilted sideways to kiss the corner of Jamie’s mouth. “I believe in you.”

More pouting. “Even though you quit as the Orcas’ social media coordinator?”

Snorting, Dorian elbowed him in the ribs. “We both know that had nothing to do with you.”

He’d simply been too busy with Fir & Pine to juggle two jobs. Over the past two years, his subscription box had rapidly gained momentum. He’d like to credit his own marketing activities, but the truth was, word had gotten to the Orcas players, which meant they’d gotten to the city’s NHL players, and because the organization was one big happy family, they’d all pimped Dorian’s box on their socials.

And when multimillion-dollar NHL players told their followers to buy shit, fans bought the shit.

---