Page 25 of Game On

So maybe Dorian did do hockey, at least a little. He’d have to remember to tell Jamie.

Speaking of Jamie, he got possession of the ball and kicked it so high that it got lodged in the rafters. “Aw, fuck.”

Snorting a quiet laugh, Dorian stopped the recording. Jamie met his gaze with a chagrined aw-shucks expression that shouldn’t have been cute on a six-foot-two defenceman, while Walters grabbed a stick they kept around for this purpose and freed the ball from its prison.

While Jamie had been at dinner with his teammates last night, Dorian had caved and googled him.

What the fuck had happened with the Cobras that made Jamie ask about bad apples? Had someone actually left him passed out on the floor? Sent him to the wrong address?

Dorian had been furious on behalf of other people before, but this... This had felt like his blood was going to simmer out of his ears.

But he’d found nothing. Google had been less than helpful. Jamie was on Instagram, but his posts were heavily team-related, although they’d decreased in frequency in the past few months. There were articles aplenty on Jamie, all related to his playing. And there were photos of him with a guy Dorian assumed was the Scott who’d absconded with the cat.

Nothing to explain any friction between Jamie and his team.

Dorian hadn’t imagined Jamie’s anxiety last night, so whatever its cause, it wasn’t public knowledge.

The players went back to their game and Dorian left them to it to make his way to the locker room. On game days, Dorian’s job was to blend into the background and discreetly take as many videos as he could. Discreetly being the keyword so that he didn’t interrupt any sacrosanct game-day rituals. The best social media posts were the ones that pulled the curtain back on the team and gave fans an insider look into what went on outside of games and press conferences. Fans ate that shit up.

It gave him ideas for his own social media platforms. The plan was to launch his website, order form, and socials before the end of March so he could promote the crap out of his subscription box, with his first box mailing in early September. Would his future followers enjoy seeing posts of what he did behind the scenes? Interviews with vendors, product reviews, sneak peeks at products that were going to be featured in future boxes, photos of box packing day, photos and highlights of the cities and towns his makers lived in.

He tried to contain his grin at the thought of it all and get his head back in the game.

Literally. Well, almost.

As he walked to the locker room, he edited the video down to a few seconds—editing out Jamie’s curse—and posted it with the tagline: We promise that @JamieJamieson is better at hockey.

In the office attached to the locker room, Matt and two of his coaches, Li and Stanton, stood in front of the desk, heads bent over a tablet.

“Platt-Myrth is quick on the forecheck,” Matt said, and since Dorian didn’t recognize the name, he assumed it was a Colorado player. “Good call having Jamieson stay on him all night, Emery.”

Emery Stanton nodded. “That’s why you wanted Jamieson, right? His defence is on point. Have Jamieson stick to Platt-Myrth like glue and maybe the kid will make a mistake and give up the puck.”

Dorian tuned them out and leaned against the doorjamb while he waited. A forecheck was... something to do with a turnover? Four months since he’d started this job and he was still learning hockey terminology. For the life of him, he could never remember what a forecheck or backcheck was.

It was Assistant Coach Li who spotted him first. “Hey, Dorian.”

Matt’s head snapped up. “You need us for something?”

“Just you,” Dorian said. “But it’s not urgent, so I can come back.”

“Nah, we’re good.” Matt flipped the cover on the tablet and handed it to Li. “Thanks, guys.”

Li and Emery filed out past Dorian, Emery giving Dorian a friendly punch to his biceps in hello.

“What’s up?” Matt asked, perching on the edge of his desk.

He looked sharp in an iron-grey suit paired with a white shirt and black tie. With his wide shoulders, two or three inches of beard growth, dark blond pompadour, and dark eyes, he looked more like the leader of a motorcycle club than an AHL coach.

Dorian sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk and kicked his legs out. “I’m going to be working on a series of intro videos for social media, one for each player. Something we can use when you make the playoffs.”

Matt raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t comment on the when like Mark had. “I know. Mark told me. Who do you want to start with?”

“You.”

The other eyebrow rose to join the first. “I’m not a player.”

“But you’re an Orca. And the team starts with the coach.”

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