Page 27 of Game On

Jamie had nodded. “On it, Coach.”

The Orcas started the game with a vicious edge Jamie hadn’t expected. Watching from the bench was like watching a choreographed dance. The players just got each other, moving with purpose and fire and a kind of grace that left Jamie in awe. The Cobras had never been this cohesive and in sync.

During his first shift on the ice, Jamie knew this was going to be one of the best games of his life. He blocked shots before they could touch Lewis-Nyawo’s tape, threw nasty checks that would make his shoulders ache later despite the pads, and set up a shot for Stadden.

And he stuck to Platt-Myrth, as promised.

The kid was no joke. The Orcas had watched tape earlier today to prep for this game, and Skills Coach Stanton had called him Colorado’s go-getter. He was the kind of player a team relied on, one of those indispensable players coaches feared sitting out games due to injury.

Jamie didn’t want to injure him. He just wanted to strip him of the puck.

Which he did. A lot.

Halfway through the third period, with the Orcas up by one, Platt-Myrth was visibly annoyed. The kid had held it together for the first two periods, but when Jamie appeared on his heels again in the third, he let out a frustrated “Come on!” that made Jamie grin.

Because annoyed and frustrated players made mistakes.

With a few minutes left on the clock, Jamie intercepted Platt-Myrth’s pass, the puck hitting his tape and destroying what would’ve otherwise been a perfect opportunity for Platt-Myrth’s teammate’s one-timer. Jamie circled behind the net, adrenalin pumping like it hadn’t in months, sweat tracking down his face, the sound of the crowd in his ears. He passed to Toussaint, and?—

Ended up face-first in the boards.

What the fuck?

A whistle blew. Game play stopped. The crowd booed.

Checking penalty for Platt-Myrth.

Well, shit. Jamie hadn’t meant to make him that angry.

“Dude, you okay?” Andreen, his defensive partner for this game, skated up to him, red-faced from exertion.

“Yeah.” Jamie shook off the hit. “Are you kidding? I’m fine. That kid just won us the game.”

They’d been up by one already, but anything could happen in the last couple of minutes of the third period. Now Colorado was down their best player.

Jamie cut his gaze toward the bench. Coach Shore’s expression hadn’t changed, but there was a definite smugness to his posture.

And when the Orcas crushed the power play, slipping a goal past Colorado’s goalie? Jamie would’ve been able to feel that smugness radiating from outer space.

Hell, he’d be smug too if his team had come from the bottom of the standings to... this.

In fact, Jamie was all kinds of smug as he spoke with the press and showered and changed, Coach Shore’s words echoing in his ears.

“Great work tonight, Jamieson. Keep it up.”

Oh, he fucking planned to.

Some of the younger players invited him out for drinks at a nearby sports bar, and though Jamie seriously considered it, he ultimately declined. Of course, Toussaint called him an old geezer, as if twenty-eight years old was ancient, but it’d been a long-ass day—game days always were—and Jamie wanted to veg a little before bed.

Okay, maybe he was an old geezer.

Still, he didn’t let that stop him from catching a ride home with Archie. Once he arrived, he hopped up Dorian’s front steps with a bounce, a smile on his face as he let himself in quietly in case Dorian was asleep.

He should’ve known better. If he’d learned anything in the two days he’d been with Dorian, it was that Dorian was a night owl.

Jamie followed the music to Dorian’s office. The room itself was fairly bland—dove-grey walls, a desk, a coffee table, and a couch—but the large window that looked out over the front yard let in a lot of light during the day. The office was a mess though, with product samples littering the coffee table, the floor around it, and the space next to the couch. And on the wall opposite Dorian’s desk was a painting in a riot of colour that threatened to make Jamie’s eyes bleed. It was a contemporary piece and reminded Jamie of how one of his nieces used to paint when she was little—by dipping a paintbrush in paint, then flicking the brush at the canvas so that the paint splashed onto it.

Dorian, bopping his hips along to “Bring It On Home” by American Authors, caught him looking at it and grimaced. “I hate that thing,” he said, turning the music down.

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