Page 95 of Game On

He didn’t love that he felt sorry for the guy who’d made his life hell for months, but maybe that just proved that he was the better person.

The Orcas had watched tape earlier today of Tucson’s most recent game, and although Henty hadn’t performed at his best then either, his game tonight was on a whole other level of bad. Maybe it was playing against Jamie that had Henty out of sorts?

Regardless, no matter that Jamie no longer respected the guy, he couldn’t help but feel for a fellow player who was so clearly struggling.

Jamie was on high alert the entire game, his body clenched against an oncoming dig. He was defence; Henty was offence. They battled for the puck more than once, and Henty had ample opportunity to get an insult in.

But there was nothing. Not even a mild chirp.

“Yo, what’s up with Henty?” Toussaint asked him when they ended up on the bench together near the end of the second period. “Is it just me or is he falling apart?”

Jamie blew out a breath as Henty got another penalty. “He’s definitely falling apart.”

Jamie had wanted to win against his old captain and then gloat about it, but he couldn’t gloat against someone who so obviously didn’t have their shit together.

Despite Henty’s bad night, though, the Tucson players were worthy opponents. With the score tied at 2–2 at the start of the third, Jamie held his breath from the bench as McNicoll made a slick cross-ice pass to Walters. Walters shot, and the puck bounced against the pipe to the tune of thousands of groaning fans, denying Walters the point and McNicoll the assist.

Jamie felt like he held his breath every time his skates hit the ice for a shift that coincided with Henty’s. Finally, during a break in play when the ref readied a face-off, he approached Henty, a little concerned and a lot wary.

“Dude, are you okay?”

Henty shook his head and skated off.

A lot of wariness was replaced with a lot of concern. Jamie still had a soft spot for his ex—always would—and the fact that something might be wrong with John Henty made him hurt for Scott.

At the end of the day, though, if Henty didn’t want to talk to him, there wasn’t much Jamie could do about it, so he focused on winning the game.

One of the rookie Tucson players fired a wrister toward the Orcas’ net. But he was a rookie for a reason, and he telegraphed each move as though they were written on the Jumbotron. Jamie saw the shot coming, predicting exactly where the puck would land, and got a skate on it before it hit the crease, earning himself a low whistle from his goalie, Lewis-Nyawo. Toussaint got his stick on the puck, and with a shout at Walters, they took off down the lane in a two-on-one. A single defender wasn’t any match for the Orcas’ first line, however, and Walters tucked the puck into the net after a sweet pass from Toussaint.

The mood in the locker room after the game was rowdy, and Jamie accepted high fives and back slaps and a “Fuck, yeah!” from McNicoll, even though he hadn’t done anything spectacular. Just played a regular game. But they’d beat not just Tucson, but a man they viewed as the enemy for what he’d done to Jamie, and they were flying high.

Jamie couldn’t blame them, although he had trouble focusing on anything other than Henty.

Because the man he’d faced tonight had been a shell of his former team captain.

Showered and dressed, he snuck out of the locker room with a nod to Brawsiski and Archie and texted Dorian that he’d meet him and Gio by the players’ exit.

He didn’t get far before he was waylaid by his ex-captain himself.

Henty leaned against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets. “Hey,” he said casually, like they’d run into each other at the grocery store. He was dressed in a black suit paired with a black shirt, no tie, and his brown hair was slicked back, his stubble several hours past five o’clock. Bags under his eyes attested to sleepless nights, and although he was only two years older than Jamie’s twenty-eight, he appeared worn down enough to look closer to forty.

“Hey,” Jamie returned. Because what else could he say?

Henty straightened off the wall. “Can we talk?”

“I don’t have much to say to you, Hen.” The nickname escaped out of habit, and Jamie silently cursed himself for it.

“Then, can I talk?”

Jamie shrugged to mask an uncomfortable niggle of curiosity in his chest. “Sure.”

Except Henty remained silent, scuffing one loafered foot against the floor as his hazel-eyed gaze swept Jamie up and down. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and swung his arms at his sides. In the next moment, he clasped his hands behind his back, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Unease and uncertainty fairly dripped off him, and the tension thickening the air between them was beginning to make Jamie’s head ache.

“How’s Scott?” he eventually asked, just to break the silence between them.

Henty’s lips twisted. “Pissed at me.”

Surprised, Jamie raised his eyebrows. “Why?” Scott and John had always been close.

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