"Youth hockey. God, you'd be incredible with kids, but is there a chance of fallout there? I'm around teenagers enough to know how often slurs get thrown around, and parents aren't much better."
"There's definitely a chance, yeah," I huff. "But I—other than Taylor, nobody in New Jersey knows why I'm leaving. I mean, they know I want to be closer to Harper, but that's it. I don't plan to say more than that. They're equipped to deal with whatever questions they get later. But I told this former teammate about us. I wanted him to know before I got hired. So, he knows, and someone above him knows, and we're gonna see how it goes. We'll see whether parents have a problem with their kids being coached by someone like me, and I'll leave if I have to."
Mateo frowns, the crease between his brows deepened by the suggestion that I'm not good enough. "Fine. Okay. What's the backup plan?"
"Some guy I know runs a soccer clinic for a week each summer," I smile, waiting until he smiles, too. "If coaching doesn’t work out, I figure I can do something like that for hockey kids. Private, small-scale player development stuff. Year-round. Nothing requiring the support of an entire group at once. It means I'd lose out on some of the team vibes I love, but I'd still get to go to games and watch them succeed."
"So, step one is the press conference, and moving you home. Step two is you coaching youth hockey. Step—"
"Step two is asking you to move in with me. And holding your hand in public. And sex—but probably not in public. Stepthreeis coaching youth hockey. And hopefully I don't need step four. Hopefully, my being Jameson Sinclair will be more important to them than anything else. Hopefully, my name still matters."
He kisses me again, furious and fond, his tongue there to sweep away all the things he doesn't want to hear me say out loud. I'm as smooth as Mateo is, and I take the coffee from his hand as I crawl into his lap, just like I have all the times we’ve believed in tomorrow. His arms wrap around me in response, but he breaks the kiss to demandeye contact that blurs as soon as he speaks.
"Jamie, your name will always matter."
The press conference is easy, my lack of sleep notwithstanding. Journalists push for answers about whether Taylor and I have had any sort of falling out. Or whether I'm in talks with other teams, including and especially the one I played for my entire career. Or whether I'm finally settling down with some special woman. Once there's no real gossip to be had, and every answer is a simpleno, they get over it. When the news breaks nationwide, even quietly, I get a call from my parents. They don’t get over it for a while.
Mateo probably would’ve helped me pack and move back to California. And it’s the sort of stupidly domestic thing I’d love to do with him, but his school year is about to start, and I’m okay with hiring strangers.
As soon as I’m back, I help him move into my house because my new job doesn’t start for another week.
There’s been local buzz about my decision to coach at the youth level, all positive for now. It carries forward when I meet coworkers and players. I’ve heard from several former pros—those I’ve played with and against—who have made the same decision after retirement. Their encouragement has been universal. I’m grateful for the chance to connect to the hockey world in this different way.
I don’t see Harper a lot at first. She’s busy with the start of her school year, too. As a second-year teacher, her workload is more overwhelming than Mateo’s. Plus, Southern California traffic famously sucks, and we’re at least an hour away from each other. The two of us meet for one dinner, but all four of us enjoy one amazing brunch. We’re all looking forward to the holidays and more timetogether.
“You’re mumbling about Thanksgiving, and it’s not even Halloween yet,” Mateo says, his glasses low on his nose.
I love living with this older version of him. He’s hot. It’s probably why I begged for a quickie ten minutes ago. It's definitely why I begged even louder for him to keep the glasses on while I rode him. Now he’s made me return to my side of the bed so he can grade papers, but it’s fine. We can do it again tomorrow.
“I just can’t believe we get to have a holiday like this. Harper and Simon and his brothers and your parents and your sisters and their husbands and their kids and you and me.”
“You know, a lot of people go to therapy over spending a whole day with that many family members.”
“That’s why we’re not invitingmyparents,” I point out.
I’ve only seen them once since moving back, and I thought maybe I had to introduce them to Mateo then. He’d kissed me senseless and reminded me that if we waited so long for us to have this, then they can wait a little while to know about it.
Time is finally on our side, in at least a couple of ways. Mateo and I have the relationship we’ve wanted all along, without rules or reservations. Whatever years we lost figuring this thing out, the rest of our lives are still ahead of us, and we get to share them now. Out loud. In front of everyone.
But it’s been almost 15 years since I was the league’s favorite hero and villain. Maybe predictably, distance has given us space. As much as I’ve been around—commentating, autographing, and coaching—my name has become a hotter commodity than my face or my ego. There’s always been another good-looking hockey player to splash on ads. Some have had the attitudes that keep post-game interviews interesting, a handful of them taking my place over the past decade and a half. All of it means I don’t getrecognized by the public like I used to, and sports media simply doesn’t care what I’m doing if it won’t earn them a click.
Out loud and in front of everyone isn’t what it would’ve been way back then.
Yet.
Those first few months—including a perfectly loud Thanksgiving at our house—go so smoothly that I decide to make reservations at Mateo’s favorite Italian restaurant the week before Christmas, and I follow that up by extending an invitation for my parents to join us.
Mateo hums. “A public spectacle will raise the chance of someone noticing it’s you—and me, with you.”
I smile at him even though he can’t see me. We’ve both had long days, me with my kids and him with his. He’s bending over to put some kind of casserole in the oven so we can enjoy a hot dinner before we inevitably crash. The view is distracting, but he stands in time for me to respond.
“That’s the point,” I say. “They care too much about appearances to cause a scene.”
Mateo nods. “So, they might be upset with you for putting your reputation on the line by having a relationship with me, but they won’t call attention to your relationship with me and be the ones to put your reputation on the line.”
“Exactly.”
And it happens, more or less, just like that.