Page 7 of Blind Side
I knew now. I'd known for a while.
Jamie Hayes.
There it was. The thing I'd been sitting on for years, waiting for a moment that might never come. I had catalogued every piece of data, the laugh, the car rides, the mug, the way his shoulder felt against mine, the exact cadence of his voice when it softenedinto his private self. I had all of this information and I had done nothing with it—because I had never had enough evidence that the door opened from both sides.
Denver was asking me to decide whether it mattered.
I stood up and walked out of the film room. Morrison passed me going the other direction and gave me a nod. I nodded back.
Our team dinner—Korean barbecue—was at eight. Hayes had organized it. Hayes organized everything. The group chat had gone out four days ago with the restaurant, the time, and a note that saidVolkov: yes, they have the spicy pork you like. Bishop: yes, there's parking. Mikkola: this is mandatory (not really, but also yes really).
The man could run a logistics operation for a small country.
The restaurant was loud and warm, dense with smoke from the table grills. Hayes had reserved the back room and was already there when I arrived, seating everyone. He'd put me next to him.
He always did.
We had twelve people around a table with the grill sizzling. Volkov was arguing with Bishop about the optimal meat-to-rice ratio. Eriksson was saying something to Theo that made Theo's whole face light up. Kieran was at the far end of the table, eating and watching the room. Nico was beside him, and at some point Nico said something low that made Kieran's mouth curve into a gentle smile. They'd been living together for almost a year.
The room was buzzing with the team's energy. Mikkola was at the end of the table, still a little uncertain—but less rigid than he had been. Hayes had seated him between Nico and Eriksson. Strategic. The Finnish connection on one side and Eriksson's steady warmth on the other. The kid didn't know he'd been placed. He just knew he was comfortable.
Jamie worked the table, paying attention and turning conversations toward people who hadn't spoken yet. He made sure Mikkola had someone to talk to, and then ordered extra banchan because he'd noticed Nico eyeing the kimchi but not reaching for the last piece.
He leaned toward me at one point, his shoulder pressing against mine. "You're quiet tonight."
"I'm always quiet."
"You're quiet-er tonight. Different quiet." He studied me with those eyes that saw so much of me. "Everything good?"
A direct question—from Hayes, who was the best in the league at asking indirect questions that got you to reveal things you weren't ready to share. The direct version meant he'd already noticed something and was giving me the chance to talk about it.
"Everything's good. Long film session."
"With Nico? He said you were helping him with his release point."
"He's got good instincts. Just needs to trust his hands more."
"You're good at it." He said it simply, the way he said things that were true—not flattery, more observation. "The film work. Guys come out of sessions with you and they're better. You know that, right?"
I looked at him. The grill light caught his face from below, warm and uneven. His expression was genuine—the easy smile he gave everyone. Just Jamie, looking at me, seeing me the way he saw everyone, which was more than most people bothered to see anyone.
"I know that."
"Good." He turned back to the table and yelled at Volkov to stop hoarding the pork belly. Then he refilled my water glass from the pitcher, not making a production of it, just doing it—the way he did things for people automatically, without asking whether you needed it. He already knew.
But it was impossible to tell the difference betweenhe does this for everyoneandhe does this for you.Because he did it for everyone. There was no evidence, none, that the mug on his shelf or the seat beside him at dinner or the way his shoulder pressed against mine was anything other than Jamie being Jamie.
I sat there amid the noisy team with the knowledge that Denver was offering me what I'd wanted for ten years, and that the man sitting next to me, close enough that I could feel his body heat, was the reason the math had stopped being simple.
And I said nothing.
And when Hayes stole a piece of meat from my plate without asking, I let him, because there wasn't a single thing Jamie Hayes could take from me that I wouldn't gladly give.
4
Jamie
Luca Moretti's one-timer was a weapon, and playing on his wing was like standing next to a loaded gun with perfect aim.
