“How much is bail set for?” Jamie asks without hesitation and not even a hint of sleep in his voice. Fucker. “I’ll get Jordie to do a transfer. Whatever it is, we’ll get you out.” Tyler thinks it’s commendable that he doesn’t cut the call then and there. Then again, once word gets out that Sidney Crosby is possibly broken, Jamie and Jordie are the last chance he has of actually making it back across the Atlantic alive. Or alternatively, Tyler Seguin Worries That He Broke Sidney Crosby In Prague With Indelible Ink.

The girl on Tinder is typing again. why don’t you show me how good you are with a cock Tyler coughs and drops his phone. That’s—wow. He did not expect her to go there.

“Did, uh,” Jamie asks, “did this ever happen when you played this game with Brownie?” “Nope,” Tyler says.

After the body issue comes out, Tyler only gets one tweet about his junk. It’s a chirp about the proverbial dick-to-ducky ratio in the web-only behind-the-scenes shower pictures. The stupid fake Stanley Cup ass tattoo gets way more attention than anything else, other than the fact that he’s naked in front of a camera. That’s how he wants it: people talking about what he does, not who he is. In which Tyler is trans, and Jamie isn't. A story about coming out, or not; breaking up, or not; and bunching mox. Or not.