Page 105 of Rookie Recovery

Coach perched himself on the edge of the desk, assessed me for a few moments, rubbed his hand under his jaw. He took a sip from the closest mug and recoiled. “Gah, cold. So—”

“I need to skate, Coach. Put me in the game!”

So much for keeping my cool. Being suave and persuasive.

Turner stood, inhaled deeply. After a few agonising seconds, he spoke, “You know what Sullivan’s exact words were?” I shook my head, but he continued talking as though he’d had no intention of stopping anyway. “He said, while you’re almost fully healed, he highly recommends you sit out the next few games.”

“That’s pretty close to what he said to—”

“Recommends, Bowman. Recommends. Not prescribes. Not insists. Not carved into a stone tablet.” Turner pulled out a chair and sat dead in front of me. Like a police interrogator.

“What are you saying?” My heartbeat began picking up through its gears. Up a notch. Faster. Up another. Faster still.

He didn’t answer my question. “How’s your shoulder? How’s it feel? Good enough to skate with?”

“Yeah … yeah, it feels fine,” I said, wondering why, now that Turner was dangling exactly what I wanted in front of my face, I suddenly felt nervous about it. Suddenly felt like I was Georgie, and Turner was just some happy dude with a balloon and a passion for white face paint and one of those god awful American storm drains.

“Well.” He paused. Shot a glance at the door. “Dr Sullivan is not the only doctor that can sign you off to skate.”

“I … Wh …”

“You want to skate this opener? ‘Cos fuck knows we need you to skate it.”

“Of course. Of course I want to skate it. That’s what I came here for.” I believed the words. But they were quiet as they left my lips.

Turner slapped his hand on the desk, the biggest smile on his face. “Then consider it done. I’ll give Dan a call, and we’ll see you at practice later.”

He waved me away. Dismissed me. Shoed me like Farrell getting too close to a potted cacti.

I pushed myself to my feet and bumbled out of his office. Feeling as though I’d just been handed everything I’d ever wanted.

And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if I really wanted it anymore.

I mean, of course I did. I wanted it more than anything.

But …

Maybe not like this.

Chapter 15

Jamie

In the past forty-eight hours, I’d been an incredibly productive human being.

I’d set a new bench press PR at the gym. Run some two dozen miles; my knee was aching, and even Brady was tired—a record all on its own. Finished five chapters of my business class. And drank an entire handle of rum.

Records all the fuck around.

One thing I had not done was see Bowie. Or texted him. I wasn’t sure if I was waiting for him to make the move because I was being a gentleman—or a coward.

The phone on my coffee table had been quiet for the last two days. Couple of texts from Katie—which I hadn’t bothered to reply to. I’d stopped checking it for updates. Or expecting any.

The rum was helping.

The empty bottle sat on the empty couch cushion next to me. Not the one on my left where Brady was passed out, snoring in great billowing sweeps of furry ribs. The one where Bowie normally lounged, his long, lean legs kicked up on the coffee table, or draped over my even longer legs. In my not-sober state, I wondered if he’d ever sit there again.

Or maybe I’d fucked things up too badly to be repaired.

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