Page 11 of Rookie Recovery

Which was fine. I would fit in here. I could be loud. I could be so fucking loud.

I spent the first couple of years training with teams on the West Coast, being passed around like a joint at a house party, until the Carson Cavs from New York signed me.

Now, not saying I didn’t know much about American geography, but you can imagine my disappointment when I realised New York State was not in fact the New York City I’d seen advertised in every glamorous sit-com and Christmas movie I’d ever watched.

I ended up in basically an Americanised Bruton Willesbury. Except that everything was so spread out. It wasn’t a two-minute walk to the pub. It was a ten-minute drive to a dive-bar. There were no pub lunches, no chip butties, no jacket potatoes with cheesy-beans, no sticky-toffee pudding, no crumble. Only burgers and fries, and on the fourth of July, hotdogs.

I remember calling my brothers in tears, and secretly hoping they’d tell me to get on the next London-bound aeroplane, and come home. But they didn’t. Especially once they found out I made ten times more on my starting salary than they had at their peak rugby careers.

“Arch, you just have to fake it ‘til you make it,” Olly had said.

“Yeah,” Harry chimed in. “Pretend like you’re the shit, and soon enough, everyone will believe it.”

So that’s what I did. I pulled up my big boy pants, and I put on a brave face.

And when the brave face didn’t get me where I needed to be, I put on the little-bit-cocky face. Which morphed into the a-lot-cocky-face, which in turn, morphed into the arrogant-as–fuck face.

It was that one, that face, that got me places. People started taking notice. Paying me attention. Putting me on the roster for more and more important games. Writing articles about me. Asking for brand sponsorship on Instagram. Wearing my jerseys.

I was good at this sport. Like really fucking good. And I had everyone else convinced. My teammates, my opponents, my agent, coaches, the media, every member of the general public.

There was just one person I was yet to convince.

Me. It was me.

It didn’t matter how often I looked into the crowd and saw a green and gold jersey with BOWMAN 11 in huge vinyl letters. Or how often they asked me to do a piece to camera after a win. Or how often I was introduced as “British hockey sensation” or “hockey’s fastest rising star” or “the next big thing”.

I still felt as though I was waiting for that moment.

The moment when the coach would make me pull up a chair.

It would go like this: “Bowman, Wildcats have shown an interest in you”, “Bowman, we’re trading you”, “Bowman, we’re sending you back to Blighty because you don’t belong here. You’re too slight and too cute—probably—for hockey. Go play soccer, or horse dancing, or petanque or something more suited to your wheelhouse.”

Okay, so that last one hadn’t happened yet. But it would. I could feel it on the horizon. Following me around. Hanging over my head. Like a cloud of angry Bringham pigeons.

And Bringham pigeons were the angriest of all pigeons. Definitely angrier than Bruton Willesbury pigeons. Smaller and runtier too. Which made them a thousand times more terrifying.

“Someone call for me?” Coach Turner said, half-jogging into the weights room. He frowned down at the screen of his phone and placed it in his trouser pocket. “Bowman, great, you’re here.”

He clapped his hands together, once, loudly. If he were British, he’d have punctuated it with a “Right, lads.”

The other guys closed in, coming to stand beside me, forming a semi-circle around Coach.

“I’m only in town this weekend. Got this goddamned Seattle trip, so we’re gonna make it work. Bowman, I’ve called the PT in for today. He’s agreed to come in on a Sunday to give you a once over.”

Next to me, Aaron elbowed Zac in the ribs, and Rowan snort-laughed, which he disguised badly as a cough. I shot them a side-eye, but couldn’t figure out what was so funny.

Coach either didn’t care, or didn’t notice, because he took his phone out again, looked at the screen, and muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He turned to us. “Once Sul’s finished with Bowman, suit up and get on the ice. My plane’s at four, so we’ll see what we can cram in before then.”

Everyone nodded and dispersed once again.

“Come on,” Zac said, slinging an arm over my shoulder. “I’ll walk you to Jamie’s office. He has magic hands, you know.”

The left-winger, Zac, was tall, six-three-ish, and Black, with a side fade. He had the kind of laughter that was so loud it could be divisive. It was snorty and a little squeaky and self-deprecating, but not in the slightest bit self-conscious. It was infectious and warm. He laughed at his own ‘magic hands’ non-joke, and I found myself swept into the moment.

“Sick. Is he hot?” I asked.

Zac’s grin didn’t falter. “You’ll see.” He chuckled to himself again and dropped me off at the end of the corridor, outside a door with a name plaque that read:

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