Page 111 of Rookie Recovery

I nodded. She said something else, but my mind had drifted off. Then, she was gone, and I didn’t know if she’d left or headed to the kitchen, but my phone was in my hand again and I was staring at the black screen.

You have to tell him how you feel.

Why hadn’t I? Would it have made a difference if I had? Something told me it wouldn’t have, that what had happened was bigger than that. His career, hockey—that was bigger than me or him or us. That was … life.

Hockey was life.

I clicked on my phone, but instead of texting him or calling him, I opened TopTier. Didn’t bother with any of the matches I’d garnered—I was up to eighty-seven potentials—and clicked on the profile for A_Big_Stick.

His grinning picture was an arrow to the heart. His tanned shoulders and chest, windswept blond locks, and that smirk. That goddamn smirk, the one that said he was a good lay and could deep-throat like a fucking champ and would make you laugh with a stupid joke or a reluctantly uncovered little piece of real.

I nearly stopped breathing.

Why had I clicked on his profile, opened the app in the first place? This was masochism of the purest form. Yet, my thumb kept scrolling. Down to the questions below.

Favorite color: Blue. I knew that one. Favorite sport, hockey, also a no-brainer. His favorite music was indie rock, and he liked cheap beer and appletinis, and obviously he could hit the high notes of Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” whilst dancing the no-pants dance.

I laughed in spite of myself. Ridiculous. Even when trying to get laid, he didn’t take it seriously. And, ah yes, there it was. Favorite place to bang was, naturally, his physiotherapist’s table.

I choked on my breath.

I needed to call him, text him, connect with him. Something. Anything. Know he was there, and it wasn’t just the booze talking. Fairly sure. Somewhat sure.

I opened the message thread labeled Bowman. For whatever reason, I’d never changed it. Felt so cold, so impersonal. So doctoral, like everything in my clean, organized, planned, sterile life.

Except for Bowie. My eyes caught on the last message he’d sent me, two days ago. Before everything had gone to pieces.

Bowman: Here, Kitty Kitty!

My gut clenched. I was going to puke.

I lurched up off the couch, stumbling over the bucket Katie had set on the floor, and raced for the bathroom. My knees crashed down on the tile in front of the toilet the moment before I upended a gut-load of rum and coke.

Many times.

More.

Until my stomach was empty, throat raw, knees aching from the cold. I stuck my face under the sink, rinsed, washed, then lurched back down to the floor. Head a little clearer, but everything still a big, roily mess.

My fingers brushed my phone on the tile. The screen lit up, Bowie’s text staring up at me again.

Here, Kitty Kitty!

I’d never replied, because I’d been busy glaring at his MRIs. And then he’d walked in, and that had been it. It’d all gone to shit, and now that message was the last proof we’d had any contact at all.

Here, Kitty Kitty!

My fingers curled around the phone.

Me: I’m here.

The text thread sat open.

Unread.

Quiet.

Ignored and alone and drunk and sad and … I deserved it.

---