Page 113 of Rookie Recovery

And I …

What the hell had I done for him?

I’d taken away his choice—the choice about his life. His career. Treated him like a child. Because I was obviously so mature and knowledgeable and grown up. I’d spent the night on the bathroom floor like a fucking college kid.

I shouldn’t be making decisions for anyone.

But I could fix this.

Cold nerves clenched my stomach. Signing off on his release was the right thing to do—I knew that. But it still felt wrong. The old paranoias, the lingering fears whispered all the things that could go wrong. All the reasons I should stick to my initial decision.

This was Bowie. My Bowie. And I wanted to protect him. Save him. Watch him reach out and grasp all the dreams I’d never gotten to hold. Tell him to rest his wings now so he could soar later.

But I’d made a bad call. I’d been too busy letting my injury, my experience, and my feelings for Bowie cloud my judgment.

I needed to separate my past from Bowie’s future, once and for all. I’d been so caught up seeing my younger self in him—in his love of the game; in his desperate need to play; even in his cocky mask, the drinking, the sleeping around; in our very connection, our pull towards each other—that I hadn’t realized he wasn’t me.

Not by a long shot.

He’d worked so much harder than me to get where he was. Overcome so much more. He was so much stronger, so much more mature, than me. He knew himself, what he was capable of.

He was better than me in every way.

So, I needed to make the right call. Be the good doctor.

Let go of control.

I needed to let Bowie choose.

Even if that meant watching him get hurt. At least if he did, he’d have a doctor who cared a whole hell of a lot by his side, helping him through it.

Bowie was stronger than I’d ever been.

Better.

I slid my phone out of my pocket. Stared at his message thread again.

Bowman: Here, Kitty Kitty!

Me: I’m here.

The sudden urge to call him swelled in me. To speak the words bubbling in my chest. But I couldn’t … I couldn’t let those words influence his decision. I wasn’t signing that paper to beg his forgiveness.

I had to let him go, and maybe, once the season got going, he’d come back. Or maybe, he’d let me go, too, and that’s the way things were meant to be.

I had to be okay with that. With all of it. With staying or moving on. Going where the currents of life took me. Just like in the game. You adjusted, adapted to the things you couldn’t control.

I closed my phone. I had one more thing I needed to do before that meeting. I stretched my bad leg out and breathed in the deep October air.

I needed to skate.

Sticks and pucks wasn’t really hockey.

There was no organized play, not even full equipment. It was a pile of pucks on the ice, a bunch of half-suited old guys zooming around taking slap shots against the boards, and two empty nets. Which meant that it was just me, my skates, and the stick in my hands under my sweat-softened gloves.

Felt right, better than a true game would’ve. No one to compete with out here. No one to be better or worse than, no one to judge or be judged. And it felt good to fuck around on the ice, like I hadn’t done since I was a kid.

No motive, no urgency, no desperation. Just stickhandling for the fun of it. Seeing if I could still toe-drag—I could—flip the puck up and catch it on my blade—also a yes—bat it into my feet, kick forward—again, yup. Taking shots to hear the resounding crash of collision with the boards or tinking against the post.

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