Page 135 of Rookie Recovery

“That’s great you can last that long at your age.” Aaron slapped me on the back as we made our way over to their corner of entertainment.

I rolled my eyes. Hard. “Wait a couple of years, Tyler. See if you’re still laughing.”

“He’s like a lion.” Bowie curled his fingers over my hip. “Or a panther? A cougar! Great stamina. And a massive—”

“I could leave you here,” I mused, slinging an arm across his shoulders to crush him against my side. “See what kind of stamina you have walking home alone.”

At the top of the lane behind Aaron, Rowan ooed. His sharp grin was all predator, but the pink, sparkly ball poised in his hand dimmed the vibe a bit.

“You wouldn’t leave me!” Bowie gasped, turning in my arms to cast wide green eyes up at me. “I’m so young and cute and vulnerable! There could be sexual predators! Or … coyotes!”

“I thought you were into that.”

“No, I’m into cougars.” His innocence faded behind a cocky grin, aimed for a killshot. “When they’re tall, dark, handsome, and tattooed—how’s your stamina feeling, by the way? Cause mine’s—”

“Please stop talking,” I groaned as Rowan hurled his pink sparkle ball at the pins hard enough to send two of them flying into the neighboring lane. “We’re not doing anything here. Pretty sure people pay for sex in these nasty bathrooms.”

“You want me to pay you for sex?” Bowie’s brows pulled low. “That seems weird, cause you have more money than me—oh, you want to pay me for sex?”

I clapped a hand over his mouth. Aaron laughed so hard, Zac seized on his distraction to swoop in and steal his bowling ball—though I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at Bowie’s sexual quips or Rowan swearing up a storm about the lost pins.

Aaron raced after Zac. “Hey, I picked that ball out specifically to fit my large hands!”

Bowie licked my palm, and I let go with a yelp. He laughed, then plopped down into one of the seats dividing the lanes. Grabbed onto the pocket of my jeans and tugged. “Sit, Kitty.”

God, he was adorable, and I loved him, and that should’ve been more concerning. Maybe he’d broken something critical in my brain?

I sat.

“How many sticks you think MacKenzie’s gonna demolish this season?” JJ slung himself into the chair opposite me. “More or less than last year?”

“More,” I said. “I’d put money on it.”

Next to me, Bowie nodded his agreement. Rowan seemed nowhere close to an anger management breakthrough.

“How many hearts, that’s the real question?” Rowan perched beside JJ, smirking in a way that transformed his normal scowl into a masterpiece of soft lines and eye-catching angles that definitely brought both men and women running.

JJ was unimpressed. “None.”

Rowan kicked him in the shin, and while I stifled a laugh, Bowie sounded more like he’d choked on his tongue.

“Classy,” I leaned in to murmur against his hair.

“I bet,” JJ still focused on Rowan, “you get thrown off the ice for trying to start a fight with Lövgren … middle of the second period?”

Rowan’s face closed up tight in a scowl like a clenched fist. “Fuck that little Norwegian asshat.”

“He’s Swedish,” Bowie corrected, settling into his chair so his shoulder brushed mine. I bit back a smile at the subtle but deliberate contact.

“His Swedish-or-whatever-ness is not responsible for his asshattery.” Rowan rolled his eyes. In his lap, his hands had clenched into fists, those scabbed red knuckles looking fresh.

Did he ever get tired of fighting?

“Well, your love of his asshattery is gonna get you suspended,” said JJ, and he was kind of joking and kind of serious. “You gotta stop letting him get under your skin.”

“Hey, question.” Bowie tilted his head towards Rowan. “You ever gonna tell us what the Five-Donuts nickname is all about?”

Rowan looked mad enough to spit fire. “Fuck that little shit. One of these days …”

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