Page 26 of Rookie Recovery

“Obliques?” Aaron said.

“Yeah those. And he said it was impossible to fracture my glutes.” I rolled my eyes dramatically. “He just gives me a nice massage and tells me to go to one of the other massage therapists next time.”

“But you don’t?” Zac asked.

“Of course not.” I wasn’t about to miss out on an opportunity to have Kitty’s hands on me.

“You know he can just reschedule your appointments on their PT system, or whatever it is. Like your massages and stuff. Give them to one of the other techs. He does it with me and Zac all the time,” Aaron added.

“And me,” Rowan said.

“Me too,” JJ and Rainer both said in unison.

“So he doesn’t have to see me?” I asked, comprehension slowly drawing up around me like a mini personal tornado. “He could just pass me off to someone else?”

“There’s a woman,” Aaron continued. “Chloe. She’s head of”—he waved a hand vaguely—“sports massage or something. She always does me. She’s amazing, by the way. Better than Sul. He’s all pointy thumbs and annoying questions about how much fluid you’re drinking.”

“But why? Why doesn’t he just reschedule me with Chloe?”

As soon as I asked the question, I wanted to reel it back in. I sounded like a teenager with a crush. I felt like a teenager with a crush. Okay, fine, I was a teenager with a crush. But I didn’t want the other lads answering it for me, even though I sort of already knew.

“Good thing you’re so pretty,” Rowan said, ruffling my sweaty hair.

I shoved him off. Most of the guys took this as their cue to strike up other conversations, and I was glad when none of them decided to pursue that topic.

“So, like, why’s Jamie such a miserable bloke?” I asked Rowan, my words not quite a whisper but definitely hushed.

Rowan stripped off his socks and stood to pull his shorts down. He took a deep breath. “I think he feels trapped. In hockey. Maybe.”

No … that made no sense.

“But he is hockey? He loves this sport, no?”

A few nights ago, while I was on the sofa, eating tacos—because when in America, eat Mexican food, right?—and watching Monsters, Inc., my phone had bing-bonged. I usually ignored it because it was only TopTier, the dating app I’d reinstalled when I got back to the USA and hadn’t bothered to open since.

Now, I’d be the first to admit that I looked cute in my profile pic. I wasn’t wearing my hockey gear, I wanted to keep things anonymous, but it was a topless gym selfie, obviously. Taken in the mirror of the Cavs’ locker room. If anyone was looking closely enough, they might make out the gold feather of the knight’s helmet on the floor. But nobody ever seemed to notice that. Because the muscles and the blonde hair and the fuck-me smile were the things that generally caught a guy’s eye.

Needless to say, I got a lot of matches. Like a lot. And I’d become semi accustomed to dismissing them with little consideration.

But that day, when I was watching Sully and Mike and Boo, and eating my Chalupa Supreme, and thinking about Jamie and making myself unjustifiably aroused considering my chosen entertainment, something told me to open the notification.

And there he was, as though I’d willed him into existence. James Sullivan, SuperDoc. Staring up at me from his tiny five centimetre by five centimetre profile pic. Not smiling, of course he wasn’t smiling, but he looked … relaxed in a way he’d never been around me. I had a momentary pang of jealousy for whoever he was with at the time, whoever had taken the picture, because it was definitely no posed selfie.

It was a head and shoulders shot. His eyes were slightly squinted against the sun. His brows slightly furrowed, and his mouth parted just a teeny amount. Almost as if he were about to say, “What?”

He held a giant sub-style sandwich in his hands. It was missing a few bites, so at the very least, I knew he ate human food and didn’t feed off the souls of his enemies. The best thing about the photo was the tiny sliver of bare arm right at the bottom before it cropped out. I couldn’t be sure, and it was probably shadows anyway, but it looked as though buttoned up Dr Perfect had a tattoo.

Of course, I instantly opened his profile and memorised everything. Favourite colour: Green. Sure. Favourite type of music: Rock. Snorlax, but on brand. Favourite place to vacation: Europe. Could always introduce him to the fam whilst on our holidays. Karaoke song: Gotye. I mean, I couldn’t picture it, but that still didn’t stop it from being cute. Favourite sport: Hockey. Duh.

I’d sent him a few messages. Jamie hadn’t replied. If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t expect him to. But every time I got a DM that wasn’t from him, something heavy sank lower and lower in my chest.

Rowan’s words bounced around in my head. I think he feels trapped. In hockey.

So then, why had Jamie said his favourite sport was hockey? There was nothing else on his profile that eluded to his career. It wasn’t as though he was doing it to stay professional.

It just seemed weird, even for a man I knew little about. Why say he liked hockey if he felt trapped by it? There had to be other sports he liked, or other things in general. Surely? What about football? Or basketball? What was the other one … baseball?

There were other things. Of course there were other things. I knew he liked the colour grey, for example, and washing his hands, and scowling, and buttoning his cuffs, not rolling his shirt-sleeves up over his forearms even though I’d had very specific and elaborate fantasies about how perfectly thick and corded they appeared to be.

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