Page 55 of Rookie Recovery

in room 212

And

2:45 P.M. WEDNESDAY SEPT 13th

with CHLOE STEVENS

in room 228

If you are unable to make this appointment/s please call the office on …

Blah blah blah.

No text message, no phone call to say why, though not gonna lie, it was pretty obvious. When I did ring the office, Katie answered.

“Archie, hi. No, I haven’t seen him all morning. Looks like he’s booked the next few days as annual leave. He has a big exam coming up. I expect he needs to study for that.”

I went to the appointments with Dan (for training) and Chloe (for massage), and they were fine, and I didn’t get any boners, or try to kiss them, or toss off in their bathrooms, or otherwise make a fool of myself. Jamie’s office was locked when I walked by. Every time I walked by. When I asked Dan how long he’d been leading my sessions, he shrugged and told me Jamie had only requested cover for the week, but who knew?

Jamie wouldn’t reply to any of my messages either, and had left me on read on TopTier. So I knew he’d seen my profile, my messages, my missed phone calls. He was simply choosing to ignore me.

It was all my fault. I had taken things one step too far. Crossed a boundary that should never have been crossed. Which, on reflection, I’d crossed the very moment I met him.

I shouldn’t have insisted he massaged my fake injuries, or said all those ridiculously suggestive things to him. I should not have tried to kiss him at the trolley museum. And I definitely, definitely should not have had a wank in his office.

Even though every wank I’d had since then had been entirely fuelled by that moment. Even though he essentially told me to wank in his office. Pointed me to the bathroom. Practically squirted the lube into my hand. Even though Jamie had been tenting just as much as I had. And even though I was certain he would’ve had to get it out of his system the same way I did.

Not at work, though. That would be so un-Jamie. He’d wait until he got home, pour himself a glass of red, break out the luxury lube and sleeves. I bet he used expensive lube.

So Jamie didn’t want anything to do with me, and that was entirely my fault. Nothing new or surprising there. He’d probably get someone else to take on the management of my recovery regime. In fact, I expected that was what he was doing right now, making phone calls, calling in favours, seeing who he could wrangle at the last minute.

I affected his deep American accent. “Hi, yeah, this is Dr Perfect. I need you to do me a solid. I’ve got this kid, he’s a dick, and I just can’t with him anymore. Take him off my hands, would you? URGH!” I kicked my leg out, catapulting the flimsy coffee table onto its side and scattering last night’s takeaway cartons over the floor like an imploding house of cards.

I could call my mum. Even if only to have another human to talk to. But I didn’t fancy explaining the rules of hockey to her for the eleven millionth time. Or my brothers, who’d be well into the Rugby World Cup right about now, and wouldn’t find a spare minute to talk about anything else.

I could call my teammates. Aaron, or Zac, or Rowan. But what would I say? “Hey, do you remember me? Please say you remember me. Validate me. Love me. Let me play with you.”

A key slid into the lock of the front door. I froze. Splayed out on the couch as though I’d been fired onto it from a cannon. In only my undies. My—actually pretty minging—undies that I hadn’t bothered to change in three days.

Maybe a burglar had come to rescue me from my destitution. Maybe they were there for an intervention. Had things gotten so bad I was praying for a burglary just to have someone else to talk to besides myself?

I brushed the Oreo crumbs from my bare chest and kicked an empty Pringles can under the sofa.

Wait, was I trying to impress the burglar?

Yes. Yes, I was.

The door swung inwards and my mouth fell open as my flatmate walked into the open plan living space.

What was his name again? Chip? Chuck? Something with a Ch, anyway.

His eyes roved about over the sheer chaos of his apartment. The stack of boxes that I still hadn’t moved or unpacked. The mess and rubbish everywhere. Me, half naked, filthy, spreadeagled on a couch he’d most likely have to send away to be incinerated.

“Dude!” he said, and I braced myself for the bollocking. “Wow, you’ve been having some serious parties while I was gone.”

I took in the sheer number of accumulated pizza boxes and Chinese food cartons and empty cans of whatever, and figured it really did look like someone had a party in here. I rolled with the assumption because the alternative was so much sadder.

I hadn’t eaten a proper home cooked meal in over six weeks, and Chuck-and-or-Chip’s floor bore witness to that. The worst part was I loved to cook. But what was the point when I was only ever cooking for one? Was I supposed to roast a whole fucking chicken just for myself?

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