Page 62 of Rookie Recovery

“We’re gonna get matching tattoos,” Zac yelled, like he was twelve and his mum was finally letting him go to the arcade with his BFF for the first time.

“Yeah, dragons,” Aaron said, eyelids half closed.

“I thought we were getting bobcats.”

Katie rolled her eyes affectionately. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment Jamie walked over to the group, holding a tray laden with drinks.

“Hey,” he said to Katie, giving her such a warm smile, it ignited a spark of jealousy. I mean, they were friends, and he was gay, and I had nothing to be jealous of. We weren’t even a thing.

And until we got the text from Aaron, I was sure Jamie had been on the cusp of telling me to get the hell out of his life.

He placed the tray in the centre of the coffee table. “This is yours,” he said, handing me a drink, ignoring the rest of the guys, and letting them fend for themselves. Then he sat down. Right next to me, half on Aaron, who didn’t even huff or tsk. He extricated himself from under Jamie and went to sit on the arm of the sofa beside Zac. At a glance, it almost appeared as though he was sitting on his lap.

“It’s just soda,” Jamie whispered to me. His boozey breath seemed to curl over my cheek. “There’s no rum. I had to be sneaky because Rowan was there and he wanted to get shots but I said no, no shots, I am your therapist so there is no rum or booze.”

Man, he was further gone than I thought. From four drinks, though?

“He made me do shots with him at the bar,” he said, which frankly, explained a lot.

I took a sip of my coke, and was half-surprised to find it was just that. Jamie, even in this inebriated state of his, had spent so much effort ensuring I got the right drink and keeping his promise to me. A warm, fuzzy bubble replaced the ickiness bubble. Or joined it. I didn’t know. There were a lot of new feelings swirling about inside me.

“SHOTS!” about four guys at once yelled as Rowan finally arrived with his own tray, bearing at least thirty tiny little plastic glasses filled with a rainbow of liquids.

I leant closer to Jamie. “I can’t do shots, Kitty.”

He didn’t verbally respond, but he squeezed my knee once. My heart leapt into my throat.

Katie’s eyes followed Jamie’s hand. Then she caught my gaze, held it for a few seconds, and looked away. Possibly smirking, it was difficult to tell with the dim lighting of the bar.

Aaron, ever the diligent captain, circled the table, handing out shots and drinks. I tried to wave him off, but he pushed a little beaker of fluorescent blue liquid at me.

“Show us how the Brits do it, Archinold Bowieman,” he said, resuming his perch now that his captainly duties had been taken care of.

“That s’not his s’name,” said Rowan, words sliding into one another. “It’s Arching Bowersman.”

“Fuck off,” shouted Zac. “It’s Archester Bor… wait.” Which made everyone laugh.

And while they were distracted figuring out my name, Jamie slid the drink from my hand and replaced it with an empty shot glass. He then downed my original shot.

I slammed my empty beaker onto the table with a dramatic Look how well I’ve handled my own liquor flair. Aaron nodded, pleased with my evident progress.

“Thank you,” I whispered to Jamie. He didn’t respond, except to move his arm a tiny fraction against mine.

After another round of shots, the conversation turned to hockey. It was all recounts of sick dangles and ill snipes, nasty toe drags. Most of it way too ridiculous to be anything more than open hockey shenanigans.

I tried to calculate how many units of alcohol Jamie had drunk. But each count landed me at around the eleven or twelve mark. Which was fine. He was a big bloke. Six foot whatever, broad shoulders, muscles from here to Bruton Willesbury. He could handle twelve units, right?

But he never drinks. He’s not used to it, said a tiny voice inside my brain.

He’d have a sore head tomorrow, but he’d be okay. Probably.

Suddenly arms plunged from nowhere, wrapping themselves around my neck and Jamie’s neck from behind, forcing our heads together, sandwiching Rowan’s face in the middle.

“Guuuuyyyyss,” Rowan whined. “Move over.”

Without further warning, he dropped into the non-existent gap between Jamie and me, forward rolling like the world’s sloppiest SAS dude. He landed with his ass in Jamie’s lap and his legs over mine.

Jamie’s empty glass tumbled to the floor. I cradled my half drunk coke to stop it from spilling.

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