Page 63 of Rookie Recovery

“Sorry, Doc,” Rowan said, from Jamie’s lap.

From. His. Lap.

He made no attempt to get off him, us. In fact, he wrapped an arm around Jamie’s head. And Jamie was … laughing. They looked so ridiculous, like a massive child going to visit an extremely hot Father Christmas. I couldn’t help but join in with their mirth, even though I wanted to swap places with Rowan.

“This man here,” Rowan grabbed Jamie’s jaw and turned his face to me, and despite Rowan’s eyes not quite making contact with mine, I was pretty sure he’d aimed the convo at me and I’d be required to participate. “He’s such a good doctor. My best. Third favourite PT. Hands down.”

“Get off me,” Jamie said, affectionately, but firmly shoving Rowan forward.

Rowan clung on, sat upright and wrapped his other arm around my shoulder, pulling all three of our heads together again.

“You two. Together. ‘Ssfucking beautiful, man.” Rowan closed his eyes and gave us a moment’s pause to reflect on his poetry. “I gotta take a piss,” he added, rolling off of us and crashing to the floor by our feet. “Oh, Doc, did you hear about the Cavs’ new defenceman?”

Jamie perked up, and Rowan propped himself on the edge of the coffee table, apparently having completely forgotten about his bathroom requirements.

“From fucking Florida.” Rowan rolled his eyes. “Luke something. Dude hits like a fucking train.”

“Uh oh,” Jamie said. “Worried he could kick your ass, MacKenzie? Maybe try not to throw down with him.”

Rowan slipped his knuckles under his thighs, as though hiding the evidence. “You know what it’s like, Doc. Don’t tell me you were a saint on the ice. I know for a fact you—”

Rowan’s words reached my brain half a beat after he’d said them. You know what it’s like. Saint on the ice.

“Kitty, you played?” I interrupted. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Jamie shot me a look halfway between guilt and pride.

“Fucking so good,” Rowan slurred. “No photos of him on the ice, though, ‘cause photography wasn’t invented back then.”

“Fuck off! I’m four years older than you,” Jamie grunted, which only served to remind me I was in a room full of grown ass men who were behaving like uni students. Jamie aimed a kick at Rowan’s leg.

“Watch your knee, old man,” he said, laughing. But Jamie’s face dropped.

“More shots!” Rowan announced to no one in particular, got to his feet, and stumbled off in the direction of the bar, not the bathrooms.

“You never told me you played,” I said, thankful I was no longer being forced to share Jamie’s attention.

The hardness of his expression softened instantly. Or maybe I had imagined it was there in the first place. “Defenceman. Loved it. Miss it. So fucking much. The smell of the ice and the crowd ... You know?”

“You played in college or highschool, or younger?” I asked, desperate to hear more. To picture Dr Sullivan, mountain of a man, zooming around the rink. Free, fluid, elegant. Starting fights. Pinning guys to the boards. I wanted that to be me.

I wanted to be the one pressed against the plexiglass, my thighs between his, my hands in each of his. Jamie holding them above my head as he brought his mouth down onto mine.

“Yes,” he said. A sloppy drunk smile slid across his face and I forgot what question I’d asked.

“Would you …” I started. Paused. Was I taking things too far?

“Would I?” Jamie said, and he took my hand in his. Well, my ring and baby fingers, not the whole hand. But the sheer thrill that licked up my arm and down my spine at the contact almost made me want to puke. Distantly, I was aware of cheering.

Get a grip, Bowie. He’s touched you before. Your naked back. Your chest. Nearly your dick.

“Would I?” he repeated, thumb idly sweeping along my pinky.

“Uh … Would you come skating with me? One day?”

Around us, the guys were getting to their feet.

Jamie stared into my eyes. His were etched with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. Not his sad puppy dog eyes, not his determined bordering manic drill sergeant expression either, but something altogether more … lost? I wasn’t sure.

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