Page 69 of Rookie Recovery

So I dropped my gaze to my plate and like the big, fat coward I was, I stuffed in an oversized bite of breakfast. “Liked it? That’s a stretch.”

I was a big fat liar and a big fat coward.

“And.” Bowie straightened, grinning like he hadn’t seen me staring at his mouth and the freckles on his nose. “I had a great night.”

Shit. This was where I was supposed to be the bigger man, the grown-up. Talk about the kiss. I wished I weren’t so hungover for this conversation, but here we were. Better to get it over with. “Bowie … “

“So, I have one important question.” His blond brows arched as he turned to me again. He didn’t lean in this time, though.

Oh, God. Here we go. “Go ahead and ask. I guess.”

Might as well rip off the band aid. Tell him I was drunk, and it didn’t mean anything and no, I didn’t regret it, but it wouldn’t happen again … And a bunch of other lies I didn’t want to weave. Why was I still bothering?

Would it really, truly, be so bad to see where this went?

“Remember,” Bowie said, one of his brows arching, “I cooked you breakfast. So you have to answer.”

I sighed. “Just ask.”

“Did you used to play hockey?”

“What?” My fork tumbled out of my fingers and hit the plate with a very obvious clatter. “How did you—did I say—that’s what you want to ask? What?”

My ears had started to buzz.

“Yeah. You said you played in college.” His green eyes drifted skywards. “Or was it high school? I was a little tipsy, too.”

“Oh, um.” I slid my fork so the handle hung off the edge of my plate. How had we ended up here? “Well yeah, I guess so. Why d’you think I became a hockey PT?”

“So …” The green eyes fixed on me, a playful sparkle setting them afire. “Were you going to tell me?”

How was it possible I’d have rather been talking about the kiss? How was that possible? I rolled the fork against the plate so I had an excuse not to meet his gaze. “No, probably not. I don’t play anymore.”

“Why not?” He didn’t blink. His eyes were doing that soul-bearing green-laser thing.

The fork rolled over with a clank. “Just don’t.”

“C’mon, Jamie.” Not Kitty or Doc or Dr. Perfect. Jamie. My stomach fluttered in a weird, unfamiliar way.

I couldn’t fucking look at him. “I’m thirty-seven. I moved on.”

“Bullshit.” His voice wasn’t cold, but there was a definite no-nonsense note to it. He crossed his arms, leaned his good elbow onto the counter. “Half the guys at the open hockey on Thursday nights are over fifty. You don’t get to play the old man card.”

“I’m gonna take Brady out now.” I stood, and Brady raced in at the sound of her name, a mangy tennis ball hanging out of her mouth.

Bowie was not to be dissuaded. He hopped off the stool and followed Brady as I pulled on my shoes. “When was the last time you played?”

“Years. I dunno.” I opened the door, and Brady barrelled out. Ten years, but who was counting?

Bowie came with us. “How many?”

“A lot.”

“You own skates?” But he already knew the answer. Of course I owned skates. And sticks. Pads. Pucks. Tape. All of it.

I sighed, jammed my thumb against the elevator button. “Yeah, I still own skates.”

“Okay.” Bowie followed me in, tipped his good shoulder against the mirrored side. “We’re going.”

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