Page 97 of Rookie Recovery

“Parma Violets, Kitty. They have Parma Violets.”

“Do you want a basket?” he said. “Or are you feeling brave enough for a cart?”

Oh no.

Oh shit.

I wanted to laugh along with him, I really did, but I was pretty sure my heart had stopped beating. Because …

I loved him, I realised.

I loved him, and I wanted to stay in this perfect moment forever.

“Let’s get a trolley. I can do anything with you by my side.”

Scone and Co, the cafe inside the British food store, served small (normal portioned) cakes, desserts, and tea. Naturally. We’d stopped for a snack before heading back home—

Home? I meant to Jamie’s.

I got a cream tea and, because Jamie was curious, he got spotted dick with custard.

“What’s it like?” I asked.

Jamie chewed, pulled a face, swallowed. “It’s … well, it tastes nice, and it’s filling and … it’s okay?”

I laughed. Okay. That was exactly how you’d describe British food. And exactly why I loved it. It wasn’t trying to be a culinary masterpiece. It was simply existing as it was. Comfort food. Nostalgia. Happy being okay.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is claggy.”

He swallowed hard again. “The custard is good, though.”

“In the UK, bad custard is a crime punishable by guillotine.”

Afterwards, Jamie went to the bathroom, and then took my, frankly, absurdly full trolley—because squash and Irn-Bru!—to the checkouts. I used the time to call home.

“Archie, Sausage! How are you, darling?” Mum said after the second ring.

Something was off. “It’s too quiet there. Where is everyone?” It was Sunday. Things should be much, much louder. My brothers should be arguing about God knows what, Mum should be yelling at Theo, Farrell should be getting ready to kick the living shit out of Mum’s houseplants.

“They’re all down the village. Tonga’s playing South Africa,” Mum said. Right, the rugby.

I felt a sad sort of swoop in my gut and pictured my dad and brothers at the White Hart. Draft bitters and Scampi Fries, and laughter so raucous Chris, the landlady would joke she’d need to get the roof re-thatched. It was a tiled roof. Chris had always been a huge subscriber to Dad Jokes Monthly. She’d probably have the fire on in the grate because it was October and Wiltshire in October could range anywhere from chilly to biting, and it was always ringing wet. But with all the bodies in that tiny one-roomed pub, it would get gross and stuffy, so the windows would be open too, because that was how she rolled.

“Aren’t you going to the pub to watch?” Mum was so small, the lads would save barstools at the front for her and her friend Lyn.

“I will be, Sausage. I was just waiting for your call. I’ll join them after.”

I swallowed the lump building in my throat. She was waiting for me to call. She still cared. Even if she knew nothing about hockey, and there was an entire ocean and a five-hour time difference between us, I was still her son.

“So, Sausage,” she said after a few moments of me not saying anything. “What’s going on with you? How’s your shoulder? Have you seen any more of your fella?”

My fella. My fella.

“It’s … it’s all amazing.” I took a deep, contented breath, and told her everything.

About my shoulder, which was more or less back to its pre-injury status. Full range of movement, no nagging aches or pains, no twitching. Jamie’s no nonsense, militant regime had paid off. He’d promised I’d be on the ice again soon. That they wouldn’t bench me. And now I was finally starting to believe him.

I told her about the start of the season in a few days.

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