Page 99 of Rookie Recovery

I set the printouts back down into the manilla folder and slid it closed. Tossed the damn thing onto my desk, and dug my fingers into my hair. Like ripping some of it out would help me find a solution. My elbow jiggled my computer mouse, waking my laptop.

Lesson 9, the screen reminded me in bold black letters.

Because one thing I hadn’t done in the past two weeks was study. In fact, I hadn’t bothered to do more than open the lesson—and leave it on page one of the chapter. I’d been busy, distracted as hell. But I hadn’t worried, because helping Bowie had been so fucking rewarding.

Maybe, I’d thought, staying in the hockey arena a little longer wasn’t so bad. Not if I was helping pro athletes stay in the game. Not be like me. I was saving careers and otherwise broken dreams. Maybe this was what I was meant to do, with my unique combination of personal experience and education.

Except, now I didn’t know what to do.

Bowie’s medical release form sat on top of my keyboard, waiting to be signed. I knew what everyone wanted me to do. Pick up the pen, sign my name, let him play. Would be so easy to do, and both Bowie and Coach would grin happy grins and maybe Bowie would find some creative ways to say thank you.

I felt sick.

If it were anyone but Bowie …

“Fuck.” I stood, shoving my chair back so hard it crashed into the filing cabinets against the wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

This was my fault somehow, wasn’t it? My treatment plan hadn’t been right. Hadn’t been good enough. I ran my fingers through my hair again. I shouldn’t have let him skate. Or spend so much time running around, hanging in the weight room, walking Brady, hiking, having goddamn sex …

He should’ve been taped up and lying down, except I’d gotten selfish. I’d wanted to be with him. Have fun with him. Kiss him and touch him and taste him. I’d gotten too goddamn close, and now, I couldn’t get my head on straight enough to be objective.

“Hey Kitty.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was here. Standing in my doorway, blond and beautiful and beaming like the ray of fucking sunshine he was. The sight of him normally sent my heart catapulting into my ribs, my stomach fluttering in a storm of butterflies. But now, it collapsed into a cold pool of dread as I turned to face him.

He was here to get the results of his MRI, the wonderful news that all my weeks of therapy and exercises and all his weeks of not skating had paid off. That he was healed and whole and in mint condition once again.

He was here for me to tell him he was ready to play in the upcoming season opener. He was here to watch me sign his medical release and hand it over to Coach Dave. Clear him to skate.

I wanted like anything to do it.

“Are you pre-sex-hairing your hair for me?” He nudged the door closed behind him, his eyebrows taking on a questioning arch. “Usually that’s my job?”

I smoothed my hand over my hair, even though the damage was already done. “No. Just … thinking.”

“You look extra grumpy today.” He sidled up next to me, close enough for me to feel the delicious heat of him. His fingers brushed my knuckles, the touch sending electricity zipping across my skin as those digits trailed up my sleeve to my elbow. “Kitty? What’s up?”

“Sit down, Bowman,” I said, pulling out my professional doctor voice, because I didn’t know how else to do this. Dr. Sullivan could deliver bad news to a patient. Jamie sure as fuck couldn’t.

“No, I don’t like that tone.” Bowie crossed his arms and set his butt on the edge of my desk. His eyes strayed down to the medical release form lying on my keyboard. The one I hadn’t yet signed. Wasn’t sure if I would. Could.

I reached past him to the manilla file labeled Bowman in neat block letters. I didn’t bother to open it, because the digital imaging wouldn’t make much sense to him. “It’s a whole lot better.”

He grinned. “Of course it is. I have the best physiotherapist in America, right?”

“But it’s not a hundred percent.”

His face fell. Smile vanished. Brows pulled low like he was trying to figure out what all those words meant laid out in that order. “Okay, so … What’s that mean?”

“Means …” I blew out a long, slow breath. “Means you shouldn’t play in the first game. Or two.”

“What?” His brows shot towards his hairline, nudging up under the tumbled, stray locks. “Shouldn’t … but I still can, right?”

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. “Technically. But when an injury isn’t fully healed, playing on it is risky. A little hit or a weird tweak might re-tear it. You want to wait until we get a clean MRI—”

“No.” He shook his head, sat up straighter than a fence post. “No, it’s not bothering me. No pain. It feels perfect. Like new.”

“C’mon, Bow. Be honest.”

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