Page 102 of Rookie Recovery

“Fine,” I sighed. I swiped the trail of blood away with my opposite thumb, exposing raw, red skin across my knuckles. Shit, I looked like Rowan. “Bowie and I have been … whatever. But I fucked up.”

“Explain fucked up.”

I jabbed a finger towards Bowie’s file folder, cock-eyed on my desk. “I wouldn’t sign the release paperwork to let him play.”

She winced. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” My knuckle was still leaking blood in a narrow trail down my middle finger. “He’s not happy with me.”

“How bad is it?” She leaned back, studying me. She knew there was more to my putting a fist halfway through my filing cabinet than a simple diagnosis.

She knew if it had been a clear-cut decision, I wouldn’t have hesitated.

“It’s a couple of games. A few more weeks of healing. That’s all.” I gripped the arms of the chair again, watching the blood slide farther down my finger. “I’ll sign it once his MRI comes back clean.”

“Jamie,” Katie said, reading between all my lines, like she always did. “Are you being … overly cautious? Because it’s Bowie?”

“I was in charge of his recovery.” I was still staring at the blood on my knuckle. “It’s my fault. I won’t be responsible for a worse injury, too.”

“You can’t force anybody to heal.”

“No, but I could’ve done a better job making sure he did.”

She huffed. “You really think that kid would have sat around and behaved for two months if you hadn’t been watching him?”

“No,” I sighed, tilted my head up towards the ceiling tiles. “And he wasn’t listening to me about sitting out now, either. So I …”

“You made the choice for him,” she supplied.

I snorted. An ironic sound. “You think I don’t know what he’d choose? Without bothering to consider the facts? All he wants is to play.”

Her face softened with sympathy as I looked up. “They all do.”

“So did I. What do you think I chose?” I murmured. “And Coach Turner isn’t gonna make the decision that protects the player. Trust me on that. His job is the game. Bowie’s health—that’s mine.”

“Jamie …” Katie let her words trail off, like she was struggling with whether to give voice to her thoughts. “You think maybe you’re letting your feelings for him and what happened to you affect your judgment?”

“No.” The word came out in a bark. “I’ve been here before, okay? I’ve seen this from the other side. You don’t make good decisions, smart decisions, when you think your whole life rides on this one game.”

“Oh, Jamie.” Katie sighed. She leaned forward onto her elbows to study me closer. “You have to look at it objectively. If this wasn’t Bowie, what would you do?”

I was breathing too hard, too fast, again. My hands clenched into fists. Hell, this was the reason I’d gone into this career.

Because I wanted to make sure nobody had to go through what I did.

“I can’t let him end up like me. I can’t do that. I can’t see him end up”—the word snagged in my throat—“broken.”

“Jamie—”

But I couldn’t listen, not anymore. I hauled myself out of my chair. I needed to get out of this office, out of this rink. Out of this fucking field, if I was being honest. Because she was right. I wasn’t being objective. Not with him, not with something like this.

Hand shaking, mind spinning, lungs heaving, I stormed out.

Chapter 14

Bowie

I wriggled my ass on the Bobcats’ locker room bench, memorising the way the wooden edge bit into my thighs. Memorising the smell of the place. Like ice and sweat, and game-worn plastics, and a cocktail of other things, which on their own were, frankly, minging, but together …

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