Page 107 of Rookie Recovery

I stood up, swaying only a little, because despite being mostly sober for the past ten years, six-four and two hundred pounds was still a lot of body weight for absorbing alcohol. I stuffed my phone into my pocket, gave Brady a good scratch behind the ears and a heartfelt promise to be back, and headed out.

Faded evening light painted the street in dull colors, turning everything to grey. Buildings, cement, even the trees and grass had lost their luster to the waning of the day. People hustled down the sidewalk, ditching work for the evening. Some moved at a slower pace, maybe looking for a happy hour haunt.

Good. I wouldn’t be alone.

That was the whole damn point. I couldn’t sit in my lonely fucking apartment, by myself with my thoughts and my empty bottle of rum. Fuck that. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to go in anywhere.

Not the first uppity wine loft I passed—too many girls’ nights underway for a gay bachelor. The hipster bar on the rooftop deck over the Bank of America felt wrong, too. Too much … cheer. I even eschewed the brewery on the corner, under a tower of office buildings, because … I dunno.

I guess I was doing a drunk walkabout. The booze was getting to me. Steps slowing, the colors blurring as the greys deepened. My thoughts were still the same swirling mess, though. So when I reached the dimly lit sports bar wedged between a hamburger joint and a game store, I walked in.

It was almost empty, except for a few folks in the back corner around a booth, and a couple at a round table. An older man sat at the counter, drinking solo and staring at his phone. Nobody looked up at me when I strode in and sat down at the end of the bar.

I’d come out to not be alone, but sitting alone at a bar seemed appropriate. Especially when I looked up at the TV and found hockey. Specifically, a sports special on the Bobcats’ newest acquisition, Archie Bowman.

I almost laughed, except the bartender chose that moment to slide over. “Getchu something, man?”

“Rum and coke,” I said, and the drink appeared an instant later. He must not have realized I’d already consumed more than a reasonable amount of booze in the confines of my condo, or he wouldn’t have served me.

I stuck my nose in, then drained it in one. Because why the hell not? I was already well and truly shitfaced. Might as well go for broke. Put my plummeting self-confidence and downward spiral on public display, five o’clock on a Thursday.

Seemed even a decade later, the only way I knew how to handle my problems was to drink myself into oblivion.

Except I hadn’t drank enough, because I wasn’t oblivious to the TV blaring overhead. Or the whirl of colors splashed across the screen. Or what the announcers were babbling about as they discussed what the new British hotshot Archie Bowman would do for the Bobcats’ upcoming season.

“I’ve never seen such a smart player,“ one announcer said, and the camera cut to footage of a familiar form in green and gold, tearing up the ice with his last team, the Cavaliers. “... how he reads the defense ...”

“... those hands, too … Incredible …”

I slammed back the second rum and coke, slid my glass to the edge of the bar. A few feet away, the bartender perched on his stool, head tipped up towards the TVs. Relaxing before the dinner rush.

My phone vibrated against my thigh, and I all but knocked my empty drink off the counter to get to it. A text. From fucking Katie.

Katie: You’re not getting into trouble, are you J?

I tossed my phone onto the sticky wooden countertop. Still nothing from Bowman. Unless you counted the television screen over the bar.

“Another.” I was slurring. Did I look completely fucked? But I was a big guy, and though it had been almost a decade since I’d last bloodied my knuckles in a fight, not many people argued with me—drunk or sober.

Archie Bowman, naturally, being the exception.

The bartender hopped off his stool to pour me another drink. Slid the glass in front of me, no arguments. Then leaned an elbow against the counter to half-turn back towards the TVs. “You follow the Bobcats?”

I didn’t bother lying; my gaze fixed on the screen over his left shoulder. “Yeah, man. You?”

“Hell, yeah,” he agreed. And then he kept talking, because he didn’t know the highlight of the news segment was also the source of all my joy and misery. “You think Bowman’s gonna be the big deal everybody thinks?”

“Yeah.” The word tumbled out without hesitation, without thought. “Yeah, I do. He’s fucking amazing. Never seen anything like him.”

“Looked pretty good with the Cavs.” Bartender nodded, his eyes on the screen. Bowie—my Bowie—stood with the rest of his former team in a huddle. Rocking back and forth on his skates in that anxious let’s-fucking-play way. How well I knew that rush.

Tight fingers squeezed my heart in an icy grip. I studied the glass in my hand. It was starting to blur around the edges, like the ink creeping up my arms and under my rolled sleeves.

“I’ve seen him with the Bobcats,” I admitted, because there was no filter on my mouth, not anymore. “He’s incredible.”

“Oh, shit.” Bartender’s attention snapped towards me with new interest. “You’ve seen them practice?”

“Just insane, man.” My fat mouth kept running, fueled by alcohol and sadness. “He’s got hands for fucking days. Sees the game real well, too. Great synergy with the rest of the team.”

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