Page 108 of Rookie Recovery

“Damn. That’s awesome.” Bartender settled onto his elbows facing me, engaged in the conversation now. “He missed preseason though, right? Shoulder injury or something?”

“His asshole doctor wouldn’t clear him,” I said, because I was drunk and stupid and hopeless as fuck. “Got him sitting the first couple of games.”

“The hell?” His brows pulled low over his dark eyes. “No way. They gave up like three draft picks to get him. And now they’re gonna bench him?”

I tipped back my drink in one go. Fuck it. I was getting blazed tonight. Was gonna drink until I couldn’t remember why I’d started, then drink some more. Wasn’t anybody here to stop me. “Maybe they want him healthy for playoffs.”

Even drunk, I sounded like a lame-ass doctor.

“Nah, fuck that, man.” Bartender leaned back towards the TV again. “I say play him while he’s hot.”

“Yeah. Right.” My stomach churned, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol turning my blood to poison. I slid my glass forward. “Another?”

He pried himself off the bar for my refill, and I let my eyes wander to the screen. They were still showing fucking Bowman in a montage of replays. Whirling around the ice. Grinning that huge heart-wrenching, breath-stealing grin, gloved hands in the air, as he celebrated a goal. Pinned against the boards by a big, dark-haired defenseman.

The defender gave him a shove, bowed his helmeted head right down to Bowie’s. Angry. Trying to get a rise out of him. Start a fight and bring down the superstar. Anger gripped my chest, watching that clip.

I’d have hit the motherfucker. Young Jamie would’ve thrown down, cause that’s what the guy was asking for. What he wanted. Hell, what the crowd wanted; they screamed for it. I could almost feel the gloves sliding from my hands as I tossed them to the ice—

Bowie skated away.

Just like that. Shook his head, turned his back, left the asshole behind. Didn’t stoop to the guy’s level, because he was Archie Bowman, and he was better than that. Better than everybody—in game and in character. Smarter, too; he let the defenseman take the penalty so the Cavs got the powerplay. Scored a fucking goal thirty-seven seconds in.

Fuck me.

He really was the best man out there. Anywhere. So much better than I’d ever been. And I’d treated him like my idiot kid self. The cocky, egotistical asshole so in love with myself I’d inked every victory and success into my skin like fucking trophies. Fucked my way across North America. Shut out reason and my own goddamn body to play a few more games.

Bowie wasn’t me.

Bartender slid another glass to me with his eyes on the TV. “Man, you weren’t kidding. Kid is filthy. Shit.”

“Best there is.” I was starting to slur, but I knocked back that fresh drink without hesitation. “Better than me.”

Bartender snorted. “Yeah. Me too. Obviously my NHL career didn’t take off.”

“Mine, either.”

He chuckled at that, like we were sharing a private moment or joke. Maybe we were. In the end, what was the difference between someone who’d never tried and someone who’d failed, if you both ended up sitting at a bar watching someone else live your dreams?

I kind of wanted to cry. “Could I get another?”

He turned back to me, brows furrowing a little as he took in the empty glass, judged my slurred words, did the math. “You want a water or something?”

“Nah, I’m good.” I jabbed a finger at the empty drink to nudge it towards him. “I’m still drinking.”

“Want me to call you a cab?” He reached under the counter to fish out a tall glass. “Or you got someone who can pick you up?”

My heart rammed against my ribs in a painful punch as I remembered the last person who’d bundled me in a cab and brought me home. Hadn’t taken me up on my offers to blow him or fuck him. He’d put me to bed, then come back in the morning with breakfast.

“Nah. I’m fine. I walked. One more.”

“Don’t think so.” He straightened up, squaring his shoulders to me. He wasn’t as big as me, but he wasn’t small. Had probably been in a fight more recently than I had. Was definitely less drunk. “You can sit if you want, but I’m not gonna serve you anymore.”

“C’mon, man.” Through the numbing pulse of booze, I couldn’t tell if my voice was angry or pleading. “Been a rough week. I need a drink.”

“I can’t overserve.” He crossed his arms, leaned on the counter. Still friendly and conversational. “It’s my job. You go do something stupid, hurt yourself or whatever, I could lose my job.”

It’s my job.

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