Page 112 of Rookie Recovery

As much as I wanted to call him, hear his voice, tell him those three words that had rolled off my tongue when I was with Katie, I knew he deserved more.

Hell, I’d have called him to let him yell at me. Fight me, with words and fists and passion, because all of that was better than this cold, dead emptiness.

But he deserved more than that.

Besides, I knew he wouldn’t fight me. Not this time. He’d turn his back and skate away because he wasn’t me. He was better. In every way a person could be. And I’d thrown that in his face.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

I’d made the wrong call.

I’d looked at his name, at his smile, the freckles on his nose, at all the mornings and evenings we’d spent together. I’d looked at his love of the game and his hope for the future. I’d looked at him and I’d seen us. Seen me. And I’d panicked.

Made a decision that should have been his. Treated him like a kid.

When I’d taken the choice away from him, when I’d refused to sign that paper, I’d told him I didn’t trust him. I’d shown him. I’d said—without words, because actions were so much stronger—that I thought he was no better than the stupid, desperate kid I’d been at his age.

But that wasn’t true. That’d never been true.

Would I love him if that were true?

I tilted my head back against the bathroom wall. Letting the world spin and hurtle and melt around me. I’d be puking again soon. Probably well into the morning. I deserved no less.

I’d fucked up. Bad.

Telling him I was sorry wouldn’t be enough. Once actions have spoken, words can never be large enough to cover their wounds.

I needed action.

In the morning, I’d need to come to terms with what I’d done—and fix it. Take action.

Sign off on his release to play. Like I would have with any other player, with any other athlete, with myself.

I just didn’t know if I had the strength to do it for him.

I woke up on the bathroom floor.

Of course I did. I’d puked until four in the morning, hadn’t trusted my stomach enough to go to bed. Now, it felt like someone was whacking a mallet around the inside of my head and someone else had stuffed my mouth full of foul-tasting cotton balls.

I dragged myself up on the vanity and stuck my face under the faucet. Rinsed and spit and drank in turns, then lay back down for another hour. Wake, repeat. Sleep. Wake to a golden retriever pressing her eyeballs against mine.

“Hi, Brady,” I muttered, weaving my fingers into her fur. I was the worst dog owner of all time. She deserved better than me.

So did Bowie.

And today was the day to fix it.

After breakfast and a walk for Brady. That would at least win me some points on the rotten-dog-ownership side of things. And get me dressed and outside into the fresh air to clear my head and find hangover food—because no blond master chef was going to turn up.

The thought made my chest ache hard enough I wanted to puke again. But there was nothing left—in my stomach or anywhere in my body. Literally or metaphorically. So I got up off the floor and stumbled into my bedroom for a change of clothes. Then to the kitchen for a glass of water and Brady’s leash.

It was late morning by the time we made it outside. Cool, even for October, the air nipping at my nose and the tips of my ears in a welcome, sobering way. Fresh autumn did wonders for my aching brain and limbs and joints. Everything hurt, but out in the still morning, I felt… well, somewhat more alive than I had on the bathroom tile, anyway.

Brady sniffed happily at the sidewalk as we strolled, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. Most people were at work by now, so the ground-floor restaurants were closed or empty. I stopped by Baker’s Dozen for a coffee and breakfast sandwich. Bowie would’ve made it better. He was also a fan of their donuts.

I tried not to think about it as I plopped down on the long bench next to the urban tree outside the cafe, and Brady begged shamelessly as I ate. But not thinking about Bowie was impossible.

He was good at showing he cared. In little things and big. Cooking me breakfast when I was hungover. Taking me skating when I needed to do it. Refusing the sexual favors he’d originally come after me for because I was drunk.

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