Page 114 of Rookie Recovery

In short, skating just to be on the fucking ice.

It was what I needed to ground myself for what I had to do next.

I was the last one off the ice at the end of the session. But one of the old guys had paused at the door. “Hey, Doc.”

“Hey, Jones.”

“You joining the men’s league or what?”

An almost-smile twitched at my mouth. “Yeah, you know, I think I’m gonna do it.”

“Good. Need guys who can skate. It’s turning into hack-show beer-league bullshit.”

I chuckled. “Sounds fun.”

“Sign up.” He tapped the blade of his stick against my shin pad, headed for the locker room.

Reminded me of when Bowie had done it, right before my first skate back out on the ice after a decade-long dry spell.

I’ve got you, he’d said. The words clenched my heart in a tight, warm grip. I’ve got you.

Yeah, he did. And now, it was time for me to have him.

I’ve got you, little winger.

Chapter 16

Bowie

The light from my phone screen jabbed me in the eyes like two tiny swords. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, in my pants, in a sea of litter, in the dark, with the South Africa-Tonga game playing on Hunter’s multiplex-sized bachelor telly. The rugby match had finished, and the TV had switched itself onto standby mode. I didn’t even know who’d won.

My phone, having finished its mini attention-seeking tantrum, stopped vibrating and dangled from its abused charging cable on the arm of the sofa. The screen went dark, pitching me into the blackness of the room once again.

I had the apartment to myself. All by myself.

No Hunter.

No Jamie.

Nobody but me.

Alone.

Always.

I reached forward and showered the rug with the evidence of my isolation. This time, Cadbury Chocolate Eclair wrappers. The ones Jamie had bought me from the British food store. And because I was a recovering athlete, and both Jamie and Katie would lose their collective shit if they saw me now, a few empty tupperware containers that once held plain chicken and boiled eggs and cavolo nero, also tumbled to the ground.

Bleary-eyed, I swiped a thumb up the screen of my phone. A text message. My heart collided with my windpipe, but sank back into my stomach just as quickly.

Olly:

Wales v Georgia, England v Samoa, Ireland v Scotland. All on Sat. Chris is putting the rugby on instead of your game. Sorry, mate. Can still watch on my iPad tho.

I dropped the phone, blew out a breath, and rolled onto my side. I used my stick, which I'd left propped up against the arm, to hook a blanket I’d rage-discarded earlier.

Over the past two days, I’d done nothing except train—which Coach had me doing the second he’d announced someone else would clear me—and watch the Rugby World Cup Catch-up streams. And though it wasn’t the same as watching the games with my brothers, it was the closest thing I had to feeling like I was home. Like I had people around me that wanted me there.

And it was a sport I knew. Watching it reminded me of how much I loved it. Loved playing. Loved spectating. Being outdoors instead of in a frozen hangar. The mud, the rain, the guys. Split skin, and padless bodies, and aching muscles, and Deep Heat, and Guinness in the bar after, and pie and mash at Chris’s. The laughter, and the backslapping, and the post-game high.

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