Page 115 of Rookie Recovery

That was what I missed. The feeling of being a piece of something bigger. Being a number in a jersey. A sum of a part that together made a mathematical impossibility.

Stronger as a team.

And I’d gotten a little of that back over the past two days training with the lads. Being back on my skates was wonderful, amazing, freeing, like back to how things should be. Back to how I should be. But I still felt as though it could—no, would—be whipped away from me any second.

I felt like I was still on those sidelines, balancing on the edge of being part of the team once again and waiting for the whistle to signal the end of my career.

I didn’t text Olly back. What would I even say? Don’t bother, I won’t be playing, my boyfriend-not-boyfriend won’t let me?

At some point during my couch campout, I realised it wasn’t that he told me I couldn’t play.

It was that he told me I couldn’t play.

After everything. Everything we talked about at the lake. After I’d confessed all my fears to him.

Jamie knew how I felt about being passed around. Traded like a shiny pokemon card. And I knew that was the nature of the sport. Of any sport at pro level. And maybe that was why people just expected me to be cool with it. But I wasn’t sure I could continue with transfer after transfer.

New home. New allegiance. New team. New teammates. New friends.

Fuck your old friends. Fuck relationships. Fuck the idea of having a boyfriend.

Fuck falling in love.

Who needed human contact in the age of Instagram? Wasn’t liking someone’s TikTok the same as having friends? Chuck them a bunch of ROFL emojis, that was just as meaningful. Right?

I’d even gone so far as looking at flights to the UK. Maybe I could play for one of the hockey teams there. Ice hockey was nowhere near as mainstream in Britain, and the pay was a fraction of what I’d get here. But who honestly needed millions of dollars when you were lying in a pool of your own filth, anyhow?

Maybe I could go back into rugby. Not playing, because I’d never possessed the same level of talent or passion as Olly and Harry, but there must be something for me to do that didn’t involve being alone, in an over-air-conditioned apartment in my underwear, covered in shit, whining and moping like a jilted teenager.

I couldn’t leave the game, though. Couldn’t leave hockey, even if I wanted to. The past few days, training at all times of the day, leaving the rink after the darkness had settled, had shown me that much. Practicing again with the lads was incredible. Turner had told them not to go easy on me, to throw everything they had at me. And they did. And for a few magical hours, I forgot about all the things wrong in my life. My shoulder, my homesickness, the probability of being traded again, Jamie.

But as soon as my ass hit that bench in the Bobcats’ locker room, Jamie was there. In the forefront of my thoughts.

And I couldn’t …

I needed to …

I just wanted …

“Urgh!” I screamed. Kicked the fucking blanket off again.

I had no idea what I wanted or needed. Only that Jamie was there, and part of both somehow.

My phone buzzed again, and I seized it from the arm so forcefully, I yanked it off its charger. A text message. My pulse spiked.

From Jamie.

From Jamie!

Jamie had texted me. My heart resumed its earlier attempt to escape through my ribcage. With shaking hands, I unlocked the screen and opened the chat.

Kitty:

I’m here.

I blinked back the tears building in the corners of my eyes.

I’m here.

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