Page 123 of Rookie Recovery

Jamie Sullivan: coward.

But I couldn’t bring myself to look. Not yet. Not when I was still wondering if I’d done the right thing or fucked up, if I was going to witness him wrecking his career—

“You breathing, Sullivan?” Katie pressed harder into me as she leaned closer. “Are you watching?”

“Yes.”

“To the breathing or the watching?”

“Both.” I forced my eyes to focus on the ice. To the swirl of blue and green, of names and numbers, blurring together like the rinse cycle of a washing machine. Like a beautiful blended melody of teamwork, of family. All these little parts that became one homogenous whole out on that ice.

I searched for him. Couldn’t help it. If he would be out there, playing his game—the game he loved and owned and dominated—I was going to fucking watch him.

Except, I couldn’t find him.

My eyes dug through the helmets and wayward locks of hockey hair, the extra-wide shoulders beneath the pads. Sought out his number … Nothing.

I couldn’t find him.

Why couldn’t I find him? The team whirled around the ice. Flinging pucks at Rainey. Stickhandling between blade and skates, sweeping the puck in swirling, graceful arcs, showing off and showboating—but I couldn’t see Bowie. He should have stood out. He was a superstar. A hockey god of blond hair and magic hands and fast feet. The guy everybody was here to see.

But I couldn’t fucking find him.

My eyes flitted to the bench, but it was just coaches and staff. Nobody sprawled out in front to stretch yet, either.

Where. Was. He?

Was he still in the locker room? Taping up his stick, fixing his shoulder brace—did he need help? Should I look for him? But no, he wouldn’t want me, right? Maybe he’d texted me … My fingers fumbled with my phone.

Here, Kitty Kitty!

I’m here.

But that was days ago. There was nothing new. I was here—like I’d told him I would be—but he was nowhere in sight. Not on the ice, not on the bench.

“... Starting for your Bobcats tonight …” the announcer boomed, and I realized warmups had started and ended while I was panicking. The teams had skated to their respective benches, removed their helmets. Were finishing up last-minute stick-taping or equipment adjusting or superstitious rituals.

“At left defense … “

I searched the players again as the announcer called out JJ, then Rowan—to a mixed reception of riotous cheers and an uproar of boos from the opposing team’s fans. His reputation preceded him.

As Bowie’s would.

Except there was no number eleven on the bench. No head of tousled blond hair now that the helmets had been removed.

He.

Wasn’t.

Here.

Zac skated out to an explosion of applause. Bowie would be next, they’d call right wing next and then I’d get an answer—

“At right wing … Anthony Callen!”

The tall, dark second-liner, who was very much not Bowie, raced out. More cheers. More panic welling up in my ribcage, churning my stomach, making the world tilt.

Where the hell was Bowie?

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