Page 15 of Rookie Recovery

“Such a beautiful dialect,” Jamie said. “I’m going to check your abdominal muscles now.” He paused. His hands hovered over my hips, waiting for my consent, his lip curled in a—

“Holy shit, you can smile?” I said, which made his smile grow even wider. And made my tummy go all weird and swoopy.

If I thought Dr James Sullivan, PT, DPT, was gorgeous all frowning and sulky and miserable, I had not sufficiently prepared for the sheer magnitude of smiling Jamie. He somehow looked shy and unsure, and at the same time, like he would take me to his bedroom, lay me on my back, push my knees up to my ears and—

“So tell me!” I shouted in an attempt not to spear him in the chest. “What did I say last night?”

Jamie took his muscle squeezing ministrations up over my pecs and shoulders. I winced a little as he struck upon an old injury on my left shoulder. Nothing more than an ancient pulled muscle. It didn’t bother me much these days, especially in the warmer summer months, and truthfully, I often forgot about it completely. Jamie didn’t seem to notice, anyway.

“You were out of it.” He grimaced. “… Leathered? Is that one right?”

I gave him a wink and a finger gun to let him know he had it this time. “For the record, I would have also accepted wankered, sozzled, pissed, pissed as a fart, mullered, blotto, well oiled, and rat-arsed.”

Jaime’s mouth soundlessly moved over the words rat-arsed. He shook his head, evidently concluding I was making shit up again. “Yeah, no. You asked me to take you home.”

Yep, that sounded like me. “I mean, the offer’s still there.”

He rolled his eyes, but his knee-weakening grin didn’t falter. “Then you felt me up.”

“Oh,” I said, pulling up short because that … was not cool. Bad, bad Bowie. “I’m sorry.” I meant it, and from Jamie’s dropped smile and adorable as fuck puppy dog eyes, I knew he knew I meant it. “I … I don’t drink normally. At all, really. It’s just that …”

I wanted everyone to like me. I finished my sentence in my head.

Jamie nodded like he understood personally. Like the mountainous god before me, the picture of abject control, had ever lost his shit, drank too much, threw up on the feet of his new teammates, sexually assaulted random hot strangers, and cried in front of them.

Oh crap. A terrifying thought occurred to me.

“You weren’t him, were you?!” I blurted. Jamie lifted a single brow. “The um … person who …” Fuck, there was no way to ask this without making it sound like I was a total manwhore. Which, to be fair, I was, but … “Did you come back to my apartment with me last night?”

He paused, pursed his lips together, and shook his head. “Not me. You hooked up and you don’t remember it?” It was half question, half … accusation?

Anyway, why should he care if I hooked up?

“Pretty sure I didn’t have sex, even though I was stark bollock-naked.” I didn’t know why I was telling him this, other than maybe to get to the bottom of the mystery. “But someone else was in my apartment. Someone got me home, left some water out for me, and … uh, a sick bucket. Uh, just in case.”

Amazingly, Jamie smiled again. Like he’d solved the riddle, but never planned on clueing me in.

“I’m going to check your groin now.” He paused. “Please don’t make this weird.” Jamie lifted my leg up and pulled it out laterally.

“Oh, Kitty,” I said. “It’s already weird.”

“Yep.” He breathed out a tremendous sigh before pushing my knee up to my chest. “Yes, it is.”

Chapter 3

Jamie

Archie Bowman was gorgeous off the ice, but on it, he was utterly enchanting.

With him out there and me here, my shoulder propped against the glass, elbow on the low ridge of the boards beneath it, I almost forgot the complete cocky ass he’d been, both at the bar and in my office the day before. I couldn’t let myself forget entirely, because there was a good reason I didn’t get involved with hockey players: Drama. Distraction. A reminder of the past.

Archie Bowman was all of those things. And he was clearly used to getting what he wanted. I winced as I recalled our exchange in my office. He was all bold youth and suave and I was … the awkward old guy who couldn’t figure out how to avoid a curb-stomping in whatever game he was playing.

But watching him now—it was art. I allowed myself this small indulgence. This reminder of what it was to be young and alive and so full of dreams.

Archie Bowman loved this fucking game, and it showed in every movement of his body. Every shift of weight, flit of eyes or flick of wrists. Every stride, every breath. He loved the game, and he played like hockey was life.

And fuck, I understood that.

---