Page 17 of Rookie Recovery

Her face softened, but she didn’t comment. No pathetic pity words like, You miss it, don’t you? Katie knew better.

“He is.” Hell, she knew what it was to remember the good old days. “But that’s not why you’re slobbering.”

I rolled my eyes, nice and clear, so she couldn’t miss it. “I’m going back to my office.”

Maybe I’d sneak in a couple of hours of studying while the guys scrimmaged. Or fucked around. Whatever they were doing.

As Aaron pinned Zac up against the boards—held him there long after Bowman had snatched the puck away—it was starting to look more like a pond hockey pickup game than a practice.

“Sure thing, big guy.” Katie slapped my shoulder, but I lingered a minute anyway. Studying Bowman’s left shoulder for that tell-tale roll, the flick of discomfort … all the signs I knew to watch for.

Nothing.

I was being paranoid.

Seeing things that weren’t there.

Projecting my own fears and insecurities, my own past, onto someone with so much fucking bright future ahead of him, it was blinding.

Terrifying.

I wrenched my gaze from the ice and headed back for my dull, windowless box of an office. I was being paranoid.

Lesson Seven, my computer screen reminded me as I woke my laptop. Fuck. Same one I’d been on two days ago. How had I gotten nothing done in two days? I was no closer to passing and opening my practice. Moving on to a life where I didn’t have to watch other people living my lost dream.

Time to buckle down, Sullivan.

The words swam across the page. Something about overheads and profit margins? You’d think after reading a line eighteen times, I might know what it said.

A soft knock on the door jerked my shoulders straight. It popped open, without the visitor waiting for any kind of verbal confirmation to enter. Which meant I could pretty much bet who was behind that door—

“Hey, Kitty.”

Fuck my life. How was it possible to want to grab someone by the scruff of the neck and hurl them bodily from the room—and kiss them at the same time? I should not want the latter.

But those were the two reflexes warring under my skin as Archie Bowman strode into the office and kicked the door closed behind him. The picture of cool suave as he tipped his athletic frame back against the faux wood. I bet that worked wonders on other twenty-somethings.

I hated that it was working on me. Hated how badly my eyes wanted to follow the curve of his shoulders to his lean hips—

“Mr. Bowman. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I closed my laptop lid before he could see Lesson Seven stretched across the screen. At least I still sounded professional.

“Zac says you give a mean massage.” His mouth cocked up at the corner, and his eyes drifted lazily down my chest. “Got time for a quickie?”

I nearly choked on my tongue, thanks to his tongue. Which I was not thinking about. The kid was just another cocky little asshole, one who was most likely fucking with me. I was thirty-seven for fuck’s sake. Either that, or he was looking for some kind of daddy notch in his bedpost.

I wasn’t down to play either game.

Keep it professional, Sullivan. “Is something bothering you? Did you injure something?”

“Nah.” He lifted his right shoulder in a careless shrug, one that pulled his white T-shirt taut over his chest. “Just sore from all this fucking around. A little … stiff?”

He was trying to fluster me. And I absolutely didn’t notice the hard curve of his pec—or remember the sight of him shirtless.

On my table.

Practically begging me—

Fuck. No. There was no way any of this was real. He probably thought it was funny to see how far he could push me. I was a cranky old man, and he was, well … him. Young, hot, famous.

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