Page 3 of Rookie Recovery

“Well, you got my drink right, at least.”

“You should order a real drink.” But her words were more of an exasperated, if fond, sentiment than a push to unwind me. She knew I’d given up the wild days of drinking long ago. Along with my pro hockey career.

“Yo, Jamie!” The big voice boomed out across the bar, preceding the current of muggy summer air that swooped in with the door’s opening.

I turned on my stool to greet the Bobcats’ defenseman. “Good to see you back in town, JJ.”

Off season should’ve seen Jesse Johnson on vacation with his wife and kids. But … “Can’t stay off the ice, you know?”

Such a carefree, throwaway comment. One that shouldn’t have meant anything. But it still stuck like a barb. Can’t stay off the ice. Oh, I fucking knew it. Can’t stay off, and when you can’t physically get back on, you lurk around the edges like a ghost.

Watching other dreams made and broken.

Made and broken.

And when you tried to find a new path, one away from the ice, from the game that would own your soul ’til your last breath, you fell asleep at your computer and dreamed of hockey instead of marketing strategies for your to-be PT practice.

Fortunately, before I spiraled too far, the door opened again, and another Bobcat strolled in. Stormed might have been an apter verb, since everything defenseman Rowan MacKenzie did was … stormy.

He grinned as he slammed up next to the counter, the expression a little too sharp, too feral, to be described as a smile. “Sullivan. Katie.”

The hands that slapped down onto the bar caught my eye, and not because of the aggressive gesture.

“Fighting again, MacKenzie?” I bobbed my head towards the telltale bruises and scabs across his knuckles. An ever-present testament to his short fuse, but they looked fresh today. “Preseason hasn’t even started yet. Who the fuck’re you fighting?”

“Who’s he not fighting?” JJ growled, nudging Rowan back from the bar. “Kid can’t keep his fucking head out of his ass. Or his fists off anybody’s face.”

“Asshat had it coming.” Rowan shrugged, didn’t even bother with any you should see the other guy bullshit. We’d all seen the other guys. They always looked a helluva lot worse.

“Yeah, and one day you’ll have it coming.” I lifted a brow at him, but he waved me off and gathered his beer from the counter.

“Anyone want to play pool?” Rowan didn’t wait for a response before he started for the back of the bar, where the team’s starting goalie leaned over a table in the corner.

JJ trailed behind him with a slight head-shake. Partly because, despite their difference in temperaments, JJ and Rowan were close, and partly because—

“I’m pretty sure”—Katie swiveled to face the pool table—“JJ doesn’t trust Rowan to take a piss without starting a fight.”

I chuckled. “Fair. I don’t either.”

I settled back against the counter as the bar door opened again. Two men marched in, and I knew without looking who they were; team captain Aaron Tyler and his left wing Ryan Isaacs went everywhere together, each other’s shadows.

“Cap!” JJ waved from the corner. “Zac!”

The two waved back but lingered by the door, waiting. It swung open once more, gusting in the scents of the city, the summer, and … shaving cream?

Someone else slipped inside.

So quiet, shoulders hunched, head down, I almost looked away, assumed him a stranger.

But it was just a moment, like the flit of a butterfly’s wing. A flash of smallness and uncertainty so brief I might have imagined it. Because I blinked, and the newcomer stood with his broad shoulders square, head up. Beneath a mop of golden hair, a cocky smile cracked his face.

His very, very beautiful face.

Holy

Fucking

Shit.

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