Page 23 of Rookie Recovery

“Oh. Is that not what I said?”

So, I had high standards. It’s not that I didn’t hook up. It was just that … none of them were right. Things fizzled before they got started.

“We’ll say martini,” Katie decided. “Very James Bond. Goes with the button-down look you’re so fond of.”

I plucked at my T-shirt in protest, but she barreled on like she hadn’t noticed. “Favorite place to vacation—oh, wait. You don’t.”

“Very funny.” I rolled my eyes. “Boston.”

“For. Fuck’s. Sake.” Katie glared, frustration mounting. “Going to your hometown is not vacationing.”

But that was Bowie’s last trip—fuck. How the hell had my brain ended up there? Damn, maybe Katie was right and I needed to meet someone so I’d stop tripping over the same thoughts. The same person. “Fine. Um. Europe?”

Goddamn. I meant, like … Italy. Greece. Or something exotic. Hopefully, that’s what she was typing. Not Britain.

“Signature dance move?”

“Do I have one?” Was I supposed to? Did I have to go dancing to get laid? That felt awkward at best, disastrous at worst.

“You do now,” said Katie, and I decided it might be better if I didn’t know.

Since when was that a criteria for dating—or hooking up—anyhow? I just needed to meet a nice, cute guy my age. Who checked about three hundred or so boxes. Why was that so hard?

“What’s your go-to karaoke song, and can you hit the high notes?”

My mountainous standards were starting to get a bad feeling about this app. “Um. What? Why the hell does this matter?”

“It’s a hookup app, Jamie,” Katie sighed. “You’re not trying to find a life partner. It’s supposed to be fun and flirty.”

“Skip to the next one.”

“If you were a vegetable”—her lips twisted up in a grin I didn’t like the looks of—“how would you want to be cooked?”

“How would I want to be—what?”

“It’s a euphemism.” She tilted her head, still smirking. “Do you want me to break it down a little more for your sex-deprived brain?”

“Nope. I got it. You can skip that—wait, are you typing something?” I leaned over to see the screen of my phone, nearly shoving my half-empty plate to the ground, but she slid it out of range.

“I’m skipping to the next one. Okay. Favorite place to bone?”

I choked on my own spit, and my hand thumped down on the table so loud the ice in my water glass jumped. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Stop being such a prude!” Katie practically yelled. “It’s a goddamn hookup app! Next question is top or bottom?”

“Jesus fuck.” I dropped my head into my hands. Katie was typing something, and I decided I didn’t want to know. There was no way I was going to fuck some random guy. I mean, not that I hadn’t. When I was younger. Had lower standards and looser requirements and, well if we were being frank, was kind of a manwhore.

Being a pro athlete will get to your head like that.

You’re young, you’re alive, you’re free. You want to fucking taste life. You skate fast and hard, every game, and the adrenaline doesn’t wane when the crowds go home. You want to live life the way you live the game—fast and hard.

So I did.

Lived every day, every night, every game. In victory and loss, in sex and booze and bad decisions. I wrote it into my skin, in ink and pain and injuries that never went away. And now …

I was left with a carefully planned routine and high standards and button-down shirts. Maybe Katie was right. Maybe I did need to loosen up a little.

“Top, okay? Top.” I sighed as I lifted my head out of my hands. “Any more questions? I don’t feel completely disemboweled yet.”

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