Page 2 of Rookie Recovery

The class, the certificate, all of it. Starting my own practice would be a lot harder than getting a job with the Bobcats, since the team was owned by the friend of an ex-teammate.

“You’re coming out tonight.” Katie’s tone brooked no argument. “That’s final. Everyone will give you shit if you don’t.”

“I’m not part of the team,” I protested, but she’d already hung up. She knew all my arguments, and most of the time, she tired of them before I’d even put them into words.

Which left me to sigh dramatically as I bundled my overenthusiastic dog into the elevator alongside my elderly and ever-disapproving neighbor, whose gaze lingered a little too long on my exposed arms. Luckily, the doors dinged before she came up with anything nasty to say.

Still, as I stepped out into the over-air conditioned two-story marble lobby, I couldn’t help but think how fucking out of place I was here. I’d lived in this high-end rich-folks condo community for six years. Yet somehow, I still felt like the Boston-bred jock, too rough and messy for a place this nice.

I slid through the automatic doors and into the muggy, heavy heat of a mid-August Maine summer. Downtown Bringham soared up around me: glass and stainless steel; wide white sidewalks fluttering with tourists and business folks alike; cars jam-packed onto the four-lane boulevard; sticky humidity and city smog all rolled together.

This, at least, felt like home, even if my luxury condo did not. I’d been here since I’d left Boston for grad school nine years ago, and the city had grown on me. It had a feel. A character. A personality comprising, and yet outside of, the people who shaped it.

As we walked, the ache in my knee subsided. It was an old injury, and ultimately the inspiration for my current career—I’d learned enough through years of surgeries and therapies to get my then-lame ass through graduate school. Networking and knowing people in the hockey world had gotten me the rest of the way.

But it was time to forge a new path, away from the rink. Hence … the business certificate, obsessive studying … The complete and utter lack of life outside of work, my dog, the gym, and hikes—with said dog—in the vast Maine wilderness surrounding the city.

Hell, maybe Katie was right. Maybe I did need a night out. A night not spent studying until I literally passed out on the couch at three in the morning. A couple of hours wouldn’t hurt. A last hurrah before I left the hockey world behind.

I slid my phone out.

Me: All right, I’m in.

The Lounge nestled between a hipstery wine loft and a run-down but undeniably delicious Mexican food joint about a quarter mile from Downtown Bringham. Laid-back atmosphere, good music, and cheap beer made it an easy team favorite during the off season.

Soft classic rock—Lynyrd Skynyrd, if my ears didn’t deceive me—hummed in the background behind a murmur of voices as I entered the yellowy glow of the bar. Cool air conditioning softened the heat of summer lurking outside, heightening the scents of stale beer and greasy nachos. The place was about half full—still early for a Bringham Saturday—so I easily spotted Katie at the long counter in the back.

“How was the gym?” Katie grinned as I slid onto the stool beside her. Question was rhetorical; she knew I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t made it to the weight room first. “Don’t you look snazzy?”

“This is how I dress.” I rolled my eyes and resisted the urge to pluck at the sleeve of my button-down shirt. Not sure why I’d worn it except that the team always saw me dressed professionally, and it felt weird to be otherwise. I shifted my gaze past her to the rest of the bar—the pool tables, the couches in the lounge beyond. “Where’s everybody else?”

“Not here yet.” She nudged a glass in front of me. “I think they went to open hockey.”

I stuck my nose into the glass—seltzer water, no alcohol—to save myself having to respond. Or to analyze my own mixed feelings. I would hate to give any of those feelings ugly names like longing or jealousy.

“Breaking in the new guy, I think,” Katie continued. “You heard about him, right?”

I almost snorted out seltzer. Course I’d heard. Everybody had heard of Archie Bowman. “Yeah. Rising hotshot everybody wants a piece of.”

On and off the ice, if the photos plastered over every hockey-touting social media account were accurate. If I was being perfectly objective, the man was drop-dead gorgeous. And young.

“He’s in town already.” Katie tilted her Blue Moon bottle to her lip. “Obviously, the guys would be curious.”

“Obviously.” I spun my glass in the gathering puddle of condensation under it.

“Oh c’mon, J.” Katie nudged me with an unfairly sharp elbow. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Kinda curious how the Bobcat management wrestled him out of the Cavs’ claws.” Wonder what kind of ammo they put into that trade.

“He’s British.”

“Yeah, and I don’t like your tone.” I gave her a pointed look. “You need to mind your business and stop trying to play wingman. Remember who you tried to set me up with last time?”

“Forgive me for being so invested in the grumpy and reclusive Dr. Sullivan’s quest for a soul mate.”

I rewarded that clever quip with a half-chuckle, half-groan.“You’re the worst.”

“You mean best.”

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