Page 31 of Rookie Recovery

But I was okay with that, I told myself. I’d done what needed to be done. Bowie had more talent in his pinkie finger than I had in my whole arm—magic fingers be damned. And he could hate me til the end of time before I’d let him throw it all away on a preseason injury.

Before I’d let him wind up like me.

My sneakers tapped the sidewalk, the steady rhythm of stride and breath and heartbeat forcing calm to leak into my muscles and bones. The townhouses pressed closer, crowding the street, the brick fading into worn edges and soft, well-loved corners.

Bowie didn’t have to like me. Or forgive me, I decided as that rising calm tempered the guilt into maintainable submission. I didn’t care how he felt about me, whether or not there was something real under that cocky facade.

But I did care that he stayed off the ice. And I knew better than anyone how fucking impossible that would be for a kid like Bowie. He needed a friend, someone to watch out for him the way no one had watched out for me.

I crossed the road onto a narrow, residential street lined in boxy white duplexes and scrawny oak trees. Brady pattered ahead, drawing the leash tight with a snap, as she caught sight of a squirrel. The twitchy little bastard watched as we got close, then raced up a tree at the last moment, flicking his fluffy tail.

Brady sobbed out her frustration in a long whine. I dragged her down the road, rolling my eyes in fondness. Maybe she was making me soft, or maybe it was the way all the tight, hard things wound up inside of me loosened whenever he walked into my office under the pretext of having an injury checked. Maybe it was that I imagined I was starting to glimpse the real under the mask.

But Katie’s words about not having a present echoed around in my big thick empty head, and I couldn't help thinking that in my office, when I was rolling my eyes or laughing—that’s when I felt present.

And maybe that’s what made something inside me say, I can be the friend Bowie needs.

There was still a month before training camp, then six quick preseason games. If Bowie followed my strict exercise and stretching regimen, he’d be back in time for the regular season. He just needed someone to convince him it was in his best interest to take a break.

Someone to distract him with some life outside of hockey.

The final dregs of guilt smoothed, and I settled into the rhythm of the run. Let my mind wander off. Quiet now, calm. Sneakers tapped, Brady’s nails clacked, and the miles slipped away with the buildings of the city.

Almost before I’d realized it, we’d looped around to my condo. It was eight o’clock as I dragged Brady into the elevator, but I knew it wasn’t too early.

I closed my door behind me, removed Brady’s leash. Phone in hand, staring at the screen. I had Bowie’s number stored—had the contact information for all the guys on the team—but I couldn’t bring myself to make the call.

I was seeing the arrogant blond fuckboy again, trying to get a reaction out of me because he was used to getting what he wanted, and me, the PT who’d taken him out of the game. We weren’t friends.

Brady pranced into the kitchen, set her fluffy paw onto the edge of her bowl, and flipped the empty dish over, explaining in no uncertain terms of her imminent need of post-run sustenance.

I hit Call.

Eight in the morning on a Saturday, and Bowie answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

The soft resignation of his voice almost broke me. Like he’d spent the night tossing and had finally given up and accepted his fate.

“Hey, Bowman.” My voice came out with impressive calm, despite the sudden uncertainty in every molecule of my body. Brady stared at me like she could mind-control me into feeding her.

“Dr. Sullivan?” His voice went hard, and that hurt more than I cared to admit. That and the use of my name and title. Not Kitty, not even Jamie. Dr. Sullivan. How very professional. A cold reminder that we were not, in fact, friends.

I propped my hip against the kitchen counter, fanned my sweaty T-shirt away from my chest. “Yeah, it’s me. I was just calling to check—”

“How the hell did you get my number?”

I winced. Creep much? “I’m your PT. Your doctor.”

“Isn’t it illegal to use confidential client information for personal use?”

Fuck this kid. He’s a manwhore until suddenly he’s playing hard to get?

I sighed. “It’s not illegal if I’m checking on a patient.”

“Well, I don’t need checking on.” His voice sounded so … cold. I’d never heard him sound like that, and I didn’t like it. He was going to hang up.

I panicked. “Bowie.”

He hesitated. Didn’t say anything. But didn’t hang up either.

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