Page 32 of Rookie Recovery

“I get that you’re mad—”

“I’m not mad,” he snapped, and then his tone smoothed out into that icy calm. “Look, I know you’re being a good doctor or whatever. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Actually, I really fucking hate it.”

“I know.” I dragged a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. “Trust me. I know. But sometimes you have to sit back a few games so you don’t end up sitting back forever.”

I almost choked on those words. On how badly I wished someone had said them to me ten years ago, though it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. No sense of self-preservation? Nah, it was just a different kind—preserve game before self.

“Sitting is sitting.” His voice shifted a little, from resigned to sad. “You sit one game, maybe you sit forever. You wouldn’t understand.”

I did, though. And the words were right there, right on the tip of my tongue to tell him. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. “I’m a pro hockey PT. You think I haven’t seen this kind of shit before?”

“I’m sure you have.”

“I’m not going to say sorry. Because I’m not. But …” More words. Right on the tip of my tongue. “You been out to Moosehead Lake yet?”

Brady glared, boring holes into the side of my skull with the intensity of her hunger and attempted menticide.

“Nope. Haven’t had time. With …” He let the sentence trail off. With hockey. With training. With the season coming up and him needing to keep an edge because he was the new guy—nevermind that he was a rising star.

“I’m heading out there today.” Was I? I guess I was now. I needed a day off anyway. “Come with me. It’s nice this time of year. Nature’s good for healing and shit.”

“Me go with you? That doesn’t seem very professional.” Aw, fuck, there it was. The little bit of Bowie, of flavor, back in his voice. Like a sad puppy who’d perked up at the sound of a snack. My heart did weird little flippy things behind my ribs, and over my shoulder Brady upturned her bowl again.

“It’s not professional,” I admitted, trying to quash down all that rattly stuff. “But I’m not asking as your PT. I’m asking as your friend.”

A beat of silence as he took those words in. Mulled them over and decided what to do with them. He didn’t want me as a friend, I knew that. But I wasn’t about to be his fuck buddy, either, and he knew that. Or at least, I thought he must by now.

“Did someone swap bodies with the real Jamie Sullivan?” he asked, and I almost laughed with relief. He was back. Not quite his chipper normal self, but closer anyway. “This seems very out of character for the Kitty I know.”

“It does, right? Maybe there’s something in the water,” I said, trying to hide the smile creeping over my face. Did it come through in my voice? “I bet a nice, vigorous walk will fix me. You in?”

“So, this means you are using my number for personal reasons.”

I tilted my head to stare at the smooth white ceiling. “Oh, fuck off, kid. Really?”

He laughed. Actually laughed, and my heart did that fuzzy fluttery thing behind my rib cage again.

He was back. “You better not try and touch me up or anything on this walk. After luring me out with my phone number you got from my patient file.”

“Actually, I might rescind my offer—” But I was smiling again, wasn’t I?

“Nope. I think it’s my duty to make sure you get back to your normal serious mardy self. Nobody else is annoying enough to do it.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“I don’t have a car,” he said. “You gonna give me a ride?”

“Is that British for something else?”

“Of course not, cowboy.” But there was a smile lurking behind the words.

Bowie’s apartment was ten minutes away, on the northern side of Downtown Bringham, a couple of blocks off the main nightlife drag. It was one of those new-build mixed-use neighborhoods where hopeful cafes lurked under half-filled residential buildings, but nothing real had stuck around yet. It was the kind of place with too-white sidewalks and little sapling trees along the road because everything was hastily built to look nice. Nouveau-luxury.

It didn’t suit him.

Not that my condo—on the southern side amid more established luxury where nobody bothered lying to themselves about multipurpose buildings—suited me. On the inside anyway. I’m sure Dr. Sullivan in his pressed button-downs wouldn’t live anywhere else.

Which, I guessed, was why I lived there.

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