Page 42 of Rookie Recovery

But Jamie had climbed out of that water like an inked up Daniel Craig, laughing and splashing me and doing that sexy pond-man thing like that one really hot Bridgerton brother. Or like he’d finally left the fusty pencil pusher at Bobcats HQ and had concluded fun wasn’t all that bad.

But as much as I wanted something to happen between us, I knew it never would. He’d never let it.

And yet I didn’t understand why. He was open for hookups. That much I knew when I found his TopTier profile. He still hadn’t replied to my messages. Those two little ticks still remained grey. Unread. So either he didn’t want to hook up with me, or he was already getting it from someone else.

Though, the way he acted around me gave the distinct impression he was, in fact, not hooking up with anyone besides his right hand. He bumbled his words. He gaped at me as if he, a physiotherapist, had forgotten what the male anatomy was supposed to look like, and I was providing his deprived brain with the revision it so desperately needed. And I was pretty sure that all the stuff he let me get away with doing—calling him Kitty, saying the most ludicrously suggestive things, making him touch my ass—was actually, probably, lawsuit material.

So, he liked me? Or he didn’t like me? Which was it?

Because I was going out of my mind trying to figure it out.

I was a cocky asshole. Had to be. What with being the middle child of a five-son-household. I was only the youngest for two years, barely time to milk it. Not that I remembered it, anyway.

So, I had to find another way to get attention. By stepping over everyone who stood in my way. By being the person who pushed other people out of my limelight by their faces. By seizing what I wanted by the bollocks and not letting go until it was mine.

That hadn’t worked with Jamie. It wouldn’t work. And I knew it wouldn’t work, but I still fucking tried.

He wasn’t into the whole cocky-asshole thing. Fair. Neither was I. But I couldn’t seem to switch it off.

Was … too afraid to.

Would anyone be as into Archie as they were Bowie? Would anyone have the time of day for me? For the injured boy with the weird accent and cultural deficits? Jamie had at least seemed interested in finding out more about me … but I was still worried it wasn’t enough. He had said my talent would keep them from benching me, and I half believed it, but somebody forgot to let Archie know.

So, I would keep up with Jamie’s militant regime. Because that was what Bowie would do. Get myself back on skates. Back on the ice. I would keep on being an arrogant tosser, because that was what Bowie would do. And I would keep edging myself to madness over Jamie fucking Sullivan, because I just couldn’t seem to stop.

And if he didn’t like it, well, he should stop throwing me such mixed signals.

“Honestly, nothing. Nothing has happened with me and the doc,” I said to Rowan, acutely aware that we’d been sitting in relative silence while my brain took a brief holiday to Reflection Town.

He seemed to read between the lines. “You know, the doc and I started the same year with the Bobcats.” He blew out a breath. “What, six years ago now, maybe seven. He’s a stickler for the rules. Always has been. Well, not always, but definitely since … you know. If you want him to take a chance on you, you’re gonna need to figure out how to get him to break his own rules.”

Watching the lads skate while I sat on the benches should have been one of those things that caused the monster inside Bowie to growl with jealousy.

It didn’t, though, and I couldn’t explain why. Perhaps it was that now and then, Zac would yell, “This one’s for you, Bowie,” and smash the puck towards the net. Or perhaps it was when Rowan shouted, in such a baffoonish British accent it made me wince, “Come on, lads, get your bloody shit together,” and the rink echoed with the deep laughter of my teammates.

Or maybe it was the mountain of heat occupying the plastic seat beside me. Occasionally throwing me glances, but looking away as soon as I returned them.

“It’s Saturday tomorrow,” Jamie said, eyes on the boys. “You can take the weekend off. Sort of.”

“So kind of you, Kitty. But I do believe we have plans.”

At that, he permitted himself a single look. Arching a brow, and holding out a palm, in an Explain yourself, Bowie manner.

“Well, you got to choose the location of our last date—”

“Not a date, Bowman. We just went for a hike, and … a swim.” Jamie discretely adjusted the collar of his shirt.

“Yes, and thank you for all those new bank images.” I shot him a wink, which he tsked at. “But I think it’s only fair I get to pick our next date.”

“Nope, no. We are not going on another—I mean … a date. We are not going on a date. We … no.” He shook a finger between us. I seized it midair. Wrapped my fingers around it. Jamie sucked in a breath.

I resisted the urge to hiss my victory. “Only, I’m still new in town. And I don’t really know anywhere. So you might have to help me.”

He shook his head, turned his attention back to the scrimmage. “Nope, not playing this game.”

“Dinner? Big guy like you must need feeding often.”

Jamie ignored me.

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