Page 54 of Rookie Recovery

What the hell—goddammit. The questions. Those stupid. Fucking. Questions. The ones I hadn’t paid attention to, the ones Katie had answered for me. Christ. She was never getting my phone again.

Wait, had he answered, too?

I clicked on the tiny circle next to his name, and his grinning picture popped over my screen. He was shirtless, his rounded shoulders and the tops of his pecs at the bottom of the photo. His blond hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed—or more likely, given the background of lockers and discarded equipment—mussed from a hard skate with the Cavs. And he had that delicious fuck-me smirk stretched over those beautiful bowed lips.

It took almost physical effort to scroll away.

He’d answered the questions all right. And since he’d, clearly, read my questions, I’d read his.

Fuck. No. This was wrong. Bad. Unprofessional, asking for trouble. What would happen when he inevitably got bored, had men and women fawning over him on road games, had dozens of people—younger and more beautiful than me—begging him?

Bowie wasn’t just a cute distraction from my boring life. Wasn’t just a friend for hiking or trips to unhinged museums, laughter and conversation. This thing—this weird, awkward, strange, unprecedented thing between us—it had changed. Become … something.

Because I’d let it.

And now, I had to stop it, right? Before it became too big to handle, too big to shut down. Before it impeded my career, my goals, before I got too invested in a relationship that surely couldn’t last. I couldn’t read his answers to the app’s questions or send him a message back. Couldn’t let him come waltzing into my office with that cocky fuck-me smirk, set my every nerve alight with his gaze, his lithe frame, his very proximity.

I couldn’t kiss him.

All of this … everything between us … It had to stop.

Didn’t it?

I closed my eyes. Imagined him laughing under the pines of Moosehead Lake. Wide-eyed with innocent amusement in the dim glow of the trolley museum. Fire on the ice, a constant tease off of it. Beautiful and young and alluring. Soft and a little dorky. Fun. Charming. Silly.

Forbidden—but maybe only because I’d set such strict rules.

No. I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. He was a patient. He was young. He was a hockey player that would tie me to all the things I wanted—needed—to leave behind if I was ever going to be free. I needed my head on straight and my professionalism in place. I needed to be the boring, grumpy doctor again.

Didn’t I?

Fuck. I couldn’t make a clearheaded decision if Bowie was around—laughing, looking, teasing, being the charming carefree ray of fucking sunshine that had blinded me to reality.

I needed time and space to think.

Chapter 8

Bowie

Masturbating in the tiny little bathroom next to Jamie’s office, while Jamie stood just outside, listening to every moan I made, was the single most hottest moment of my life.

But it had been three—no, four days since then, and I still hadn’t seen him. The morning after the incident, which I was now mentally referring to as Wank-Gate, I awoke to a bog-standard auto-reply style email from his office.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Sept 12th 05:31 A.M.

Mr. A Bowman,

We regret to inform you that your scheduled appointment with DR. JAMES SULLIVAN on WEDNESDAY SEPT 13th at 9:30 A.M. has been canceled.

The following appointments have been made on your behalf.

11:20 A.M. WEDNESDAY SEPT 13th

with DAN HUGHES

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