Page 56 of Rookie Recovery

“Yeah, I’ll clean the place up later,” I said. “You know, once all the cool party drugs that the cool kids are doing these days wear off.”

“Nah, don’t bother.” He slung a small carry-on sized bag in the general whereabouts of his room. “Won’t be here long. Two nights max. Got a big project in San Francisco.” He aimed a kick at a stack of my boxes, evidently to gauge whether they’d been emptied, gave a little shrug and “Hmm” upon discovering they were still full, and crossed over to the fridge, helping himself to a Diet Coke.

“So, good parties? You had a lot of girls over?” He handed me a can and cracked open his own.

I shook my head. “I’m gay.”

Chuck/Chip assessed me with his head tilted to the side. “Right! Duh. You’re the hockey player. Must be thinking of my other British roommate.”

“You’ve got more than one British roommate? How many apartments do you own?”

“Sure. Well …” He demonstrably counted on his fingers. “Seven. Eight if you include my cabin in Vermont.”

Shit, no wonder I never saw him.

“So, hockey season starts soon, right? You psyched?” Chip/Chuck/Chup said, stepping over the coffee table debris and taking a seat on the couch opposite.

“Yeah,” I said. Because I didn’t want to admit to another person I’d fucked everything up and have them speculate when I would be back on the ice. Or if I ever would. “Hey, what’s your name, by the way?”

“Hunter,” he replied.

Sure. Wasn’t even close.

Hunter and I sat in silence for a few minutes. Though, not a comfortable silence. Most likely because I’d trashed his apartment, made little to no effort to tidy it up, not even to right the coffee table, and was still wearing nothing but my stained boxers.

“So …” I said after a while. Part of my brain clawed to fill the space with noise.

“So …” he responded.

I nodded my head, tapped my fingers against my thighs, do-do-do-ed. Hmm, having a friend was awkward. Perhaps I didn’t actually need one.

Thankfully, my phone buzzed and freed me from having to think up anything to say to Hunter-not-Chup.

My heart jumped into my mouth as I saw a text message from Jamie. Saved to my contacts as Kitty. I opened it.

Kitty:

Bowman, please see me in my office. We need to talk.

J

We need to talk. My heart sank lower than the empty tube of Pringles under the couch. We need to talk. Code for I’m breaking up with you. Which was illogical because we weren’t even together outside of my fantasies. We hadn’t even kissed. Had only one moment where we almost kissed, and another when I violated the sanctity of his work space. But that was it.

I knew what he wanted to talk about, though. It had been a long time coming. I fired a text back.

Me:

Sure, Kitty. When?

I didn’t have the mental strength to play my fuckboy games anymore. Especially when they had no effect on him. He replied almost immediately.

Kitty:

At your earliest convenience.

At my earliest convenience?! Fuck. Was that fucking doctor speak for “I’m a massive nob?” I threw my phone across the living space, startling Hunter, who I’d already forgotten was there.

“I’m not going,” I told Hunter, kicking my feet up onto the couch and folding my arms over my chest.

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