Page 57 of Rookie Recovery

“Why would you?” he said, taking a long slurping sip of his soda, and changing the television channel.

“Fine, okay, I’ll go.” I stood, showering the rug in a snowstorm of biscuit crumbs. But I’d need to shower first, because even if I was mardy with Jamie, I should wash the Doritos orange from my fingers and change my pants.

At the very least.

Jamie opened the door to his office as I rounded the corner to it. Like he’d been standing at the crack waiting for me. “Come in, Bowman. Take a seat.”

“Dr Sullivan,” I said, because I got the distinct impression that he would not be fobbed off with “Kitties” or my usual silly games.

Even still, I couldn’t help myself. A tiny facetious idea bubbled up, and I ran with it. Jamie had neglected to mention which seat I should take, so I sat in his high-backed fancy doctor’s chair behind his desk. He turned, and I held my hand out towards the padded, but nonetheless uncomfortable, patient chair.

He eyed the ceiling as though asking the Lord for patience. Evidently he decided this fight wasn’t worth the energy expenditure, and sat in the chair on the wrong side of his desk.

I disguised my snort of laughter by clearing my throat.

I had worn my ripped-at-the-knee jeans, and my old Bulldogs hoodie, with the hood up. The thing used to be red, but a million washes later it was more salmon coloured. The screen print logo was faded, the cuffs were threadbare, and the laces around the neck were crusty from a decade-plus of idle chewing. Jamie, as per, looked like he’d just stepped out of an ad for beard trimmers and trouser presses.

“Listen, Bowman, do you know why I called you in?”

“Not the foggiest,” I lied, and glanced over the papers on his desk. Something about a cash flow projection and profit-and-loss forecast. “What is this? Are you starting your own practice?” I wasn’t sure why it came out so accusatorial.

“Yes, that’s the eventual goal, Bowman. But that’s not why—”

“You’ve called me Bowman three times in the last thirty seconds. I don’t like it.”

“Because I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you, and you’re acting like a fucking child.”

“Uh oh, big daddy voice. Maybe,” I said, peering into his pen pot just so I wouldn’t have to look at the disappointment on his face. “It’s because I’m twenty-five. You’re forty-nine”—he rolled his eyes—“You should know better. Not me.”

Jamie got to his feet. Obviously decided the better of it, and sat back down. “You’re right. I should know better. We both behaved … inappropriately. But seriously, Bowman …” He closed his eyes and I could almost see him counting to ten. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Jerking off in my office is … it’s …”

I leaned forward across his desk. I wanted to see his face as he told me, see every muscle twitch. Wanted to see his mouth move over the words.

“It’s so … unprofessional,” he said, eventually. This time I fought my own eye-roll. “Anybody could have walked in and caught us—caught you—seen you. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Well, that was one thing we agreed on.

I lowered my voice to match his. “You were the one feeling me up all soft and sexy. I’ve had massages with Chloe and she didn’t make me hard like you did. She didn’t linger on the same spots, like, ‘Ohhh, yeah, you like that?’”

Jaime opened his mouth, no doubt to come up with some snappy retort, but I cut him off.

“And you were the one who practically told me to wank in your bathroom.” I put on his accent. “There’s a bathroom, right back there. Go ahead, Bowman, if you can.”

“I … yes … well.” He didn’t deny it. “That was a regrettable oversight on my part.” He wouldn’t deny it, but he wouldn’t apologise. So maybe I wouldn’t apologise either. “I … It’s just … Bowman …”

Eloquent.

A few moments ticked by. Neither of us spoke. Jamie seemed to be talking to himself inside his head, if his rapidly morphing expressions were anything to go by.

“Okay, well, thanks for dragging me into your office at my earliest convenience for this super in-depth chat, but I should head back to my apartment now. I’ve got Lays that won’t eat themselves.” I stood up and grabbed a stack of papers at random and brandished them at him. I certainly didn’t enjoy the way he winced as I scrunched them a little in my palm. “Good luck with this whole new practice thing. You’ll be awesome at it. And it’s not like you’ll be short on patients. I happen to know a few hockey dudes I could refer your way.”

He almost, almost, looked as though he might smile, but dismissed the gesture immediately with a flick of his head. His voice was soft as he spoke, a little sad even. “Bowman, what are you doing?”

“Going home to eat my bodyweight in fried potatoes and watch The Princess Bride.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“You’re br—” I started to say but stopped myself. I almost said, breaking up with me. “You’re not gonna be my PT anymore.”

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