Page 60 of Rookie Recovery

“You’re gonna have to make sure I only have two drinks. After that, you’ll have to knock them out of my hand like Farrell.”

“Who’s Farrell?”

“My mum’s cat. He hates glasses of water, and cacti, and he’s kinda kicky.”

He laughed again, deep and throaty, resonating in my chest and pulling up a smile on my cheeks. “I’ll Farrell the fuck out of it.”

The rest of the team were at the pool tables when Jamie and I entered The Lounge at around nine. A whole hour after Aaron told us to arrive, because apparently someone had difficulty choosing between a closet full of identical grey button-downs.

By the general appearance of the guys—hair sticking out at odd angles, sweaty sheeny faces, shirts rumpled—they were already half-cut.

“Bowie! Doc!” JJ yelled, waving us over.

“My main man,” Aaron said.

Jamie elbowed me in the ribs, in a See, they won’t forget about you way.

“He’s not talking about me,” I said.

But then, as if to make sure there weren’t any doubts who Aaron had been talking about, all five of them broke out in a loud and very tone deaf chorus of David Bowie’s “Starman”.

I felt my cheeks and the tips of my ears burn.

Jamie leant his head close to mine, his mouth centimetres from my ear. Warm breath pooled against my cheek. “You’re blushing.”

Ordinarily, something little like being the centre of attention of the entire bar—because now every single patron was looking our way—wouldn’t have had this kind of effect on me. Ordinarily, I’d relish it. Be the shit until everyone thinks you’re the shit. Not that I wasn’t relishing it then, but something felt different. I felt, not shy exactly—didn’t think there’d been a day in my life I’d felt shy—but perhaps I was comfortable. At ease not being the cocky, in-your-face, insufferable exhibitionist for once.

It was the way I felt on the ice, I realised. Powerful, important, in control of myself. I didn’t need to showboat on the ice because I believed in myself. I knew I was the shit. I didn’t need to prove it to anyone else.

A month ago I’d have been joining in with the overloud singing, and the drinking myself into a stupor, and the general assholery. But now … I was happy to just be there. To be included, without the need to make a tit of myself.

Jamie had done that. Without even realising. He made me believe in myself off the ice. Made me feel like off the ice, I was a person worth getting to know.

I gave him a once over. Smart jeans, check. Expensive cologne, check. Hair, both of the facial and head-ial variety groomed to within an inch of its life, check. Button-down, check, but … his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Tattoos on display. Jamie was different too, whether he understood what it meant or not.

My thoughts swam back to his office earlier. When he’d been trying to tell me to back off. Or trying to tell himself that. I didn’t know. Ickiness bubbled in my stomach. I pushed it down. So maybe I’d have one more night with Kitty, before he quit being my PT, or my massage tech, or my friend, but I would make sure I had fun with him tonight. Even if it wasn’t my usual everyone-pay-attention-to-Bowie fun.

“Bet I look cute though, don’t I?” I said.

Jamie shook his head. “Nope. Not at all.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He leaned in again. His lips brushed my earlobe this time. “I know.”

“Guys, come on!” Zac shouted. “We got drinks already. You gotta catch up. You’ll have to double fist.”

The breath left my nostrils with such violence I was certain I’d sprayed the entire pool table with snot. I reined in my What the fuck, America? face and turned to Jamie. “I mean, I have no immediate objections.”

“That means something else in Britain, doesn’t it?” Jamie said.

“Oh, yeah. Big time.”

Aaron handed both Jamie and me a drink each. “Jack and coke.”

“No, thanks. I’m good.” Jamie pushed his drink back at Aaron, but the team captain held his palms up in a surrender gesture.

I side-eyed Jamie. I had forgotten, or perhaps I’d never known, he didn’t drink, but something stirred in my memory.

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