Page 72 of Rookie Recovery

That smell hit me in a wave of nostalgia so strong it almost made me stumble. It was the scent of pads stretched over a rack, the tang of sweat-soaked gloves that clung to your hands for hours, sometimes days, after you’d skated, the lingering fermentation of skates that never dried out.

The smell of my childhood, my youth, my hopes and dreams and obsession. The smell of my past, come to haunt my present.

“Jamie?” Bowie turned, his brows arched upwards to dimple a deep crease of concern down the center of his forehead. “You coming?”

“Yep.” I nodded, forced myself to keep walking. Two older guys sat against the rear wall, their bags open and gear sprawled across the floor like spilled guts.

“Hey,” one of them grunted as Bowie tossed his bag down. “Was hoping some other people would show up.”

“Me too.” Bowie plopped onto the bench. “Hope we get a few more.”

Oh, my God. I stared at him. Was he … He was speaking with an American accent. I tried to catch his eye, but he dug into his bag like a dog on the hunt for a bone.

He didn’t want anyone to know who he was. The British kid who’d been traded from the Cavs, ended up on IR instead of stardom. I stared at my feet. If he needed anonymity, I could give him that. Made my chest ache that he wanted to hide in obscurity, but didn’t I do that every day?

I bent to unzip my bag. Fuck, this was familiar and weird at the same time. Ancient history resurfacing. Pulling gear out. Kicking off my shoes, unbuttoning pants—

And then I realized Bowie was wriggling out of his pants, and the rest of the ritual got lost behind that new development. Suddenly, I was very, very focused—and not focused at all—on sliding my own underwear off and replacing it as quickly as possible. Had he stripped all the way down? No, I would not look to confirm.

I would keep my gaze firmly on my gear. Get dressed without any inappropriate adventures down below. Because that was not allowed, not here. Never here. Eyes down, brain focused, Sully.

A third guy strode in as I tugged up my socks to Velcro them to my jock shorts. A fourth and fifth as I pulled up my pants over my socks. Beside me, Bowie drew his laces with quick, familiar fingers; he dressed in the same order I did, skates before shin pads. The guys around us started shooting the shit.

The routine kicked back in.

I tugged at the laces of my right skate. They were stiff, too dry, the cloth tearing at my fingers as I yanked to get them tight enough. Still, this was familiar. Ritual. Left skate, laces taut, top two eyelets on each left undone. Shin pads up, partially covering my laces, socks down. Clear tape to hold it all together.

Familiar. Ritual.

Maybe I could do this?

“You gonna wrap me up, Doc?” Bowie turned towards me, dressed from the waist down and shirtless from the waist up. My eyes drifted down his golden skin, fixed on his left shoulder, already held in place by a black brace.

“Yep. Turn.”

My fingers trembled on the bandaging as I taped his shoulder down. Shit. I was shaking. Lacing my skates and taping my pads were part of the ritual. But now … Now I was outside of it. Faced with reality.

I wasn’t twenty-five and full of dreams anymore. About to fly out onto the ice to a stand packed with screaming fans. I was thirty-seven and hadn’t skated in ten years.

I was fucking terrified.

“Hey.” Bowie’s head tilted up towards me, and I knew he’d seen my hands shaking. His green eyes softened as they met my gaze. “You okay?”

“Yep.”

He turned to face me, extracting his shoulder from my fingers. Didn’t say anything as he sat, but his eyes stayed on me. The rest of the guys headed out for the ice, and it was just us. Just me and him and the skates under my feet.

Could I fucking do this? I was starting to doubt myself.

“It’s gonna be okay.” Bowie’s hand found my shoulder, his skin warm through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. “You got this, Kitty.”

The words hit me like a wave of calm. The nickname did funny things to my roiling stomach—made it roil in a different way. His fingers gave a gentle squeeze, and then he let go, bent to drag a jersey out of his bag. Bulldogs, it said, and I didn’t know what team or league it was from. Not Bobcats though, or Cavs.

“Shoulder pads,” I reminded him, even as I stooped to extract my own jersey. He wore light, so I chose dark.

“Nobody else is wearing them.”

“You have a shoulder injury.” I shucked off my T-shirt—his eyes burning through skin and ink—and tugged my black jersey on. “You wear shoulder pads.”

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