Page 75 of Rookie Recovery

His eyes darted past me, searching out the pass. I kept my body between him and the net, forcing him out, edging him towards the boards. He slowed, still grinning. Playing with me.

Challenging me to make the next move. A wrong move.

“C’mon, Sullivan,” he cooed in that delightful British voice, the one that made me all fuzzy and swoopy in places I hadn’t known could feel fuzzy and swoopy. “Come and get me.”

Oh, I fucking wanted to. On the ice, and off it.

In the corner of my eye, I saw his man cut low behind the net. He tapped his stick, calling for the pass. The obvious pass. Which Bowie wanted me to think he’d make. I sprang forward.

He faked the pass low, spun to take it high instead.

Except, I didn’t bite. I cut my momentum the instant before my body made contact with his. Crowding him against the glass. Body to body, heat against heat. The puck slid away as I pinned his leg between the boards and mine.

He should have sprung backwards and out of my reach. Could have. He was quicker, faster, and we both knew it. Instead, he tipped his head up towards me, green eyes sparkling with life under his half-shield. “Hey, Kitty.”

Fuck me.

“Seem slow there, Bowman.” I pulled myself back with every ounce of willpower so I didn’t do something stupid or wonderful. Like kiss him. Again. The game was still hacking on behind us.

“Don’t want you to feel too bad about being out of shape.“ He winked at me—fucking winked!—and took off like a shot.

Fuck. Me.

I headed to the bench for a line change instead.

“Looking good out there.” The old guy from earlier hopped up after me, sending our second sub out onto the ice. “You from around here?”

It struck me as humorous and ironic and a little sad that I could be a stranger in the place I worked. But why would anybody out here know me?

“Boston,” I said, and his eyes dropped to the name scrawled across the front of my jersey. I kept talking before any pieces snapped together. “Name’s Jamie. I’m, uh, his PT, so that’s why he calls me …”

Smooth, Sullivan. Real smooth.

Because doctors often take their patients ice skating.

“I’m a physical therapist,“ I corrected, continuing my reign of astronomical smoothness. “Not a, um, hockey … player.”

Fortunately, a winded senior heaved himself over the boards, and I vaulted one-handed out onto the ice to save my ass from further embarrassment. Almost ran smack into Bowie as he tore down the middle.

He soared past me, and I launched after him. Blades ripping through the ice. Legs pumping. He wasn’t going full speed, or I never would have caught him. But clearly, he wanted to play.

He let me edge up next to him as we flew into the zone. “Hey, Kitty.”

Then, he slammed on the brakes. Like he expected me to go flying past, right out of the play. Instead, I whirled to face him, putting my body between him and the net once again. He shot forward. Trying to get around. Trying. Trying …

With his magic hands in full use, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. He’d have flicked his wrists, deked, swept me like he had Rowan and JJ.

But not today.

Once again, I forced him to the side. Away from the net. Towards the boards. I set my shoulder against his chest to ever so gently pin him. “Going somewhere, Bowman?”

“Not anymore.” He tilted his helmet against the glass, and for an instant, it was just me and him. My body pressed to his. His opened up to me, head back, eyes half-lidded.

Fuck.

He was doing it again.

So I lowered my head until the front of my helmet tapped against his half-shield. I grinned like an idiot, because I couldn’t fucking help it. “Admit it. You’re impressed by this old man.”

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