Page 76 of Rookie Recovery

“Kinda yeah.” His eyes sparkled. “You gonna make a move, Kitty?”

This time, I tore away from him, because someone had to be the rational adult. The game raged on around us.

Really, though, the rest of it didn’t matter. Not to say we weren’t team players—shit, Bowie’s passing was even better than his hands. He made his teammates look like All-Stars, weaving passes and pucks through my defense like we were standing still.

But when it was me and him on the ice, it was just us. Him. Me. The ice and the puck and us. Going harder than we should’ve because he was injured and I was old and out of practice.

But we did it anyway. Grinning like fools. Having fun.

Two hours of ice time flew by in a blink and suddenly the zam was sliding out and the guys wheezed their way back to the locker room and it was me and Bowie again, staring at the clock like we couldn’t believe all that time had just up and left.

“So.” Bowie’s grin stretched ear to ear, and he didn’t stop looking at me as we glided towards the door. “You had fun.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Which was clearly a lie because my grin was about as dopey as his.

Bowie’s stick tapped against my pads again as I stepped off the ice, back to dry land. “Kitty’s got moves though, ay?”

“You sound surprised.” I took the lead into the locker room, where the other players undressed. I plopped down onto the bench and scraped my helmet from my sweat-slicked hair. “Did you think I’d let you walk all over me?”

“Hm … Kinda?” He tossed his helmet and shouldies into the bottom of his bag, and I almost laughed at the slight pinch between his brows. Kind of wanted to soften it away with the pad of my thumb. Wanted to lean in a little too close just to feel the warmth of him.

“Don’t love having your ass beat by an old retired guy?”

“Define ‘beat’.” He tipped his head to me, grin going sharp as his voice dropped to a murmur. “There are things you could do to my ass that I wouldn’t mind.”

I swallowed hard against a sudden dry patch in my throat.

“You kids joining the men’s league?” The skater sitting beside Bowie leaned over, unaware of the borderline-dirty conversation blossoming between us. “Starts next month.”

The man on his other side turned, too. “Yeah, Doc, my team needs good defensemen.”

I nearly choked as those words hit me in the chest.

“You should join.” Bowie kicked at my skate. “Old guy beer league seems your speed, yeah?”

“Fuck off, Bowman.” But I was smiling. “I’ll think about it.”

“He’s joining,” Bowie decided, kicking off his skates. “Now, it’s been real, gentlemen, but I’m going to grab a shower in the Bobcat’s cushy locker room.”

He shouldered his bag, then strode right out in his socks and jock shorts. The tanned skin of his perky, bouncing cheeks was just visible through the black mesh.

“That’s the new Bobcats kid, isn’t it?” one of the old guys said as we all watched him walk out. They probably weren’t looking at his ass, though. “The British superstar.”

“Archie Bowman,” someone breathed. My heart did this weird little fluttery thing inside my ribs at the sound of his name.

Another guy swore. “No wonder none of us could keep up with him.”

The man who’d been sitting on Bowie’s other side leaned across the bench towards me. “Doc did.”

Hell yeah.

I did, didn’t I?

“Start talking, Kitty.” Bowie followed me out of the rink into the late-September evening. His shower-wet hair was plastered to his head, and he glowed like we’d just stepped off the ice.

I got it.

I felt that glow through my chest and limbs. My bag weighed down my shoulder, my own wet hair cooling in the night air. “Talking about what?”

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