Page 80 of Rookie Recovery

“If you tell me your middle name, I’ll tell you a secret.”

Jamie looked off to where he had pointed and watched the geese for a few moments. “Fine, it’s … Homer.”

“Oh, my God. Homer and Bart!” I was already laughing so much I had to wipe tears away. “No wonder you don’t want people knowing.”

He sucked at his teeth, but he was still smiling. “She’s Greek, my mom. Or my grandparents are.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s not too bad. It’s Jesus’s middle name too.”

I screamed with laughter and fell into a ball on the blanket. “Jesus’s middle name is not Homer.”

“It is too. What else do you think people mean when they say Jesus H. Christ? Harold?”

“Holy crap, you are so cute!”

Wait, did I say that out loud?

It would have been an excellent opportunity for Jamie to kiss me again, scratch up my chin with his stubble. Instead, he went with, “What’s your secret, then?”

“I …” I flicked the edge of the blanket up with my trainer. “I’m scared shitless my shoulder won’t be healed in time for the start of the regular season.”

“Oh.” Jamie’s arm shot out to cradle my good shoulder. “Oh, Archie.” Archie, not even Bowie. “I’m sure it will. You’ve been doing everything right. Stretching, massage, ice and heat therapy. There’s not much more you could be doing.”

“It’s just … I came to America to play hockey. I thought … I thought I’d finally got there, you know? I’d finally achieved twelve-year-old me’s dream. Things were going so well. I found a team I liked. A city I quite like. There’s this super hot team physio too. You should see him. But, if I’m here on a sports visa, and not actually doing sports …” I shrugged. My unspoken Where does that leave me? hung in the air between us.

“You’re worried they’ll deport you?”

“No, not really. Well, not immediately. I’m just worried that Turner will decide he’d rather have the dollar than keep me on bench. And that I’ll be sent to yet another team in another city. Another time zone even. And I realise that’s how professional sport works. I get it. But I … I feel like I’m this tiny little fish in this massive country where everything is so humongous, and I miss home, and my family, and Tunnock’s tea cakes. And I love hockey, and I love being here skating. And I’m so grateful that I am where I am, that I got a chance to do this thing that I love so much. But, at the same time, I’m worried it’ll all be snatched away from me. And it’ll be my fault because I didn’t try hard enough. This is why I never bother to unpack.”

Jamie’s fingers rubbed my deltoid muscle. He didn’t ask me what Tunnock’s were. “That won’t happen. You’re too good to bench forever. In fact, I’m hopeful you’ll be skating in the season opener. You’ve already gotten back on the ice. Trust me, Turner will have you back at practice the second I give him the go ahead.”

“So you get to decide when I return to skating?” A bubble of unadulterated hope rose in my chest. If Jamie was the one calling the shots, well, surely I had nothing to worry about. He was in charge of my recovery. He knew how much this meant to me. He saw me giving it my all day after day. Giving one hundred percent of everything I had.

“Of course, I’m your doc.” He landed a playful punch on my arm.

“Are you ready to tell me about why you quit hockey?” I asked him tentatively, like he was a wild animal that needed coaxing into a cage. He still flinched, regardless. “That’s fine,” I jumped in before he even had time to think no. “We can talk about other stuff.”

Jamie flashed me a smile, which may have also been a thank you.

“So, when did you last have sex?”

He snorted. “Holy hell. Well—Oh, my God, is that bald eagle windsurfing?!”

I laughed, loud and hard. Jamie smiled too. “Shiiit.” I drew out the word. He rolled his eyes playfully and leant back on his elbows. “That long, huh?”

I loved the moments when I rendered Dr James Homer Sullivan speechless.

“It’s been a while for me too, you know?” I said. Jamie turned onto his side to look at me. “I was rather hoping you might end my dry spell.”

“What’s ‘a while’ to a twenty-five-year-old fuckboy? Eight weeks?”

“Try months.”

He pushed himself upright. “Eight months? Wow … I didn’t expect that. How come it’s been so long?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t found anybody I want to fuck. And then about five weeks ago I did. But he never seized the opportunity to rail me over the edge of his physiotherapist’s table. So … What’s your excuse? And how long has it really been?”

“No. You don’t need to know.”

“But I want to,” I whined. “More than a year?”

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