Page 98 of Rookie Recovery

The first chance to skate with my new, and hopefully long-term, teammates. Because even though I’d missed out on the skating part of training camp, I was beginning to think of Bringham as home. The Bobcat lads felt like a whole heap of Bowman cousins I hadn’t seen since the last family do. That it didn’t matter how long it’d been since we last saw each other, when we finally did, at the next wedding, or anniversary party, or rugby world cup, it was as if no time had passed at all. The banter flowing before the drinks. We were just a bunch of very different guys with one overarching shared interest.

My first chance to prove to them, the Bobcats, I belonged there. To prove to Coach Turner he’d made the right decision when he put his faith in me. To my managers and agent, that I deserved the fucking ridiculous price tag they’d negotiated for me. To Mum and Dad and Olly and Harry and Theo and Finley, that leaving England, and leaving them, was all for something. Something big. Bigger than me, or them, or us.

And to prove to myself I was good enough. That what I believed in my heart, what I’d dreamed of, all those years ago on that frozen Wiltshire field, was finally coming true.

But mostly to Jamie, because without him, him specifically, none of this would have happened.

Would I have listened to anyone else telling me to stay off skates? Probably not. Would I have skated anyway, damn the consequences? And overdone it in the weights room? And overdone it at the bar every time someone said, Drinks tonight? Most definitely.

Jamie gave me focus. And purpose. And let me put myself and my needs before everyone’s expectations.

He showed me I already belonged. That I was already home. And that it was okay if people saw my weaknesses.

And I loved him.

I wanted to wake up every morning in his bed. Count his little grey hairs, wonder if they were all my fault. I wanted to eat boring breakfasts with him on the weekdays, and fry-ups on the weekends. I wanted his to be the first face I saw when I came off the ice after a home game. And the first face I saw when I stepped off the Bobcats’ bus, or plane. I wanted him to rub my aching muscles, and pull me into his arms, and whisper sweet, contrary, and serious nothings to me.

So, I told Mum about Jamie. All about Jamie.

“Mum, I think I love him. I just realised that twenty minutes ago—Oh, shit, he’s coming back. I’ll call you next week after the game.”

“Text me Saturday with the link to the live feed. Chris is going to put it on the big screen again. Olly’s made printouts with all the rules on, so we can follow along this time.”

My heart almost burst again with all the love it was trying to hold in.

Jamie approached the table, holding two enormous, jam-packed totes with union jacks on the sides. “Ready, little winger? Let’s go home and try some holes with toads in them.”

Home.

“Everything okay?” Jamie said, about half an hour into the drive back to Bringham. “You’re quiet, and those are words that feel like they don’t belong in the same sentence. It makes me nervous.”

“I’m just … thinking.” I smiled at him to let him know it was a good thinking and not a stroppy, self-pitying thinking.

“Oh, yeah?”

“About how perfect everything is at the moment. Skating, my shoulder, your hot, banging body … us …”

I let the last word hang in the air. I would tell him. Sooner rather than later, knowing my ability, or lack thereof, of keeping my goddamned mouth shut.

Maybe after the first game.

That felt like the right sort of moment to tell someone you loved them.

Chapter 13

Jamie

The last two weeks had been exquisite.

Bliss.

Fucking heaven on earth. Long days of work, sure, but around the work hours were hours of hiking, exploring the city, dinners at new restaurants, Monday night open hockey, Sundays on the couch with a roast, and yes, hot sex. A lot. All over my condo. Places I had previously been unaware it was possible to fuck. Who knew ottoman sex was so good?

Two weeks of things I didn’t know I could experience, feelings I didn’t know I could feel. And all of them, revolving around one grinning, blond, beautiful man named Archie Bowman.

Heaven. On. Earth.

These MRIs, however, were the exact opposite. Or, more precisely, telling Bowie about them was going to be absolute hell.

---