12. Chapter 12

I could get used to waking up next to Dr. Sullivan. Watching the gentle rise and fall of his deep chest. The tiny kicks he gave in his sleep that seemed to mirror his dog's. The fever dream whimpers of "That's tripping" and "Where's the goddamn ref?". The way he let me be the little spoon every time, even though he always complained about it.

"But you're bigger than me," I would say, shimmying backwards into his big, hard body. And he would sigh and wrap his massive arms around me, and breathe his warm, sexy breath into my hair.

He wore actual pyjamas to bed, like a schoolboy, or a grandpa. I didn't know why, but I found it adorable. He had a special pillow, so his thirty-seven-year-old neck wouldn't have a crick in the morning. He had room diffusers that puffed out lavender infused farts every half an hour. And a favourite temperature setting on the thermostat that could not be moved a single degree higher or lower or else face his uncompromising wrath.

He ate fruit and yogurt for breakfast, and fruit for dessert like a weirdo. He had the fluffiest towels. And five-million or thereabouts thread count sheets that he would change almost nightly because, "Under no circumstances whatsoever are you going to sleep in the wet patch. And I'm sure as hell not gonna either."

In short, he was a gentleman, and a grown-up. The difference between us, and our way of living was ... sobering. Sure, his flat was cold, sixty-five-degrees to be precise and not an increment more. It was kind of sterile, and dull, and I was mildly terrified of putting anything down in case I made a mess. But it was a proper place. For proper grown-ups.

There were no boxes of yet-to-be-unpacked-junk-even-after-three-months. There was no sea of trash and underpants covering the floor. There were actual dishes, and cutlery, and condiments. Not paper takeaway cartons, disposable bamboo chopsticks, and sachets of ketchup.

It reminded me that underneath it all, I was still the cocky imposter. The fraud. The kid who'd conned his way out of a country that couldn't tell the difference between a puck and a novelty, oversized Oreo.

But with Jamie, it was different. I was different. I wasn't pretending anymore. Didn't feel like I was conning anyone, or going out of my way to impress someone to make them like me.

Jamie already liked me. Bowie, yes, but Archie too. The arrogant Brit with the quippy one-liners delivered in a novelty accent. The fuckboy with unwavering self assuredness, a tight body, and a fuck-me smile. And the lost kid who learned to skate on a flooded fucking field. Who bunked rugby practice every Saturday to hitch a lift to Swindon Ice Rink. Who still didn't understand how much food to order in this godforsaken massive country.

With Jamie, I could be whichever version of Archie Bowman seemed to fit the situation best. Over the past two weeks, longer perhaps, it had been the silly, goofy, perpetually horny Archie Bowman. And if I was being honest with myself, that one was my favourite.

It was Sunday, so for once we weren't woken up by the faux bird song alarm on Jamie's phone.

A big, dark hand crawled out from under the duvet and came to rest on my bare stomach. "Good morning, beautiful," Jamie said.

Two brown eyes blinked at me in the early sun, looking like little pools of chocolate pudding against the pure white of his sheets. His cheek was pillow crumpled, his hair fell over his forehead. This close, and in this light, I could see the smattering of grey hairs on his temple. The tiny scar just above his lip. His almost-dimple.

He was the beautiful one.

I didn't get long to admire his face before Jamie launched himself on top of me. He pressed his lips against my neck and I laugh-screamed as his stubble tickled the delicate skin. My screams morphed to Ohs as he took his kisses down my chest, and Oh, yeahs as he took them farther still, slipping my already hard cock out of my boxers, and wasting no time taking me into his mouth.

Turned out, Dr James Sullivan was not only proficient in being a super PT, but incredibly skilled at delivering very excellent, and frustratingly efficient blow jobs.

"Edge me," I whined, as the familiar sweet sting of my orgasm began building already.

Jamie popped me out of his mouth and held me upright so I didn't slap myself in the stomach with my dick. "I'll edge you twice. But I have something planned for today—Not exercise," he added quickly because I'd groaned, and not in a good way. "Where's the lube?"

I turned my head from left to right, but saw no lube. Neither of us were leaving our positions, though. That was guaranteed.

"Spit," Jamie commanded, holding his palm up to me. So I did, and Jamie used his thumb to spread the wetness over his fingers. He took my cock back into his mouth and trailed my saliva over my hole. Sunk a finger in. Curled it. Massaged that spot, as he sucked me to the edge of orgasm twice, three times. Finally letting me come so hard, spots blossomed across my vision, and Brady came hurtling into the bedroom, claws clacking on the tiles, to investigate the obvious burglary happening.

Eventually, we crawled out of bed. Jamie took Brady for her morning walk and I made bacon butties for breakfast because I'd found a Portuguese foods store near Jamie's block that sold back-bacon, and because it was Sunday.

And because it was Sunday, it meant no exercising. Though I still had to do my stretches. Dr Sullivan told me I didn't have to wear my shoulder support during the day, that I only needed it on the ice or in the weights room. And I always listened to Dr Sullivan, and not just because he was so hot and gave amazing head.

"Where are we going?" I asked, climbing into the driver's side of his enormous pickup. Even now, after four years in this country, I still went to sit on the wrong side. I scooted over to the passenger seat.

"Not saying. It's a surprise." Jamie threw on his signature aviators, letting me know that if I thought there was no possible way for him to be any hotter, he would find that way, and he would prove me wrong.

"Give me a clue."

"Well," he said, turning the ignition and pulling out of his building's underground carpark. "It's in the next town, about an hour and thirty drive. Aaand"—he drew out the word—"you have an unlimited spending budget."

My heart flip-flopped in my chest. "Oh, my God, Kitty, are you taking me to the Le Creuset factory to buy some new pans?"

"Uh, pretty sure that's in France. And you can buy those dishes in That Kitchen Place on Main." He beamed at me and I melted onto the leather upholstery. "Anyway, talking about pans, what British taste sensation are you cooking for me tonight?"

I laughed. Nobody, absolutely nobody, would describe British food as a taste sensation. I loved it all the same. And sharing it with Jamie had become one of those things that helped me feel a little less homesick. A little less isolated. And a lot more like I belonged.

"We've had all the roasts. Well, the main ones anyway. I could do cottage pie, or shepherd's pie? It's like … one's mince lamb and the other's beef, and they come with potatoes and gravy—"

"Which one's which?" he asked.

I frowned at him. I ought to know that. "You're a doctor. You should be able to work it out."

He paused. "So, lamb is shepherds because … sheep?"

That sounded about right. "Yes, very well deduced. You are correct."

"Cottage pies are called cottage pies because … cows live in cottages?" His laughter rumbled through the seats.

"Either that, or they hang around public bathrooms looking for hookups," I said. Jamie frowned. "Ooh, I could make you toad in the hole?"

This time, Jamie lifted his glasses to frown at me. "Toad in the hole? Why do all your foods have such weird names? What is it? Not actual frogs?"

"You'll have to wait and see. It's a surprise," I teased. "On a completely unrelated note, you wouldn't happen to know any local supermarkets that sell live toads and holes, would you?"

After another hour on the road with no bathroom stops, because I was a big boy and remembered to go before I left, Jamie pulled up into a nondescript industrial area.

"I'm going to blindfold you now. Is that okay?" he said, sucking his lower lip into his mouth with obvious worry.

"Does the pope wank in the woods? Of course it's okay to blindfold me. Have you got the cuffs, too?"

"I just want there to be this big reveal. I want it to be special for you."

While I was busy trying to stop my heart from popping from sheer happiness, I let Jamie pull his ‘blindfold' on me. It was, in fact, a super-soft, bamboo-cotton, blackout sleep mask that smelled of him and his laundry, and for unknown reasons, made me feel like weeping a little. Then he started the truck's engine, drove another two or three blocks going by my estimation, and cut it off again.

The car door opened, the smell of the Maine autumn rushed in, and firm hands and gentle words guided me out of the truck and across the asphalt. I heard an automatic door slide open, a distant radio din … was it BBC Radio 2? The light around the edges of the mask mutated from early October afternoon sun, to a darker, softer internal glow. It smelt, at once, like every store in America—over air-conditioned and synthetic lemon scented cleaning products—but also familiar, and homely and …

"Can I take it off yet?" I asked.

"Yes," said Jamie, from directly in front of me.

I pulled the blindfold over my head and the first thing I saw was Jamie's bright, happy, expectant face, staring straight into mine. Then I let my eyes travel across the rest of the place. They instantly clouded with tears. I bit back a sob and wiped my cheeks with my hand.

"Kitty, it's …"

But I didn't quite have the words to describe all the emotions coursing through me, because everywhere I looked was row upon row of British branded products. PG tips, and Ribena, and Jaffa Cakes, and Marmite, and Bassetts Liquorice Allsorts, and Hobnobs. I fucking loved Hobnobs. And MS Percy Pigs. Like, how? And Tunnock's! And Lilt! And Monster Munch! And Twiglets!

There was a whole aisle for tea, and one just for biscuits, and one for crisps, and three entire aisles for chocolate and sweeties, and a huge refrigerator where I suspected I'd find back-bacon and black pudding, amongst other things.

It wasn't only food stuffs either, but mugs and T-shirts and little figurines of beefeaters and London buses and other touristy trinkets.

And Jamie was in front of me, holding my hand, cool as a cucumber, like he hadn't just made all my dreams come true.

"Parma Violets, Kitty. They have Parma Violets."

"Do you want a basket?" he said. "Or are you feeling brave enough for a cart?"

Oh no.

Oh shit.

I wanted to laugh along with him, I really did, but I was pretty sure my heart had stopped beating. Because …

I loved him, I realised.

I loved him, and I wanted to stay in this perfect moment forever.

"Let's get a trolley. I can do anything with you by my side."

Scone and Co, the cafe inside the British food store, served small (normal portioned) cakes, desserts, and tea. Naturally. We'd stopped for a snack before heading back home—

Home? I meant to Jamie's.

I got a cream tea and, because Jamie was curious, he got spotted dick with custard.

"What's it like?" I asked.

Jamie chewed, pulled a face, swallowed. "It's … well, it tastes nice, and it's filling and … it's okay?"

I laughed. Okay. That was exactly how you'd describe British food. And exactly why I loved it. It wasn't trying to be a culinary masterpiece. It was simply existing as it was. Comfort food. Nostalgia. Happy being okay.

"I believe the word you're looking for is claggy."

He swallowed hard again. "The custard is good, though."

"In the UK, bad custard is a crime punishable by guillotine."

Afterwards, Jamie went to the bathroom, and then took my, frankly, absurdly full trolley—because squash and Irn-Bru!—to the checkouts. I used the time to call home.

"Archie, Sausage! How are you, darling?" Mum said after the second ring.

Something was off. "It's too quiet there. Where is everyone?" It was Sunday. Things should be much, much louder. My brothers should be arguing about God knows what, Mum should be yelling at Theo, Farrell should be getting ready to kick the living shit out of Mum's houseplants.

"They're all down the village. Tonga's playing South Africa," Mum said. Right, the rugby.

I felt a sad sort of swoop in my gut and pictured my dad and brothers at the White Hart. Draft bitters and Scampi Fries, and laughter so raucous Chris, the landlady would joke she'd need to get the roof re-thatched. It was a tiled roof. Chris had always been a huge subscriber to Dad Jokes Monthly. She'd probably have the fire on in the grate because it was October and Wiltshire in October could range anywhere from chilly to biting, and it was always ringing wet. But with all the bodies in that tiny one-roomed pub, it would get gross and stuffy, so the windows would be open too, because that was how she rolled.

"Aren't you going to the pub to watch?" Mum was so small, the lads would save barstools at the front for her and her friend Lyn.

"I will be, Sausage. I was just waiting for your call. I'll join them after."

I swallowed the lump building in my throat. She was waiting for me to call. She still cared. Even if she knew nothing about hockey, and there was an entire ocean and a five-hour time difference between us, I was still her son.

"So, Sausage," she said after a few moments of me not saying anything. "What's going on with you? How's your shoulder? Have you seen any more of your fella?"

My fella. My fella.

"It's … it's all amazing." I took a deep, contented breath, and told her everything.

About my shoulder, which was more or less back to its pre-injury status. Full range of movement, no nagging aches or pains, no twitching. Jamie's no nonsense, militant regime had paid off. He'd promised I'd be on the ice again soon. That they wouldn't bench me. And now I was finally starting to believe him.

I told her about the start of the season in a few days.

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.