14. Chapter 14

I wriggled my ass on the Bobcats' locker room bench, memorising the way the wooden edge bit into my thighs. Memorising the smell of the place. Like ice and sweat, and game-worn plastics, and a cocktail of other things, which on their own were, frankly, minging, but together …

I breathed in deep and laced my skates.

The first game of the season was in four days. Four days! I had to skate it. I couldn't not. This was me. This was what I was.

This.

But it felt like a goodbye.

Of all the people who could have benched me, why, why did it have to be Jamie?

Dr Sullivan.

Kitty.

My boyfriend?

We'd never said those words to each other. Boyfriends. So maybe we weren't that serious. Maybe what we had was nothing more than a couple of months of Bowie having all the feelings, and the other guy having none.

I'd invested far too much of myself. As per.

Like I did for every relationship. And every trade.

People saw me as temporary. Something great, for a brief span of time, but not long term.

Use me. Play me. Break me. Pass me off onto someone else.

This was why I never bothered to unpack my boxes. Why I never fully moved in anywhere.

What was the point? One season with a team, then a move across a country so big it had no fewer than six time zones. Maybe more. I couldn't remember the exact number.

Another season, a different team, a different guy for me to latch my affections onto.

Rinse. Repeat.

Kitted up in everything, because why the fuck not, I headed from the locker room down the short padded corridor and burst out onto the ice, like an Ascot racehorse out of the blocks. I dug my edges in, and the tension melted from my body as the wind whipped my face under my half-shield. Instant balm.

The rink lights were on, but the stands were shrouded in darkness. Creepy. Apt. Anyone might be out there, lurking, watching me. But I knew it wouldn't be him.

I sucked in the smells again.

I hadn't even made it half a season with the Bobcats. And, okay, they weren't talking about trading me just yet, but they never involved me in these discussions, anyway. I'd only know because I'd get a feeling from deep within. That something bad was creeping up on me.

Olly used to call it the ‘Impact Term'. The moment in Jurassic Park when the kids saw the water rippling in the glass before the T-Rex tore down the fence and ate that guy straight from the loo.

Harry used to call it the ‘Stampede' after the bit where the ground shook and the rock bounced around in TheLion King, and then Mufassa got pancaked by a million cows.

Theo used to call it ‘Smell Ice Can Ya?' because—well, you got the picture.

But Mum used to say it was the ‘Bowman Depth Perception', and we'd all laugh at the term, because out of them all, it always sounded the most misaligned. But now I was starting to think she understood better than anyone.

Because it felt like I was constantly gauging, constantly second-guessing, how far, how deep I could get into something, before somebody came along and told me I wasn't good enough. That they'd found some place else for me to be. And that it was all in my best interests, of course.

The Cavaliers have put in an offer.

The Bobcats have put in an offer.

Translation: we like you, but we'd rather have the dollar.

You're young, kid, you'll bounce back. You've got your entire future ahead of you.

Translation: Toodlepip.

It's out of our hands. We're trading you. You understand?

Translation: It's a four fucking day drive to your new team. Your signing fee was astronomical. It could do so much for the team. You'll find your feet, but we'd prefer our kits rhinestoned over giving you a permanent home.

It's the nature of pro sports.

Translation: Everything you represent is more important than who you are.

So, I'd sit on the Bobcats' bench for how much longer? A few games? A few weeks? Months?

Miss training camp. Done. Miss preseason. Done that too. How many games of the regular season would I miss? How many times would other coaches and managers notice my absence from play? Conspicuous because I made myself conspicuous.

Fake it until you make it.

Be the shit until everyone believes you're the shit.

I scooped up a loose puck, bobbled it on the curve of my stick. Toe-dragged to my feet, kicked with the left under the blade of the right, back onto my stick.

I faked it so hard. Was all the shit. Made everyone sit up and pay notice. Look at me! I'm good at this. Pick me.

Keep me.

Only I forgot to be so vocal about that last part.

And I fucking let myself believe it might be different this time. I'd found somewhere I loved. With a team I loved. And a man who I loved so wholeheartedly, I didn't know what hurt more. The pain of not playing the game that was my very reason for existing. Or the pain of knowing that Jamie didn't feel the same.

Because if he felt the same, he had a pretty shitty way of showing it.

I was fine. My shoulder was fine. I still had it strapped up, like Dr fucking Sullivan had told me. But it didn't hurt, at least not nearly as much as it had done. I took a hard slapshot, just to prove it was fine.

It was. As reliable as ever.

I got it. Jamie had played pro and had to quit because of an injury. And I understood he was only doing his job. And doing it really fucking well. Like it was the only thing that mattered to him. And I knew he didn't want the same thing to happen to me. I got it. I promise I did.

But he wasn't me. I wasn't him. I wouldn't let the same thing happen.

I needed to play. I needed to skate out that first game.

I needed the world not to forget me. Pass me over again. Move me from one state to another.

I could skate it. And I could fucking boss it. And Jamie knew that.

So, if he wouldn't sign me off, then I guessed I had no other option.

There was no way in hell I was sitting this one out.

I would go over his head.

"Bowman, come in, take a seat. I assume you're here about Sullivan's … prognosis?"

Prognosis. What an apt choice of word. I sat at the large conference style table that served as Coach Turner's desk. It was strewn with papers and scribbled notes and sheets of A2 flip board paper, and several cups of half-drunk black coffee. Turner's office, if you could even call it that, couldn't be any further from Jamie's stark, ordered, miserable therapy room.

I sat on my hands and pursed my lips together so that I wouldn't blurt out everything on my mind. That I wanted him to ignore my doctor's very specific advice and grant me the go ahead to play this game. Because one game benched could lead to a season and then what? I wasn't ready to give up this dream yet.

But that was what I came here for. So eventually I'd have to find the right words to persuade him to let me skate. Or leave his office sad and broken. Like I'd left Jamie's.

In the middle of the table sat a manilla folder with BOWMAN, A. R. in the top left corner. Presumably my damning MRIs were in there, along with my unsigned release forms.

Coach perched himself on the edge of the desk, assessed me for a few moments, rubbed his hand under his jaw. He took a sip from the closest mug and recoiled. "Gah, cold. So—"

"I need to skate, Coach. Put me in the game!"

So much for keeping my cool. Being suave and persuasive.

Turner stood, inhaled deeply. After a few agonising seconds, he spoke, "You know what Sullivan's exact words were?" I shook my head, but he continued talking as though he'd had no intention of stopping anyway. "He said, while you're almost fully healed, he highly recommends you sit out the next few games."

"That's pretty close to what he said to—"

"Recommends, Bowman. Recommends. Not prescribes. Not insists. Not carved into a stone tablet." Turner pulled out a chair and sat dead in front of me. Like a police interrogator.

"What are you saying?" My heartbeat began picking up through its gears. Up a notch. Faster. Up another. Faster still.

He didn't answer my question. "How's your shoulder? How's it feel? Good enough to skate with?"

"Yeah … yeah, it feels fine," I said, wondering why, now that Turner was dangling exactly what I wanted in front of my face, I suddenly felt nervous about it. Suddenly felt like I was Georgie, and Turner was just some happy dude with a balloon and a passion for white face paint and one of those god awful American storm drains.

"Well." He paused. Shot a glance at the door. "Dr Sullivan is not the only doctor that can sign you off to skate."

"I … Wh …"

"You want to skate this opener? ‘Cos fuck knows we need you to skate it."

"Of course. Of course I want to skate it. That's what I came here for." I believed the words. But they were quiet as they left my lips.

Turner slapped his hand on the desk, the biggest smile on his face. "Then consider it done. I'll give Dan a call, and we'll see you at practice later."

He waved me away. Dismissed me. Shoed me like Farrell getting too close to a potted cacti.

I pushed myself to my feet and bumbled out of his office. Feeling as though I'd just been handed everything I'd ever wanted.

And yet, I couldn't help but wonder if I really wanted it anymore.

I mean, of course I did. I wanted it more than anything.

But …

Maybe not like this.