15. Chapter 15

In the past forty-eight hours, I'd been an incredibly productive human being.

I'd set a new bench press PR at the gym. Run some two dozen miles; my knee was aching, and even Brady was tired—a record all on its own. Finished five chapters of my business class. And drank an entire handle of rum.

Records all the fuck around.

One thing I had not done was see Bowie. Or texted him. I wasn't sure if I was waiting for him to make the move because I was being a gentleman—or a coward.

The phone on my coffee table had been quiet for the last two days. Couple of texts from Katie—which I hadn't bothered to reply to. I'd stopped checking it for updates. Or expecting any.

The rum was helping.

The empty bottle sat on the empty couch cushion next to me. Not the one on my left where Brady was passed out, snoring in great billowing sweeps of furry ribs. The one where Bowie normally lounged, his long, lean legs kicked up on the coffee table, or draped over my even longer legs. In my not-sober state, I wondered if he'd ever sit there again.

Or maybe I'd fucked things up too badly to be repaired.

I forced my gaze back to the laptop perched on my thighs. The text swam across the screen, unreadable. And though the booze was muddying my mind, I knew it wasn't responsible for the way my brain refused to latch onto the letters.

I needed to pass this test. It was the first step to the future. The gateway to my new life. My ticket out of the world of pro sports, where I'd forever be reliving the past, in every athlete and every injury. I needed to pass this test because clearly, I'd lost my ability to be objective about shit like this.

Maybe I'd open a practice in California.

Colorado. They had amazing hiking out there. Alaska. Bet people needed PT in Alaska. I could go anywhere. Do anything I wanted. Get the fuck away from this team, this city, this sport. Forever. Never look back.

Leave the past behind once and for fucking all.

But I couldn't make the words on my screen make sense.

When my phone buzzed on the coffee table, I nearly tossed the laptop onto the floor in my eagerness to shoot forward to grab it. Even Brady dragged herself out of her nap to glare at me.

Katie: Sully! Why are you ignoring me? I ain't that ugly.

I stared at the message until the screen went dark. Stared at my reflection without seeing it. Like if I sat here without moving, without thinking or doing, I could will him back into my life. Or at least onto my phone in the form of a text message.

Even a spiteful fuck you I could have worked with. At least I'd know he was thinking of me. Feeling something for me, even if it was anger. This cold emptiness was so much worse.

I needed a distraction. Something. Anything. Except I'd tried all my normal distractions—gym, run, study. Plotting for the future, for getting out and running away, like he'd said I was doing. And when all that had failed, I'd fallen into the rum.

None of it made any difference.

My brain was still spinning. Now I was drunk and depressed on top of it. And even after all the studying I'd somehow crammed in, I couldn't pass this test or the class. Couldn't move on. Not with Archie fucking Bowman still skating circles around my head.

He'd left a stick leaning against the wall next to the door, and I couldn't stop staring at it.

It was untaped. He liked to tape them while watching TV, before he spent the entire rest of the show stick handling. Which was way more riveting to watch than whatever was on. For me, anyway, because he never looked down.

Then he'd rip the tape off, save the re-tape for the locker room. And—

I slammed the laptop closed, still open to the test, and tossed it onto the table on top of the piles of papers that had accumulated over the weeks. Reached for the bottle, only to find it empty. Drained dry. All that booze was in my blood instead of in the glass.

I threw that onto the coffee table, too.

Scattering papers, like I'd scattered all the other good things in my life. And what now? What now, Sullivan? Now it was me and my empty condo and the silence ringing through the walls the way I wished it'd ring through my head.

But there was no silence for me, no rest for the wicked. I kept seeing his face, over and over, that broken expression. Cocky grin nowhere in sight. Fear and desperation and anger all warring for control as the person he'd trusted to be there for him instead betrayed him in a misguided attempt to protect him.

My chest ached at the memory. The thought that I'd caused his pain. I'd benched him. Taken away his dream. He was so fucking beautiful, so goddamn fucking talented, and he deserved everything, deserved so much more than me.

Maybe that was why I hadn't texted him.

Or maybe I was afraid he was too mad, that I'd try to apologize, and he'd slam the door in my face again. Or maybe, at the root of it all, I was afraid that he was right, that I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. That I'd made the wrong call. I couldn't trust myself, my judgment, my instincts, and I didn't know what to fucking do with that.

That's why I'd been slamming back business classes faster than shots of rum, wasn't it?

Pain wrapped my ribcage in a vise so tight, it felt like breathing shards.

I needed to get the fuck out of this dark, lonely condo. Get out of my head, find something to distract me. Two days ago, I'd have called Bowie. Ten years ago, I'd have walked down the street to a bar, flashed a smile, and had a guy on his knees in the bathroom five minutes later.

I wondered how many times Bowie had done that. How many times he'd do it during the upcoming season. While I sat here. Drunk. Alone. Pining and moping and not passing my business class. Not moving on.

No.

I was done replaying that awful afternoon over and over, wondering if I'd made the right choice. I'd chosen what was best for him, what someone should've chosen for me. If he hated me for it … So be it.

I was done thinking about it.

I stood up, swaying only a little, because despite being mostly sober for the past ten years, six-four and two hundred pounds was still a lot of body weight for absorbing alcohol. I stuffed my phone into my pocket, gave Brady a good scratch behind the ears and a heartfelt promise to be back, and headed out.

Faded evening light painted the street in dull colors, turning everything to grey. Buildings, cement, even the trees and grass had lost their luster to the waning of the day. People hustled down the sidewalk, ditching work for the evening. Some moved at a slower pace, maybe looking for a happy hour haunt.

Good. I wouldn't be alone.

That was the whole damn point. I couldn't sit in my lonely fucking apartment, by myself with my thoughts and my empty bottle of rum. Fuck that. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to go in anywhere.

Not the first uppity wine loft I passed—too many girls' nights underway for a gay bachelor. The hipster bar on the rooftop deck over the Bank of America felt wrong, too. Too much … cheer. I even eschewed the brewery on the corner, under a tower of office buildings, because … I dunno.

I guess I was doing a drunk walkabout. The booze was getting to me. Steps slowing, the colors blurring as the greys deepened. My thoughts were still the same swirling mess, though. So when I reached the dimly lit sports bar wedged between a hamburger joint and a game store, I walked in.

It was almost empty, except for a few folks in the back corner around a booth, and a couple at a round table. An older man sat at the counter, drinking solo and staring at his phone. Nobody looked up at me when I strode in and sat down at the end of the bar.

I'd come out to not be alone, but sitting alone at a bar seemed appropriate. Especially when I looked up at the TV and found hockey. Specifically, a sports special on the Bobcats' newest acquisition, Archie Bowman.

I almost laughed, except the bartender chose that moment to slide over. "Getchu something, man?"

"Rum and coke," I said, and the drink appeared an instant later. He must not have realized I'd already consumed more than a reasonable amount of booze in the confines of my condo, or he wouldn't have served me.

I stuck my nose in, then drained it in one. Because why the hell not? I was already well and truly shitfaced. Might as well go for broke. Put my plummeting self-confidence and downward spiral on public display, five o'clock on a Thursday.

Seemed even a decade later, the only way I knew how to handle my problems was to drink myself into oblivion.

Except I hadn't drank enough, because I wasn't oblivious to the TV blaring overhead. Or the whirl of colors splashed across the screen. Or what the announcers were babbling about as they discussed what the new British hotshot Archie Bowman would do for the Bobcats' upcoming season.

"I've never seen such a smart player," one announcer said, and the camera cut to footage of a familiar form in green and gold, tearing up the ice with his last team, the Cavaliers. "... how he reads the defense ..."

"... those hands, too … Incredible …"

I slammed back the second rum and coke, slid my glass to the edge of the bar. A few feet away, the bartender perched on his stool, head tipped up towards the TVs. Relaxing before the dinner rush.

My phone vibrated against my thigh, and I all but knocked my empty drink off the counter to get to it. A text. From fucking Katie.

Katie: You're not getting into trouble, are you J?

I tossed my phone onto the sticky wooden countertop. Still nothing from Bowman. Unless you counted the television screen over the bar.

"Another." I was slurring. Did I look completely fucked? But I was a big guy, and though it had been almost a decade since I'd last bloodied my knuckles in a fight, not many people argued with me—drunk or sober.

Archie Bowman, naturally, being the exception.

The bartender hopped off his stool to pour me another drink. Slid the glass in front of me, no arguments. Then leaned an elbow against the counter to half-turn back towards the TVs. "You follow the Bobcats?"

I didn't bother lying; my gaze fixed on the screen over his left shoulder. "Yeah, man. You?"

"Hell, yeah," he agreed. And then he kept talking, because he didn't know the highlight of the news segment was also the source of all my joy and misery. "You think Bowman's gonna be the big deal everybody thinks?"

"Yeah." The word tumbled out without hesitation, without thought. "Yeah, I do. He's fucking amazing. Never seen anything like him."

"Looked pretty good with the Cavs." Bartender nodded, his eyes on the screen. Bowie—my Bowie—stood with the rest of his former team in a huddle. Rocking back and forth on his skates in that anxious let's-fucking-play way. How well I knew that rush.

Tight fingers squeezed my heart in an icy grip. I studied the glass in my hand. It was starting to blur around the edges, like the ink creeping up my arms and under my rolled sleeves.

"I've seen him with the Bobcats," I admitted, because there was no filter on my mouth, not anymore. "He's incredible."

"Oh, shit." Bartender's attention snapped towards me with new interest. "You've seen them practice?"

"Just insane, man." My fat mouth kept running, fueled by alcohol and sadness. "He's got hands for fucking days. Sees the game real well, too. Great synergy with the rest of the team."

"Damn. That's awesome." Bartender settled onto his elbows facing me, engaged in the conversation now. "He missed preseason though, right? Shoulder injury or something?"

"His asshole doctor wouldn't clear him," I said, because I was drunk and stupid and hopeless as fuck. "Got him sitting the first couple of games."

"The hell?" His brows pulled low over his dark eyes. "No way. They gave up like three draft picks to get him. And now they're gonna bench him?"

I tipped back my drink in one go. Fuck it. I was getting blazed tonight. Was gonna drink until I couldn't remember why I'd started, then drink some more. Wasn't anybody here to stop me. "Maybe they want him healthy for playoffs."

Even drunk, I sounded like a lame-ass doctor.

"Nah, fuck that, man." Bartender leaned back towards the TV again. "I say play him while he's hot."

"Yeah. Right." My stomach churned, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol turning my blood to poison. I slid my glass forward. "Another?"

He pried himself off the bar for my refill, and I let my eyes wander to the screen. They were still showing fucking Bowman in a montage of replays. Whirling around the ice. Grinning that huge heart-wrenching, breath-stealing grin, gloved hands in the air, as he celebrated a goal. Pinned against the boards by a big, dark-haired defenseman.

The defender gave him a shove, bowed his helmeted head right down to Bowie's. Angry. Trying to get a rise out of him. Start a fight and bring down the superstar. Anger gripped my chest, watching that clip.

I'd have hit the motherfucker. Young Jamie would've thrown down, cause that's what the guy was asking for. What he wanted. Hell, what the crowd wanted; they screamed for it. I could almost feel the gloves sliding from my hands as I tossed them to the ice—

Bowie skated away.

Just like that. Shook his head, turned his back, left the asshole behind. Didn't stoop to the guy's level, because he was Archie Bowman, and he was better than that. Better than everybody—in game and in character. Smarter, too; he let the defenseman take the penalty so the Cavs got the powerplay. Scored a fucking goal thirty-seven seconds in.

Fuck me.

He really was the best man out there. Anywhere. So much better than I'd ever been. And I'd treated him like my idiot kid self. The cocky, egotistical asshole so in love with myself I'd inked every victory and success into my skin like fucking trophies. Fucked my way across North America. Shut out reason and my own goddamn body to play a few more games.

Bowie wasn't me.

Bartender slid another glass to me with his eyes on the TV. "Man, you weren't kidding. Kid is filthy. Shit."

"Best there is." I was starting to slur, but I knocked back that fresh drink without hesitation. "Better than me."

Bartender snorted. "Yeah. Me too. Obviously my NHL career didn't take off."

"Mine, either."

He chuckled at that, like we were sharing a private moment or joke. Maybe we were. In the end, what was the difference between someone who'd never tried and someone who'd failed, if you both ended up sitting at a bar watching someone else live your dreams?

I kind of wanted to cry. "Could I get another?"

He turned back to me, brows furrowing a little as he took in the empty glass, judged my slurred words, did the math. "You want a water or something?"

"Nah, I'm good." I jabbed a finger at the empty drink to nudge it towards him. "I'm still drinking."

"Want me to call you a cab?" He reached under the counter to fish out a tall glass. "Or you got someone who can pick you up?"

My heart rammed against my ribs in a painful punch as I remembered the last person who'd bundled me in a cab and brought me home. Hadn't taken me up on my offers to blow him or fuck him. He'd put me to bed, then come back in the morning with breakfast.

"Nah. I'm fine. I walked. One more."

"Don't think so." He straightened up, squaring his shoulders to me. He wasn't as big as me, but he wasn't small. Had probably been in a fight more recently than I had. Was definitely less drunk. "You can sit if you want, but I'm not gonna serve you anymore."

"C'mon, man." Through the numbing pulse of booze, I couldn't tell if my voice was angry or pleading. "Been a rough week. I need a drink."

"I can't overserve." He crossed his arms, leaned on the counter. Still friendly and conversational. "It's my job. You go do something stupid, hurt yourself or whatever, I could lose my job."

It's my job.

Fuck.

Fuck I was such a fucking idiot. And now I was drunk and on the brink of plunging headfirst into a low, deep hole I hadn't seen the bottom of for a long time. Fuck me.

"Yeah, okay." My voice faded away to a faint murmur. I wasn't angry; I was sad. I wanted to forget, for a little bit. For once in my damned life. Not think.

"Here, have some water."

As he slid the tall, sweating glass towards me, my phone buzzed against the sticky wood. Drawing both our gazes.

Katie: Sullivan, answer your damn phone. I'm worried.

Then, it started ringing. We both stared at it. At the name KATIE flashing across the screen, her grinning, self-imposed photo underneath.

"That your girl?" Bartender asked.

"No. I'm gay." I sighed, swiped my finger down to decline the call.

Turned my attention back to the TV. To Bowie. It was a close-up now, of him nodding along with a microphone under his chin. That gorgeous grin split his face.

"Just, you know, go out, skate hard." Fuck, that beautiful British voice of his. "Play the game we love."

My chest ached enough to make me wonder if I'd somehow cracked a rib between the PR at the bench and drinking myself under the table. Could a broken heart break ribs? What was the physical therapy for that kind of injury?

"Jesus, Jamie," a female voice said behind me, and both the bartender and I turned towards the door. Katie marched in like she'd come to save the day. Or ruin it. I wasn't sure anymore.

"Fuck off, Katie." I slumped back over the bar. The picture of middle-aged depression. "I'm drowning my sorrows."

"Doing kind of a shit job." She plopped down next to me. "And this is the worst thing you could be watching. Change the channel, Reg?"

I realized she was talking to the bartender when the TV flickered off Bowie's face to a long stretch of Florida-green fairway. The guy down at the other end of the bar muttered something that the three of us pretended not to hear.

"How'd you find me," I sighed, pulling myself away from the screen. What was the point looking, if Bowie wasn't on it? Which meant, without that distraction, I now had to look at Katie. I didn't want to look at Katie.

"Closest sports bar to your condo. And I know Reggie." She nodded at him. "Thanks for calling me."

"Sure thing. We just talked hockey."

"Course you did." Katie sighed, and then her fingers wrapped around my biceps. "C'mon, Sullivan. Let's get you home."

"I'm drowning my—"

"Sorrows, yeah, I know, Mr. Pathetic." She slid off the stool, then tugged at my arm. I obeyed, because I was sloshy and mushy and complacent. Like I was about to be a whole lot of dead weight. Good thing Katie was strong. "You pay your tab?"

"Shit." My fingers fumbled at my butt pocket for my wallet. The brown leather swam in my gaze as I scraped my card out, tossed it onto the tacky bartop. Reggie swept it away, then pressed it back into my hand a minute later.

Then, Katie and I were outside.

It was dark. Cool. Smelled like fall—city smog and cold air and damp leaves. Lights popped out of the darkness like eyes, setting the streets aglow along the sidewalk. Katie didn't let go of my elbow as we headed towards my condo, and I was probably staggering. Definitely staggering.

Car headlights blurred white and red to my right. The yellow glow of bars smeared the buildings to my left. Music thumped out from somewhere indiscernible. Katie kept me moving forward, even as people swirled around us like shadows.

"You want to talk about it." Her words weren't a question.

"I fucked up." Mine spilled out like I'd been waiting for her invitation. "I fucked up, and he hates me."

"He's mad at you, yeah."

"He should be."

She tilted her head. "You think you called it wrong?"

"I don't know, but …" More words tumbled out of my drunk, stupid, blabbering mouth. "I love him."

Katie stopped walking.

Which meant I stopped walking because she was still holding onto me with claw-like fingers. The world swayed around me, colors and sounds and lights and darkness. City and trees and cars and people. Things blurring and smudging like all my emotions inside.

"You love him."

"I love him." There they were. Again. So easy! Just like that. They spilled out and they were right and I knew they were right. And Katie knew it too, I could tell by the low pull of her brows.

"And … have you told him?" Oh, that's why she was looking all stern and serious. She wanted to ask stern and serious girl questions.

"Told him what?"

"That you love him, Jamie. Jesus." Her head tipped back, offering an implorement to the actual son of God. "Have you told him you love him?"

"Um." My brows furrowed tight enough to give me a headache. "No?"

Katie pinched my arm as she started walking again, dragging me along with her. Sending everything pitching and swaying and spinning. "Well, there you go, dumbass."

"There what goes?" I tilted my face in front of her. Mistake. More spinning. "I don't get it."

Katie sighed as we reached the entrance to my apartment building. At least, I thought it was. Oh, yeah, that was the nighttime door guy, the pristine lobby, the fucking fountain—all of it way too nice for my sloppy, pathetic drunk ass.

I laughed, and Katie shoved me into the elevator.

"You have to tell him how you feel," she said as the elevator went up—and my stomach stayed down. Jesus, did elevators always suck this bad? Or did rum make them worse? It was probably that one. "Tell him you love him."

"He deserves better than me."

"Maybe." The elevator opened; Katie nudged me out. "But that's his decision, not yours."

Then, we were in my condo, and it was too big and too empty, even with Brady prancing around, nuzzling up against me like I wasn't the worst dog-parent in the world and wagging her entire body for Katie.

"I'm gonna take her out, okay?" Katie snagged the leash off the hook by the door. "Be back."

I plopped into a bar stool and stared at the screen of my phone. Nothing. Silence and hollow emptiness and nothingness. You have to tell him how you feel.

But it wasn't as easy as that, was it?

Was it?

I stared at that blank screen until Katie and Brady returned. Whatever she said washed over me without sticking. In one drunk ear and out the other. Then those claw-hands were on me again, leading me into the living room. Pushing me down on the couch. Upright.

She turned the TV on, switched it over to Comedy Central for reruns of the Office. Then she sat next to me. "You okay here? I'm afraid you'll puke if I put you in bed."

"Probably," I mumbled. "I drank all the booze."

"I can see that."

"You think I should tell him?"

"I think you should sleep, then think about it like a sober adult and not an emo mopey teenager."

"Boring. I hate sobriety."

"Yeah, okay. There's a bucket next to you."

I nodded. She said something else, but my mind had drifted off. Then, she was gone, and I didn't know if she'd left or headed to the kitchen, but my phone was in my hand again and I was staring at the black screen.

You have to tell him how you feel.

Why hadn't I? Would it have made a difference if I had? Something told me it wouldn't have, that what had happened was bigger than that. His career, hockey—that was bigger than me or him or us. That was … life.

Hockey was life.

I clicked on my phone, but instead of texting him or calling him, I opened TopTier. Didn't bother with any of the matches I'd garnered—I was up to eighty-seven potentials—and clicked on the profile for A_Big_Stick.

His grinning picture was an arrow to the heart. His tanned shoulders and chest, windswept blond locks, and that smirk. That goddamn smirk, the one that said he was a good lay and could deep-throat like a fucking champ and would make you laugh with a stupid joke or a reluctantly uncovered little piece of real.

I nearly stopped breathing.

Why had I clicked on his profile, opened the app in the first place? This was masochism of the purest form. Yet, my thumb kept scrolling. Down to the questions below.

Favorite color: Blue. I knew that one. Favorite sport, hockey, also a no-brainer. His favorite music was indie rock, and he liked cheap beer and appletinis, and obviously he could hit the high notes of Macklemore's "Thrift Shop" whilst dancing the no-pants dance.

I laughed in spite of myself. Ridiculous. Even when trying to get laid, he didn't take it seriously. And, ah yes, there it was. Favorite place to bang was, naturally, his physiotherapist's table.

I choked on my breath.

I needed to call him, text him, connect with him. Something. Anything. Know he was there, and it wasn't just the booze talking. Fairly sure. Somewhat sure.

I opened the message thread labeled Bowman. For whatever reason, I'd never changed it. Felt so cold, so impersonal. So doctoral, like everything in my clean, organized, planned, sterile life.

Except for Bowie. My eyes caught on the last message he'd sent me, two days ago. Before everything had gone to pieces.

Bowman: Here, Kitty Kitty!

My gut clenched. I was going to puke.

I lurched up off the couch, stumbling over the bucket Katie had set on the floor, and raced for the bathroom. My knees crashed down on the tile in front of the toilet the moment before I upended a gut-load of rum and coke.

Many times.

More.

Until my stomach was empty, throat raw, knees aching from the cold. I stuck my face under the sink, rinsed, washed, then lurched back down to the floor. Head a little clearer, but everything still a big, roily mess.

My fingers brushed my phone on the tile. The screen lit up, Bowie's text staring up at me again.

Here, Kitty Kitty!

I'd never replied, because I'd been busy glaring at his MRIs. And then he'd walked in, and that had been it. It'd all gone to shit, and now that message was the last proof we'd had any contact at all.

Here, Kitty Kitty!

My fingers curled around the phone.

Me: I'm here.

The text thread sat open.

Unread.

Quiet.

Ignored and alone and drunk and sad and … I deserved it.

As much as I wanted to call him, hear his voice, tell him those three words that had rolled off my tongue when I was with Katie, I knew he deserved more.

Hell, I'd have called him to let him yell at me. Fight me, with words and fists and passion, because all of that was better than this cold, dead emptiness.

But he deserved more than that.

Besides, I knew he wouldn't fight me. Not this time. He'd turn his back and skate away because he wasn't me. He was better. In every way a person could be. And I'd thrown that in his face.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

I'd made the wrong call.

I'd looked at his name, at his smile, the freckles on his nose, at all the mornings and evenings we'd spent together. I'd looked at his love of the game and his hope for the future. I'd looked at him and I'd seen us. Seen me. And I'd panicked.

Made a decision that should have been his. Treated him like a kid.

When I'd taken the choice away from him, when I'd refused to sign that paper, I'd told him I didn't trust him. I'd shown him. I'd said—without words, because actions were so much stronger—that I thought he was no better than the stupid, desperate kid I'd been at his age.

But that wasn't true. That'd never been true.

Would I love him if that were true?

I tilted my head back against the bathroom wall. Letting the world spin and hurtle and melt around me. I'd be puking again soon. Probably well into the morning. I deserved no less.

I'd fucked up. Bad.

Telling him I was sorry wouldn't be enough. Once actions have spoken, words can never be large enough to cover their wounds.

I needed action.

In the morning, I'd need to come to terms with what I'd done—and fix it. Take action.

Sign off on his release to play. Like I would have with any other player, with any other athlete, with myself.

I just didn't know if I had the strength to do it for him.

I woke up on the bathroom floor.

Of course I did. I'd puked until four in the morning, hadn't trusted my stomach enough to go to bed. Now, it felt like someone was whacking a mallet around the inside of my head and someone else had stuffed my mouth full of foul-tasting cotton balls.

I dragged myself up on the vanity and stuck my face under the faucet. Rinsed and spit and drank in turns, then lay back down for another hour. Wake, repeat. Sleep. Wake to a golden retriever pressing her eyeballs against mine.

"Hi, Brady," I muttered, weaving my fingers into her fur. I was the worst dog owner of all time. She deserved better than me.

So did Bowie.

And today was the day to fix it.

After breakfast and a walk for Brady. That would at least win me some points on the rotten-dog-ownership side of things. And get me dressed and outside into the fresh air to clear my head and find hangover food—because no blond master chef was going to turn up.

The thought made my chest ache hard enough I wanted to puke again. But there was nothing left—in my stomach or anywhere in my body. Literally or metaphorically. So I got up off the floor and stumbled into my bedroom for a change of clothes. Then to the kitchen for a glass of water and Brady's leash.

It was late morning by the time we made it outside. Cool, even for October, the air nipping at my nose and the tips of my ears in a welcome, sobering way. Fresh autumn did wonders for my aching brain and limbs and joints. Everything hurt, but out in the still morning, I felt… well, somewhat more alive than I had on the bathroom tile, anyway.

Brady sniffed happily at the sidewalk as we strolled, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. Most people were at work by now, so the ground-floor restaurants were closed or empty. I stopped by Baker's Dozen for a coffee and breakfast sandwich. Bowie would've made it better. He was also a fan of their donuts.

I tried not to think about it as I plopped down on the long bench next to the urban tree outside the cafe, and Brady begged shamelessly as I ate. But not thinking about Bowie was impossible.

He was good at showing he cared. In little things and big. Cooking me breakfast when I was hungover. Taking me skating when I needed to do it. Refusing the sexual favors he'd originally come after me for because I was drunk.

And I …

What the hell had I done for him?

I'd taken away his choice—the choice about his life. His career. Treated him like a child. Because I was obviously so mature and knowledgeable and grown up. I'd spent the night on the bathroom floor like a fucking college kid.

I shouldn't be making decisions for anyone.

But I could fix this.

Cold nerves clenched my stomach. Signing off on his release was the right thing to do—I knew that. But it still felt wrong. The old paranoias, the lingering fears whispered all the things that could go wrong. All the reasons I should stick to my initial decision.

This was Bowie. My Bowie. And I wanted to protect him. Save him. Watch him reach out and grasp all the dreams I'd never gotten to hold. Tell him to rest his wings now so he could soar later.

But I'd made a bad call. I'd been too busy letting my injury, my experience, and my feelings for Bowie cloud my judgment.

I needed to separate my past from Bowie's future, once and for all. I'd been so caught up seeing my younger self in him—in his love of the game; in his desperate need to play; even in his cocky mask, the drinking, the sleeping around; in our very connection, our pull towards each other—that I hadn't realized he wasn't me.

Not by a long shot.

He'd worked so much harder than me to get where he was. Overcome so much more. He was so much stronger, so much more mature, than me. He knew himself, what he was capable of.

He was better than me in every way.

So, I needed to make the right call. Be the good doctor.

Let go of control.

I needed to let Bowie choose.

Even if that meant watching him get hurt. At least if he did, he'd have a doctor who cared a whole hell of a lot by his side, helping him through it.

Bowie was stronger than I'd ever been.

Better.

I slid my phone out of my pocket. Stared at his message thread again.

Bowman: Here, Kitty Kitty!

Me: I'm here.

The sudden urge to call him swelled in me. To speak the words bubbling in my chest. But I couldn't … I couldn't let those words influence his decision. I wasn't signing that paper to beg his forgiveness.

I had to let him go, and maybe, once the season got going, he'd come back. Or maybe, he'd let me go, too, and that's the way things were meant to be.

I had to be okay with that. With all of it. With staying or moving on. Going where the currents of life took me. Just like in the game. You adjusted, adapted to the things you couldn't control.

I closed my phone. I had one more thing I needed to do before that meeting. I stretched my bad leg out and breathed in the deep October air.

I needed to skate.

Sticks and pucks wasn't really hockey.

There was no organized play, not even full equipment. It was a pile of pucks on the ice, a bunch of half-suited old guys zooming around taking slap shots against the boards, and two empty nets. Which meant that it was just me, my skates, and the stick in my hands under my sweat-softened gloves.

Felt right, better than a true game would've. No one to compete with out here. No one to be better or worse than, no one to judge or be judged. And it felt good to fuck around on the ice, like I hadn't done since I was a kid.

No motive, no urgency, no desperation. Just stickhandling for the fun of it. Seeing if I could still toe-drag—I could—flip the puck up and catch it on my blade—also a yes—bat it into my feet, kick forward—again, yup. Taking shots to hear the resounding crash of collision with the boards or tinking against the post.

In short, skating just to be on the fucking ice.

It was what I needed to ground myself for what I had to do next.

I was the last one off the ice at the end of the session. But one of the old guys had paused at the door. "Hey, Doc."

"Hey, Jones."

"You joining the men's league or what?"

An almost-smile twitched at my mouth. "Yeah, you know, I think I'm gonna do it."

"Good. Need guys who can skate. It's turning into hack-show beer-league bullshit."

I chuckled. "Sounds fun."

"Sign up." He tapped the blade of his stick against my shin pad, headed for the locker room.

Reminded me of when Bowie had done it, right before my first skate back out on the ice after a decade-long dry spell.

I've got you, he'd said. The words clenched my heart in a tight, warm grip. I've got you.

Yeah, he did. And now, it was time for me to have him.

I've got you, little winger.