17. Chapter 17

I made the right decision.

I made the right decision. I made the right decision. I made the right decision.Amazing how you could say something over and over and still not believe it. Well, my cold, logical brain refused to believe it, anyway. Injuries and hockey didn't mix, that logic said. C'mon, Sullivan, you know that.

But my heart—which I didn't listen to often—knew the truth. That what I'd done was right. This was Bowie's game. Bowie's life. Bowie's decision. And whatever I was to him … It needed to be kept separate from that decision.

Didn't mean I had to sit in my seat behind the bench and like it, even if I had to watch the game. I was technically working, though as a PT and not the on-duty athletic trainer. Working meant pre-game stretching and taping, followed by free hockey right next to the glass. A dream come true for most.

Usually, I enjoyed it.

Tonight, I couldn't sit still. The players hadn't even hit the ice for warm-ups, and my legs wouldn't stop bouncing, fingers drumming my thighs. Guns n' Roses blared out over the arena as the zam made its final lap around. Ten thousand people sang along, murmured, laughed, shouted, danced, drank.

Ready to scream and cheer, exalt and boo, swear and slur and celebrate.

And before me, the ice yawned wide and white, a calm, arctic ocean lit to a blinding glow by the fluorescents far overhead. Full of promise, potential. Hope and fear. A dramatic stage set for passion and blood and fury.

Hockey was life, and every fucking person in this arena knew it.

Felt it.

Breathed it in with the sharp tang of cold, the grease of cheap hot dogs and nachos, sour spilled beer, the faint pillowy sweetness of old sweat baked into worn padding. The smell of the game. Of hockey.

I pulled a heavy breath into unsteady lungs. Remembered back to that first time I'd watched him skate. He hadn't even been trying—it had been some silly non-practice with the rest of the boys, all of them fucking around just to be out there. And still, against that backdrop of nothing, he was magnificent.

Here?

Fuck.

I could do this. Sit here. Watching him fucking dominate this arena, because that's what he would do. What he was meant to do. What he was born to do.

Hockey was his gift, and it was time he shared it with the world.

I could do this. For him.

"Well, if it isn't Dr. James Sullivan." The female voice reached up from the ground floor a moment before Katie's dark hair appeared, followed by wide brown eyes and a mouth that played at teasing, though it was bound by the ties of sobriety.

"Katie." I managed a nod. I clamped both hands down on my knees, trying to stop the jiggle. She'd probably seen it. "You think our boys got the win?"

"Course they do." She folded down into the seat next to me, set her sneakers up on the unoccupied chair one row down, right on the glass. Behind said glass, locker room attendants lugged equipment out onto the Bobcats' bench.

I tried not to stare as they stacked pucks, lined up extra sticks and water bottles, laid out towels. As the coaches piled on to inspect. As the athletic trainer poked around in his medical bag, prepared for any emergency that might arise. That settled in my stomach like a cold knot.

"Jamie?" Katie's voice cut through the buzzing in my head. "You all right?"

"I cleared Bowie to play." The words tumbled out of my mouth without my permission. I hadn't even had a drink since that bender at the sports bar.

Katie hummed a noncommital note as she studied my face. "And how do you feel about that?"

"Good. Terrified. Wrong. Right." I dragged a hand through my hair before I remembered I'd styled it. I felt like a hollow shell, but that didn't mean I needed to look like I'd spent a night on the bathroom floor, mourning the loss of someone who hadn't technically been my—anything.

"Jeez, Jamie. What are you, a moody teenager?"

"Asshole." I bumped my shoulder against hers, but she'd made me smile. She always did. Until I sobered again. "My aching joints say otherwise."

"Well, for what it's worth," Katie's gaze stayed on the ice, where a couple of kids in skates were scraping off the excess with shovels, "Everybody thinks you did the right thing."

I nodded, studying all that extra snow piling up beyond the zam's door. The shovelers hopped off. Zam doors closed. Fuck, it was almost time. My knees started bobbing again, and I pulled in a max-capacity breath to locate my inner calm.

I couldn't find it.

"He's gonna be okay." Katie leaned into me, shoulder to shoulder. "You're a good—great—PT, and I think, deep down, you know that. He's twenty-five. They're made of rubber at that age."

"Right," I said, and then the lights dimmed.

"Get on your feet," the announcer boomed over the arena as the roar of applause climbed towards its peak, "for your own Bringham Bobcats!"

The roof nearly blew off as the crowd screamed and stomped and shouted. Clapped, waved, whistled. The door below my feet swung open, and Bobcats rushed down the hallway. Aaron, of course, was the first on the ice. Racing top speed the moment his blades hit. Zac followed him out, then—

I tore my eyes away.

Jamie Sullivan: coward.

But I couldn't bring myself to look. Not yet. Not when I was still wondering if I'd done the right thing or fucked up, if I was going to witness him wrecking his career—

"You breathing, Sullivan?" Katie pressed harder into me as she leaned closer. "Are you watching?"

"Yes."

"To the breathing or the watching?"

"Both." I forced my eyes to focus on the ice. To the swirl of blue and green, of names and numbers, blurring together like the rinse cycle of a washing machine. Like a beautiful blended melody of teamwork, of family. All these little parts that became one homogenous whole out on that ice.

I searched for him. Couldn't help it. If he would be out there, playing his game—the game he loved and owned and dominated—I was going to fucking watch him.

Except, I couldn't find him.

My eyes dug through the helmets and wayward locks of hockey hair, the extra-wide shoulders beneath the pads. Sought out his number … Nothing.

I couldn't find him.

Why couldn't I find him? The team whirled around the ice. Flinging pucks at Rainey. Stickhandling between blade and skates, sweeping the puck in swirling, graceful arcs, showing off and showboating—but I couldn't see Bowie. He should have stood out. He was a superstar. A hockey god of blond hair and magic hands and fast feet. The guy everybody was here to see.

But I couldn't fucking find him.

My eyes flitted to the bench, but it was just coaches and staff. Nobody sprawled out in front to stretch yet, either.

Where. Was. He?

Was he still in the locker room? Taping up his stick, fixing his shoulder brace—did he need help? Should I look for him? But no, he wouldn't want me, right? Maybe he'd texted me … My fingers fumbled with my phone.

Here, Kitty Kitty!

I'm here.

But that was days ago. There was nothing new. I was here—like I'd told him I would be—but he was nowhere in sight. Not on the ice, not on the bench.

"... Starting for your Bobcats tonight …" the announcer boomed, and I realized warmups had started and ended while I was panicking. The teams had skated to their respective benches, removed their helmets. Were finishing up last-minute stick-taping or equipment adjusting or superstitious rituals.

"At left defense … "

I searched the players again as the announcer called out JJ, then Rowan—to a mixed reception of riotous cheers and an uproar of boos from the opposing team's fans. His reputation preceded him.

As Bowie's would.

Except there was no number eleven on the bench. No head of tousled blond hair now that the helmets had been removed.

He.

Wasn't.

Here.

Zac skated out to an explosion of applause. Bowie would be next, they'd call right wing next and then I'd get an answer—

"At right wing … Anthony Callen!"

The tall, dark second-liner, who was very much not Bowie, raced out. More cheers. More panic welling up in my ribcage, churning my stomach, making the world tilt.

Where the hell was Bowie?

"And at center, your captain …"

Aaron whirled out, and I gave in to the panic. The crowd took the roof off again as Aaron lifted his gloved hands in a salute or an embrace, his blond hair and model good looks on full display under the bright lights.

Where was Bowie? Why wasn't he out there? Why wasn't he starting? That was his line! Had they moved him? Had I been wrong that his injury and his time off the ice wouldn't affect his position?

Or worse: had something happened? But they'd have called me, right? He was my patient—unless they'd transferred him to someone else, didn't trust my judgment anymore. I'd been too wishy-washy, let my personal life into my work life, and now …

"Jamie …" Katie's voice sounded distant, like it was coming from down a long tunnel. Too far to break through my growing bubble of panic.

I whipped my phone out, checked it. Nothing. Scanned the bench again. No number eleven. No blond. No Bowie. The lights dimmed for the national anthem. The crowd climbed to its feet, and I was slow to stand because my mind was still elsewhere, trying to put the pieces together.

The plaintive, warbling notes of the Star Spangled Banner drifted out over the sudden, almost religious silence that stole over the arena. We stood, hands over hearts. The players bowed their heads, gloves over pads. The music built and carried and washed over me like a wave, but when it died down, there was still no Bowie. Not on the ice or on the bench.

The audience slid back down into their respective seats. I, once again, was slow to sit, still searching, head swiveling, scanning the crowd now, because—

I froze.

Because there, at the bottom of the stairs, in the space previously blocked by the shiny bald head of the guy in the neighboring seat …

Stood Archie Bowman.

Looking like a fucking vision in a black suit and charcoal grey tie as he started up into the stands.

His green laser-gaze locked onto me. That beautiful bowed mouth curled upwards in a cocky grin, and the floor tilted under my dress shoes.

"Hey, Kitty." His voice was soft, but somehow, even with the blaring rock music echoing out over the ice as our boys lined up for the faceoff, it reached me. He slid into the aisle. Mere feet away.

Katie muttered something that I wasn't sure comprised real English words, then slipped out behind Bowie. Leaving me. And him. Alone. Together.

"Bowman." My voice came out in a low rasp. Below us, the game was a whirlwind of colors and scraping blades and slapping sticks. The music faded, the crowd settled. "What are you … Why … Shouldn't you be down there?"

I jabbed a finger down at the ice. Where Aaron and Zac slung passes back and forth as they wove through the defense, and their right wing—who was not Bowie—hurtled along behind. Trying to keep up because he was not Bowie.

"Yeah." He plopped into Katie's vacated chair. "I should be. But I figured I'd be out there for the next one. Once my shoulder's healed."

I swallowed down the big, dry lump in my throat. "What? I thought it was healed?"

"I mean, it feels pretty good." He lifted it, rolled it around in demonstration. "But I have this annoyingly strict PT, right, and he says the safe thing to do is wait. And 'cause he's smart and an amazing doctor, I figured I'd listen."

"Bowie," I groaned. I stared at him, with my jaw a little slack, because I didn't have words, not real ones, to describe what I was feeling. I didn't understand what I was feeling—that was the issue.

"He's also, like, really, really hot. I mean, abs for days—"

"Bowie." I forced myself to sit forward, lean towards him. The soft scent of soap and his shampoo drifted in to caress my senses. Or maybe assault them, because being this close to him was torture. Like being right outside your home and realizing you'd forgotten your keys. "Tell me you didn't do this because you think that it's what I—wanted—or that we—"

"Jamie." His face softened, the cocky grin relaxing into his authentic smile. Archie, not Bowie, looked back at me with earnest green eyes. "I didn't do it for you. I did it because you're right. One little game shouldn't be this important. Shouldn't be my whole life."

Hockey was life, and we both knew that.

But at this level, when you'd come this far, when you wanted to keep going, you had to look past the game in front of you. Had to see the big picture. Had to know your own fucking value, your importance, had to be certain of what you meant to your team.

I hadn't been.

But he was Archie fucking Bowman.

One miss wouldn't cost him his career—and we both knew it.

"Are you sure?" I leaned onto the armrest of my seat, because it brought me closer to him. Because I could look at him, study the lines of his face and the softness of his mouth and the certainty in his eyes. "I mean—what made—you were so—why?"

Words. Why couldn't I words?

"You were worried," he said, voice going quiet, the smile fading a little. "That's why you did what you did. You were worried about me because—because of what happened to you."

My teeth gritted together. "You Googled me."

"Can you blame me?"

"No." I huffed out a chuckle. And then the rest of the words spilled out, all the ones I should have said so much earlier. "You shouldn't have had to Google me. I … I should have told you. About all of it. I've been trying so hard to put it behind me, so I never talk about it or think about it, but I should have told you."

"Yeah, you should have," he murmured.

I kept going. "I let it affect my judgment. I was scared—I thought I was seeing the past happen all over again. But you're not me, and I should have trusted you and … I'm sorry."

"Me too." His green eyes dropped to his hands folded into his lap atop his wrinkled dress pants—dammit he needed someone to press them for him. Or to teach him how to do it himself. I bet he didn't even own an iron. Or a steamer. "But Jamie—"

"Yeah?"

"I know you did it because you didn't want to see me end up like … like you. Because you saw yourself in me. Because you care."

Those words hung between us, unspoken but almost tangible. The words I needed to say to him, regardless of whether he felt the same. Regardless of whether he'd laugh or let me down slow or say them back.

"I do care," I murmured, stumbling. "I care a lot. I—"

"I love you." He beat me to it. His green eyes snapped up to me, wide and terrified and earnest and beautiful. "I lo—"

I crushed my mouth against his.

"I love you, too." I tilted my forehead to his so my words whispered against his lips, my voice soft and husky but not uncertain. I meant those fucking words. "I missed you. So much."

"Me too." His mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. "But you'll be proud to know that I ate my vegetables. Well, most of them. Some of them."

"Aw, Bowman, are you growing up?" I curled my hand around the back of his neck to wind my fingers into his hair. It was still damp from the shower. That's where he'd been, why he'd taken so long to come out. He'd been showering after briefly donning his gear.

It was such a Jamie thing, not a Bowie thing, a me thing, to do. It made me chuckle. God, I loved him. How he could be so sweet and so—

"I missed you so much, I didn't even wank. Well, I did once, in the shower, because I was thinking of that time when we—"

I silenced him with another kiss because, honestly.

Naturally, his response was to wiggle his tongue in between my lips, and what can I say. My defenses were weakened. I'd missed him, missed everything about him—from the bad dick jokes to the perpetual horniness to the quirky humor and the sweet moments—so much. I let him in. His tongue slid against mine, soft and sensual.

Which meant we were making out in the middle of a hockey game we were supposed to be paying attention to, caring about. Hockey was life. But right now, he was the most important thing in my world.

His tongue turned rough, demanding, and mine responded with equal insistence, forcing the pace to quicken. His fingers slid up my chest, and mine tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to feel the heat of him against my body as the kiss deepened—

The blare of the buzzer tore through my haze of lust.

A storm of noise followed in its wake: cheers, stomping, screaming, couple of horns and noisemakers. Someone beat a 10-gallon bucket with drumsticks. Zombie Nation's "Kernkraft 400″ filled the arena in a swell of celebratory electronica.

I jerked away from Bowie, swiveled to the ice as Aaron and Zac thumped together in a bro-hug. Fuck, I'd almost forgotten the game again. They'd scored.

"Damn. I missed it."

I turned back to Bowie. We were both panting, chests rising and falling too quickly, and my body felt too warm. Luckily, I supposed, neither of us had gotten handsy. I had my limits on PDA, and once Bowman got handsy … There was no stopping him.

"We're at a hockey game," I said, like an idiot. "Who'd have known?"

"We were busy." His fingers curled into my tie to tug me back towards him. "Kiss me again, Kitty."

God, he was so fucking cute. I needed to kiss him. And a whole lot more. I wanted to tear that fitted jacket and shirt off his shoulders—someone had at least taken him to get sized—lick down his chest and the light trail of hair between the lines of that delicious V-cut—

Fuck. I was going to make myself hard, in the middle of a packed arena, while I was working. Thoughts like those would have to wait until after the game.

"Kitty," he whined, tugging at my tie. Like he knew I was trying to not think inappropriate things.

I let him pull me close. Tilted my forehead against his. "God, I love you."

"I'd love you even more if you kissed me again." He tried to angle his mouth to mine, but I set my free hand against his lips.

That was a mistake. Which I realized an instant later, when his warm wet tongue slid against my fingers. I yelped, leapt back from him. "Why are you the way that you are?"

"I don't know." He leaned against my shoulder. "But you love it. Literally! You said it."

I had, hadn't I? I tilted my head to rest my cheek against his hair. "Shit, I did. That was stupid."

"No take-backs."

I laughed, ruffling the golden locks under my nose. Pressed a soft kiss to his temple, leaned my cheek back into his hair. And I told him all the things I should've said earlier, the moment they'd been true. Before I'd even realized them. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long fucking time. Maybe ever."

"Damn, Kitty."

"I'm serious." I pinched at his shoulder. "You think it's fun to live in a big, giant empty apartment? Wear pressed button-downs and worry about everything all the time and never go on dates—"

"Or have sex." He tilted a green eye up at me. That eye was laughing.

"Or have sex," I sighed, then pulled him closer. "I'm trying to be nice."

"I know. It's adorable." Bowie tipped his head up to purr against my throat. "I'll make sure you have loadsa non-right-hand orgasms."

"Oh, my God!" But I was laughing. Hard. Honestly, what had I done without him? My life had been hollow, and I'd had no idea. It'd taken a snarky, shit-talking, cocky, horny-as-hell British superstar for me to see it. Had taken him leaving for me to know how alone and empty I'd been before.

"I love you," I murmured against his hair again, and for once, he didn't respond with snark.

He nestled down onto my shoulder. "I love you, too."

"Will you come home with me tonight?" I dropped my mouth to his ear. "So I can show you how much I love you."

He popped up off my shoulder like a prairie dog. Wide eyes, expectant expression, and everything. "Please, tell me more."

"Nope." I bit back my grin. "I would rather wait until I'm not at work."

I saw the counter offer before it left his lips. "Or—hear me out—you could show me how much you love your fabulous little Bowie right here."

"What! Here—"

"I know the perfect place."

Ah, yes I should have known. "We are not fucking on any medical tables."

"But that's where you're wrong." His devious, filthy, beautiful grin cracked his face in two.

"Nope."

"Oh, come on!" He tipped his head onto the back of his chair. "Do you know how many fantasies I've had about your table?"

"It wouldn't even be my table!" I protested. "We're at a different rink. I don't have an office here."

"I have a very good imagination."

"Well, then." I leaned in to nip at his ear. "You'll just have to imagine my bed is that table, won't you?"

The blare of another buzzer split the quiet, bringing the arena to its feet. We'd scored. Again.

The night, it seemed, was coming up Bobcats.