2. Chapter 2

My body chose violence when it woke up that morning.

I peeled my eyes open one at a time. My brain pulsated in my skull. My throat had apparently tried to lubricate itself with my own blood, and my stomach roiled, threatening to evict its occupants … again.

A memory of the previous night flashed through my mind. Me, standing outside The Lounge, painting the pavement—sorry sidewalk—with partially digested meat-feast pizza pie, craft ale, rum and cokes, and shots shots shots shots. And while the vomiting never seemed to end—because I still hadn't wrapped my brain around the portion sizes here—my new teammates stood around and … cheered.

"Welcome to America," one of them said. Aaron or Zac maybe. Those two were inseparable. Maybe they were a couple. They were probably a couple.

"He's one of us!" the other had said.

Which, okay, was what I wanted to hear. What I craved.

To be part of the team. To belong. To be accepted, even though I'd already lived in this country for four years. It just wasn't the method I usually employed to hear it.

My insides lurched again. This was why I didn't drink.

Why I should definitely never drink again.

And why I should listen to myself next time.

Another memory surfaced …

Oh, God.

No. That didn't happen. I could just pretend it didn't happen. Right?

Please, sweet angel Jesus in the heavens above, tell me I didn't bawl like a baby in front of the guys. Tell me I didn't pour my heart out to one—or more—of my new teammates.

I attempted to shake up my memories, though not literally because shaking my head could be catastrophic for my duvet. There had only been one other person by that point. But someone had stayed behind with me. Had rubbed my back as I redecorated the exterior wall of my new team's favourite bar.

"That's it," they'd said. "Let it out. Let it all out." Which might have been in reference to the vomit or the tears. "Project beer, not fear. Every rookie has felt this way at some point."

"But I'm not a rookie," I'd cried. Or maybe I had only replied in my head, since my mouth had been so full of sick. I wasn't a rookie, but I sure as shit felt like it sometimes. Especially every time I got transferred to a new team. Which seemed to happen more and more frequently these days.

I wanted to say my guardian angel was a woman. But other than that, I was drawing a blank.

What else had happened last night?

The chimes of my phone's alarm began ringing again. Apparently, my nine gifted minutes of ‘snooze' had elapsed.

8:09 A.M. on a Sunday! A heinous crime of near biblical proportions.

It's 1:09 P.M. at home, my brain helpfully told me. A reflexive habit that still hadn't worn off. Though sometimes got a little muddled during the two weeks when our daylight savings times didn't align.

I shut off the stupid alarm and rolled out of bed, realising two things. I was stark-bollock naked, and I'd fallen asleep on the sofa, not my bed. I crashed onto the desperately-in-need-of-vacuuming rug, a, thankfully, unused sick bucket, and a half-empty plastic beaker of water. Well, completely empty now. I watched as the contents crept around the leg of the coffee table.

Hmm, someone else had been in my apartment with me last night. No chance in hell I'd have remembered to prepare a barf-bucket, or fetch my duvet from my actual bed without just collapsing there instead.

I figured that whoever had left the sick bucket and the water was the same guardian angel from the bar. My bardian angel, if you will.

Urgh. I groaned at my joke. No wonder I never let the real me interact with other people.

Instinctively, I turned my head to look into my flatmate's room. His door was wide open, his bed still neatly made, probably gathering a noticeable layer of dust by now. The guy hadn't been home last night. Not that I was expecting him back anytime soon. Originally, I'd taken on the flatshare in the secret hopes I'd get the whole Joey and Chandler American best buddy experience. But I'd stupidly moved in with a music producer who spent fifty percent of his time in Miami, forty-nine percent of his time in NYC, and less than one percent in Bringham. I'd been living in his schmancy, impersonal, city apartment for two weeks, and I'd seen the guy for a total of thirty-five minutes.

Not even sure I could remember his name. Chad or Chase, or something else so American it made Mum spit take when I told her.

So, not my flatmate then. I clenched and unclenched my butt-hole muscles. Definitely didn't have sex last night either. I probably should have been more concerned with who"d tucked me in, but there was no time. So I hauled my disgusting ass into the bathroom, because even though I'd end up dripping with sweat at training in a couple of hours, I was absolutely minging.

And nobody wanted to sit next to a minger in the locker room.

In the shower, my innards made one final protest at last night's antics, emptying whatever remnants of food and alcohol and stomach lining dared to cling on, and then immediately, and without warning, one-eightied to near perishment. And I was struck with a searingly desperate need for a greasy, fried breakfast.

Specifically, a Pauline's full-English. Fried eggs, bacon, sausages, hashbrowns, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, black pudding, proper Heinz beans, none of that cheap supermarket shite, toast with fuck-tonnes of butter. I was still yet to find the Maine equivalent. I could make it myself, of course, but that would have required … movement.

My brothers would be there this morning. At Pauline's. The only greasy-spoon in Bruton Willesbury. No doubt recovering from whatever bender they were on last night.

I am making the right choice.

I am following my dreams.

I only had to say this to myself a squillion more times and I might one day start to believe it.

Though, I supposed, living nearly on your own did sometimes come with benefits. For example, nobody saw me stickhandling in the kitchen at three A.M. in only my pants—underwear to my American friends—and socks. And nobody could see me now, as I walked naked from the bathroom, dodging un-unpacked box after box, on my way to the bedroom.

I probably should move them out of the communal spaces; it wasn't my apartment after all. But I figured, what was the point? The closer I stored them to the exits, the easier it would be when I got shipped off somewhere else.

Sunday was the day I always called my family. Usually early afternoon for me, so evening for them. I pictured Mum, on the cream leather armchair of the three-piece-suite they'd had since the nineties, slippers abandoned on the carpet, bare feet tucked under her legs. The Strictly results show would be on the telly, or whatever other glitzy programme she was currently watching, and a plate of bubble and squeak and cold roast meat for tea would be nestled on her lap tray.

I'd call, and we'd chat, sometimes for hours. And talk about everything. Hockey (even though I had to re-explain the rules each time), her Zumba classes with Lyn, Dad's hiking club, rugby, my brothers, rugby.

Like every mum worth her salt, she was intrinsically obsessed with her children"s love lives. Or lack thereof. Unfortunately for Mum, her five sons, ranging in age from thirty-nine to twenty-one, were all still in their sowing-wild-oats phase, without any serious prospects of settling down and giving her tiny, red-faced, screaming bundles of shitty-nappied joy.

But since I didn't know how long I'd be at training today, and since Dad didn't like me calling after nine P.M. their time, I decided to ring as I was getting dressed.

Mum answered. "Archie! Sausage, we weren't expecting your call for another few hours."

In the background, pots clanged against the draining board, something was sizzling, the radio was playing its usual Sunday West End and Broadway segment, my brothers were yelling and "Ooohing" and laughing.

"We're just about to have dinner," Mum said. "Call back in an hour?"

"I can't," I whinged. "Got training in an hour."

"On a Sunday!" Mum sounded outraged. Like she'd never spent a Sunday stood in the rain while any of my four brothers played rugby in fields that were more peat bog than turf.

"What're you cooking?" I said, pulling on my socks, and knowing with one hundred percent certainty I wouldn't want to hear the answer.

"Roast pork belly," was Mum's reply. She didn't bother to move the phone away from her mouth as she then yelled, "Theo! Are you going to lay this bloody table or am I gonna have to do everything myself?"

"With applesauce, and Yorkshires?" I asked, as though she hadn't just caused a dull ringing in my left ear.

"Of course, Sausage."

I whimpered.

"What's wrong?" she said. "Oh, Farrell, get away from there. Go on, shoo."

Farrell was Mum's cat. Mild-ish mannered, and oftentimes quite friendly, at least, for a cat. Unless you were a cactus or a glass of half-drunk water. In which case you were dead meat. He would sneak up beside you, wait until everybody had trained their full attention on you, and before people could gather up their wits enough to come to your rescue, he'd unleash the fury of his hind leg. To be fair, it made Sunday dinners pretty exciting.

"Nothing," I lied. "Just … just a bit hungover."

"Nothing a chip butty won't sort out."

"You can't … No, they don't have chip butties here, Mom."

"Mom!" she yelled, if possible more outraged by this than the Sunday scheduled training. "Back two weeks and already calling me Mom."

I tried to squeeze out my apology, but Mum cut me off. "Have to go now, Sausage. Dinner's ready. Call tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," I agreed, even though we both knew I wouldn't. She hadn't even asked me if I was seeing anyone.

No one, as it turned out.

I hung up the phone, sat on the end of the bed in my boxers and socks, and tried to will Archie back into his box. It was Bowie's turn to take the reins.

If only Bowie could remember anything about last night that didn't involve bodily fluids.

What kind of shitshow would be waiting for me at practice?

What mortifying thing had I said or done in front of my teammates? To my teammates? Did I insult anyone? Snog anyone?

No, I don't think I did the latter. In fact, I was sure I hadn't. It was just the team there. Just five or six guys. One married with kids, two I suspected were together, one who was clearly obsessed with my former teammate, Gus L?vgren, and another … the goalie? I wasn't sure. I hadn"t got off with any of them, though. Probably.

I climbed to my feet.

There had been other people there. I was sure of it. But their faces were hazy. They knew the guys, but they weren't with us. Them.

I think one of them was a woman … and …

No. I must have imagined it.

Because the other guy was … not real. Not possible.

A mountain of pure American hotness. All smouldering sexy sex eyes, and precise dentistry, and sleek, chestnut brown hair, and stylish five o"clock shadow, and that cologne he was wearing. That cologne.

Ugh! I bit my knuckles.

It was the kind of scent I wanted rubbed all over my sheets. The kind I wanted to smell days after I'd taken him home, just so I'd be triggered back to that moment every time I sniffed it.

Only I couldn't remember a damn thing.

Couldn't even remember if he was real, or a figment of my deepest desires.

Maybe he was just a seventy-five-point-five percent alcohol by volume induced hallucination.

Nobody that perfect existed in real life.

Most of the guys were in the weight room when I finally reached Bobcat's HQ.

Rowan, the team's resident bad boy, was stewing on the bench on his own. His knuckles wrapped in hockey tape. All black clothes and dark hair and muscles and moody, brooding scowl. I was aware of his reputation from my time in the pro circuits. He was a gloves-off before the face-off type of guy.

Luckily, I'd never been on the receiving end of his fury. Unlike my teammate—ex-teammate—Gus, who in retrospect went that extra mile simply to piss Rowan off. I was glad, however, to be on the same side as him now. To have the weight of the legendary MacKenzie throw-downs in my corner.

He nodded his unaffected Cool Guy greeting to me, and I replied with a standard British, "Alright, mate."

Zac was spotting Aaron, who was doing deadlifts on the mat. Not that he needed spotting, of course, but I already got the sense Zac and Aaron came and went as a pair, so whatever Aaron was doing, Zac wouldn't be far behind. And vice versa. If Aaron was doing deadlifts on the mat, Zac was ‘spotting'. Or perhaps he was simply enjoying the view. Couldn't say I blamed him.

Aaron was the typical floppy blonde haired, all-American, prom-king type of gorgeous. He was also the team captain, which, IMHO, was a tad too obvious. But whatever, not my call.

JJ and Rainer stood next to the dumbbells rack, looking at something on Rainer's phone.

JJ, a defensemen, was the opposite to Rowan's patented ‘go Hulk or go home' brand of skating. He almost seemed too nice. He was the first to welcome me to the team, the first to show me around, the first to … insist I neck the one-million-abv shots last night. Hmm.

Niklas Rainer, I still wasn't sure about. Other than he was cute, with his ginger beard and flannels and general lumbersexual vibes, but he was also straight straight straight.

"He rises!" JJ yelled as I walked in to greet them all, only twenty-five minutes late. He held out his hand, and Rainer reluctantly slapped a twenty into it.

"Bro, none of us expected you to show up today," Aaron said, stepping away from the trap bar.

"We're literally here on a Sunday because of Bowie," Rowan said, in a way that sounded like he was pissed off, yet the casual use of my nickname did warm fuzzy things to my insides.

Bowie, not Archie. Not Bowman.

"Training camp's in a couple of weeks. I expect Coach Turner just wants to see what he's working with," I said, hoping to God I came across as someone who'd been through the mill a couple of times, and not the pathetic, homesick, rookie I felt like.

I wasn't a rookie, though. I'd been skating for thirteen years and playing hockey in one of its various forms, ice, field, roller, for much longer. But it was easy to feel like a rookie compared to all my teammates. Guys that had grown up suckling the teats of ice hockey, the sport pulsating in their blood, who'd dreamt of nothing else their entire lives but playing pro.

For me, growing up in a tiny rural village in the middle of Wiltshire, England, there weren't a lot of ice-based activities that didn't involve racing my brothers down the hillside on milk crates once every two to three years when it snowed for a day. On my birthday one year, Harry, my second eldest brother, gave me an old pair of Bauer skates. They were his friend's, who'd asked for them one Christmas but never used them and subsequently grew out of them.

I was twelve. And I was instantly addicted.

Sometimes on Saturdays, if it fit around my brothers' rugby schedules, Mum would drive me to Swindon ice rink, and I would skate until they kicked me out. I taught myself how to stop, how to skate backwards, how to go really fast, how to transition, crossover, pivot. When I got older, I'd hitch lifts. With friends' parents, with neighbours, with other village adults who felt sorry for the poor neglected middle Bowman child. I may have laid it on thick. Eventually, I started catching the bus on my own.

And sometimes in January and February, when the weather dropped to its predictable Bleak Mid-Winter temperatures, the fields behind Mum and Dad's would flood and freeze over, and I could get out to skate. Of course, the fields belonged to Alan Whitmore, the local dairy farmer, so as well as dodging cracks and suspicious puddles and errant branches spearing my ramshackle rink, I also had to dodge thawing cow shit and tetanus-laced rusty farm equipment. Worth it though.

I didn't realise a career in pro-hockey could be a thing for an ordinary Brit like me until about halfway through my first year at uni—and my first year with the Bulldogs—when they offered me the ‘A' patch for my jersey.

It was always meant to be rugby.

My brothers all played rugby. For big teams, too. Gloucester, and Wasps, and Cardiff. Olly even played for team England at the Six Nations one year. But rugby hadn't been my dream.

There was no question of whether I enjoyed it. I loved it. The scrappiness, the mud, the huge, huge men. It was more a case of not being very good at it.

And I'd never been academically minded either. The main reason I studied philosophy, because ultimately, would it matter if I got a first, or a 2-2?

As it turned out, I didn't need to finish the final year of my degree. One night, while playing a Bulldog's away game in London, I was scouted.

Some fancy big wig with a suit and tie, a preposterous American accent, and a mouthful of gum, told me he wanted to sign me to his team, and asked for my agent's details.

I had laughed in his face, so sure was I that it'd all been a prank. Agent? For real?

But no, he was serious. So, with the help of my brothers, I hired agents (one for the UK, one for the USA), applied for the necessary visas (B-1, then P-1), packed up and shipped over what few belongings I had, said goodbye to Mum, Dad, my brothers, and Farrell the kicky cat, and moved to the land of ridiculous portions, massive cars, incredible cinema, and very loud people.

Which was fine. I would fit in here. I could be loud. I could be so fucking loud.

I spent the first couple of years training with teams on the West Coast, being passed around like a joint at a house party, until the Carson Cavs from New York signed me.

Now, not saying I didn't know much about American geography, but you can imagine my disappointment when I realised New York State was not in fact the New York City I'd seen advertised in every glamorous sit-com and Christmas movie I'd ever watched.

I ended up in basically an Americanised Bruton Willesbury. Except that everything was so spread out. It wasn't a two-minute walk to the pub. It was a ten-minute drive to a dive-bar. There were no pub lunches, no chip butties, no jacket potatoes with cheesy-beans, no sticky-toffee pudding, no crumble. Only burgers and fries, and on the fourth of July, hotdogs.

I remember calling my brothers in tears, and secretly hoping they'd tell me to get on the next London-bound aeroplane, and come home. But they didn't. Especially once they found out I made ten times more on my starting salary than they had at their peak rugby careers.

"Arch, you just have to fake it ‘til you make it,"Olly had said.

"Yeah,"Harry chimed in. "Pretend like you're the shit, and soon enough, everyone will believe it."

So that's what I did. I pulled up my big boy pants, and I put on a brave face.

And when the brave face didn't get me where I needed to be, I put on the little-bit-cocky face. Which morphed into the a-lot-cocky-face, which in turn, morphed into the arrogant-as–fuck face.

It was that one, that face, that got me places. People started taking notice. Paying me attention. Putting me on the roster for more and more important games. Writing articles about me. Asking for brand sponsorship on Instagram. Wearing my jerseys.

I was good at this sport. Like really fucking good. And I had everyone else convinced. My teammates, my opponents, my agent, coaches, the media, every member of the general public.

There was just one person I was yet to convince.

Me. It was me.

It didn't matter how often I looked into the crowd and saw a green and gold jersey with BOWMAN 11 in huge vinyl letters. Or how often they asked me to do a piece to camera after a win. Or how often I was introduced as "British hockey sensation" or "hockey's fastest rising star" or "the next big thing".

I still felt as though I was waiting for that moment.

The moment when the coach would make me pull up a chair.

It would go like this: "Bowman, Wildcats have shown an interest in you", "Bowman, we're trading you", "Bowman, we're sending you back to Blighty because you don't belong here. You're too slight and too cute—probably—for hockey. Go play soccer, or horse dancing, or petanque or something more suited to your wheelhouse."

Okay, so that last one hadn't happened yet. But it would. I could feel it on the horizon. Following me around. Hanging over my head. Like a cloud of angry Bringham pigeons.

And Bringham pigeons were the angriest of all pigeons. Definitely angrier than Bruton Willesbury pigeons. Smaller and runtier too. Which made them a thousand times more terrifying.

"Someone call for me?" Coach Turner said, half-jogging into the weights room. He frowned down at the screen of his phone and placed it in his trouser pocket. "Bowman, great, you're here."

He clapped his hands together, once, loudly. If he were British, he'd have punctuated it with a "Right, lads."

The other guys closed in, coming to stand beside me, forming a semi-circle around Coach.

"I'm only in town this weekend. Got this goddamned Seattle trip, so we're gonna make it work. Bowman, I've called the PT in for today. He's agreed to come in on a Sunday to give you a once over."

Next to me, Aaron elbowed Zac in the ribs, and Rowan snort-laughed, which he disguised badly as a cough. I shot them a side-eye, but couldn't figure out what was so funny.

Coach either didn't care, or didn't notice, because he took his phone out again, looked at the screen, and muttered, "Oh, for fuck's sake." He turned to us. "Once Sul's finished with Bowman, suit up and get on the ice. My plane's at four, so we'll see what we can cram in before then."

Everyone nodded and dispersed once again.

"Come on," Zac said, slinging an arm over my shoulder. "I'll walk you to Jamie's office. He has magic hands, you know."

The left-winger, Zac, was tall, six-three-ish, and Black, with a side fade. He had the kind of laughter that was so loud it could be divisive. It was snorty and a little squeaky and self-deprecating, but not in the slightest bit self-conscious. It was infectious and warm. He laughed at his own ‘magic hands' non-joke, and I found myself swept into the moment.

"Sick. Is he hot?" I asked.

Zac's grin didn't falter. "You'll see." He chuckled to himself again and dropped me off at the end of the corridor, outside a door with a name plaque that read:

DR. JAMES SULLIVAN, PT, DPT.

James Sullivan. Like the big blue guy from Monsters, Inc. Sully. I smiled to myself. I loved that movie. Obviously, when I was a kid, but, like, it was still great. Mike Wasowski, and … Randall. Oh my gosh, Randall.

Okay, maybe I should watch it again when I get back to the apartment. I had an entire fridge full of Chinese takeaway leftovers to get through. Pretty sure I'd never learn my lesson on American portion sizes.

I knocked on the door.

The little girl in the movie was called Boo. Cute.

"It's open," said a husky, deep male voice.

What was it Boo used to call Sully? Something silly like …

I pushed the door wide. Tripped over my own feet. Stumbled forward three or four steps and practically landed in the PT's lap.

"Kitty!" I blurted weakly as the answer to my question popped into my head. "Uh …"

Kitty. That was what Boo called Sully. The little girl from Monsters … actually, never mind.

It didn't matter.

Nothing else mattered in that moment, because the PT—my new PT—was none other than the so-hot-I-probably-imagined-him dream hunk from the bar last night.

There he was. A flashing beacon of supermassive American sex appeal. Real.

So very fucking real.

I blinked a couple of times just to make sure I wasn't dreaming him up again. Was I still drunk? Would it be too obvious if I pinched my arm?

"I'm Jamie," Dream Hunk said. Not Kitty. Of course, his name wasn't Kitty. Idiot Bowie.

I shook my head, ridding the thought, and let my eyes travel over … everything. From his rich olive skin, to his neatly pressed white button-down, open at the collar. The thick forearms and biceps overfilling his shirt sleeves, the even thicker chest he'd crossed those arms over.

His five o'clock shadow had definitely not been a figment of my fantasy, or those ultra defined, pert lips, or those dreamy chocolate brown eyes. Or the perfect little cleft between his brows that was crying out for me to wedge my thumb in.

"We met last night?" he said. His voice alone had the ability to redirect all the blood in my body. "At The Lounge. Or are you having trouble remembering?"

"Of course I remember," I said, composing myself and casually lifting a shoulder. "I wasn't that pissed." I narrowed my eyes at him. "Did we snog?"

"Snog?"

"I guess snog isn't a particularly sexy word, is it? What about tonsil hockey? Swap spit? Pash? Make out? First base? Did we get to first base?" I said. Dr Sexpot flinched, his hand going up to scratch the back of his head. "Oh, my God, did we get higher than first base? Did we"—I motioned a finger between us—"go to the bathroom to—"

"No!" He cleared his throat. "We did not. And we did not snog." He shuffled his feet, and I realised that even if I did have the mother of all hangovers, I was going to enjoy my morning in Jamie's office.

He picked up some papers from his desk and stared down at them, but the way his eyes were unfocused, and his posture so ramrod straight, like he was a deer in the forest listening out for predators, I knew he wasn't reading them. Only buying himself some time. Figuring out how to handle me.

Yeah, good luck with that, mate. I still hadn't figured out how to handle me.

After a few moments, he placed his papers down and crossed his tiny office to the hand washing sink. "Okay, when you're ready, hop up onto the table for me. This'll be easier if you lose the shirt. There's a screen—" But Jamie cut himself off, as I whipped away my basic black workout tee.

He stared at my stomach for a full three seconds before pointedly tearing his eyes away. He coughed. Made a big show of not looking again and focused on the unnecessarily elaborate and noisy job of washing his hands, drying them with a paper towel, and disposing of it.

But I'd seen that look before. A thousand times. It said, this, what you're offering, I'm into it.

And so he should be. I spent a lot of time on this body.

"Ready, Doc," I said, once I'd climbed on top of the bed, couch, whatever.

He glanced at the ceiling, whispered something that sounded an awful lot like "Jesus H. Christ" and then turned to me. "So, kid, have you—"

"You don't have to call me kid. You introduced yourself, Jamie," I said over enunciating his name. "But what, you don't want my name? How do you even know if I'm the guy on your sheet? I could be any old handsome chap from the streets."

Jamie pinched his perfect lips between his teeth and let out a long breath through flared nostrils. "I know your name. Archie Bowman. Twenty-five years old, from Wiltshire, England. Born on May twenty-third, nineteen-ninety-eight. Played for Carson Cavaliers for two years, and before that, the Seattle Sharks, and before that, the LA Lions." He gave me a look that said, did I forget anything? My smile was too wide to answer. "Now, can I get on with my assessment?"

I held out a flattened palm. "By all means."

"Have you had any injuries in the past six months?"

"Nope," I said, popping the P like they do in movies. Jamie made a note on his clipboard.

"Any injuries prior to six months that are still causing issues?"

"Also nope."

"Any ongoing concerns?"

"No, sir."

He rolled his eyes. "Anything at all you're worried about?"

"It's really cold in your office. Can you turn the thermostat up? My nipples are like bullets."

Jamie realised what I'd said, the moment I thought, Made you look. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and this time I definitely heard him say, "Give me strength."

I couldn't help the smile that crept over my face. He was so serious. And so gorgeous. It was too much fun not to poke him a little. I was a kid, with a really long stick, and Jamie was Alan Whitmore's rottweiler, Debbie, who'd broken into our garden, shat in the potato patch, and taken a nap on our trampoline. I wanted him to snap at me, and chase me, while I ran screaming for my life across the horses' paddock.

"I'm going to give you a physical examination now to check your joints, muscle length, and tight spots. Do you have any questions?"

"Yeah, I have a question." I bit back my laughter, and I saw the abject pleading in Jamie's eyes. I knew I was a proverbial pain in the ass. But could I reel it in? Could I stop myself? Not a chance. "Has anyone ever got a boner while on your table?"

He choked on thin air, but recovered surprisingly quickly. "It's … not common, but if it happens, you shouldn't feel embarrassed. We're both professionals. You can ask for a breather if you need one."

"Thanks. So kind of you." I tucked my hands behind my head, drawing Jamie's eye once again to my torso. He tore it away. "Has it ever happened before? And you know, it doesn't count if it was you that got the hard-on."

"Fuck me," Jamie hissed. "Come on, kid. I've been dragged into the office on a Sunday to examine you, and …" He broke off, seemingly unable to finish his thought.

I'd taken it a step too far, but in typical Bowie fashion, I could only summon half an apology, mostly because I was enjoying myself too much. "Sorry, mate. Only trying to lighten the mood."

"I don't need a smart-ass kid on my table making dick jokes, okay?"

I held my palms up in surrender, but really, it only served to draw his eye once more to my chest.

"I'm going to check your muscles now," Jamie said, switching back to super-pro mode.

And just like that, his hands were on my thighs.

Squeezing. Just above my knee. His fingers dipping along the outer edge.

Damn. It didn't even feel that good, but popping wood was now a seriously high-risk hazard.

He leant further over me, lifting my leg up, bending it at the knee, and that cologne of his hit my nostrils.

I had no clue about perfume notes, or identifying individual scents like oranges or flowers or whatever. All I knew was that it was an expensive smell. Like really fucking expensive. And grown up. Not the Hugo Boss dupe Mum always tucked into my Christmas stocking. It probably came from France or some shit.

He finished wiggling my knee, moved to the other. His thumbs tracked up my inner thighs.

"Oh, he's getting handsy now." Don't ask me, I didn't know why I said it.

"Wow," was all Jamie said in return.

"Wow? Good wow? As in, Bowie, what incredibly sexy thighs you have? Wow, as in, would you like to go for coffee with me?"

He ignored my offer. "Wow, as in, you made it a full twenty-three seconds without talking." He was counting? "Must be a record. I'm proud of you."

I wondered how long he'd been cooking up that one for. "Aw, look at you getting all paternal." I paused. Took my time. Waited until he was facing me again. "Would you like me to call you daddy?"

He sputtered. "I … Jeez. No, that's …" Jamie turned his back to me, but not before I spotted two red patches blooming high on his cheeks.

Jesus, he was adorable. And as per, I was acting like a bellend.

I knew I was doing it. That was the thing. It wasn't as though I was unaware. I just couldn't shut it down.

You get a guy like Jamie, who was success personified. A doctor with a job he loved, and I could tell he loved it, even if his office was teeny and didn't have any windows. He was rich, probably—those teeth looked expensive—and gorgeous. I looked at his ring finger. Single? Maybe, hopefully. Smart too. Like computer smart, if the papers and textbooks on his desk had anything to say on the matter.

He was everything I'd dreamed of being. I was in awe of him. Complete and total awe. I just had a funny way of showing it.

I'd known the guy twenty minutes, and I was already addicted to making him squirm. Why was it so satisfying watching this giant, incredible, intellectual man lose his cool?

I wanted to stop. Really, I did.

But the rush of endorphins I got every time I made him stutter, or scratch the back of his head, or gently tug at his collar, wouldn't let me. I knew, deep down, it would take a monumental force of nature to bring me to a halt. An earthquake, or a hurricane, or Slimer spraying ectoplasm all over the room.

Jamie's hands slid down to cup my calves, and as though he sensed what might come out of my mouth next, he said, "Do you even remember what you said or did last night?"

Okay, turned out Slimer was merely the impending horror of finding out how much, on a scale of one to total wanker, I had been at the bar.

Surprised by my sudden taciturnity, Jamie pressed on. "Your teammates, your new buddies, gave you an almost lethal number of shots."

I nodded, feigning indifference. This I knew. Was used to it. "Suppose I was a little …" I attempted to rein in my smirk and threw a gibberish made-up British word at him. "Wazoomgulled, last night." A snort left my nostrils as I imagined the giant man going home that evening and telling his … cat?—I could totally imagine him with a cat—that he'd learnt two new British words that day.

Jamie paused as though he could smell the bullshit. His fingers froze on my ankle and he side-eyed me, probably looking for the lie. "That's not a real word."

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Alright then, Dickens, you tell me what appropriate British slang I should be using."

"I … No. I'm not playing this game." He shook his head. Flexed and extended my foot. Chewed on his lip. I could practically see himself holding back the words. His desperation to prove he held the answer.

Spoiler alert, there were a lot of British words that meant drunk. I mean, you could take almost any verb or noun, add "ed" to the end, and you'd have an authentic sounding synonym for half-cut. Wait, was half-cut British? I looked around Jamie's office for inspiration. To the computer on his desk. I was totally monitored last night. See? It worked. Pen-potted. Scaled. Couch-rolled. Rubber-gloved. Hot-doctored.

Jamie cleared his throat softly, and my chest filled with inexplicable excitement. "Okay, how about you were off your trolley?"

"Rude!" I pretended to look outraged, but it was belied by my dorky smirk. "Yeah, that's not how you use that phrase. Off your trolley means you've lost your mind."

"Does it?" A little furrow appeared between his brows. Oh no, he actually seemed disappointed. Or maybe embarrassed. Jamie had no doubt been thinking of the term trolleyed, but I wasn't about to offer him that lifeline.

See also, adding ed to any old noun.

He paused once more, the cogs visibly turning behind those dreamy chocolate eyes. "What about knackered?"

"Wrong again. That means exhausted."

He gave a subtle, "Hmm," and flapped his hand to indicate I should lie flat on my back. Jamie made a big show of not watching the muscles in my abdomen extend as I reclined. "What about …" He frowned, shook his head. "Oh, listen, it doesn't matter, you were very dru–"

"No, go on. What were you going to say? What about …?"

Jamie took a deep inhalation. "Sh–" he started, stopped himself. And then, in the most uncertain and adorable voice ever, said, "Shagged?"

I had to slap myself in the face with both hands to keep the laughter in. Too cute. "Shagged also means knackered, exhausted. And it's the past tense of shag. So, I don't know, I can help you be both things if you like? Utterly shagged and shagged out?" I offered him a wink.

"Such a beautiful dialect," Jamie said. "I'm going to check your abdominal muscles now." He paused. His hands hovered over my hips, waiting for my consent, his lip curled in a—

"Holy shit, you can smile?" I said, which made his smile grow even wider. And made my tummy go all weird and swoopy.

If I thought Dr James Sullivan, PT, DPT, was gorgeous all frowning and sulky and miserable, I had not sufficiently prepared for the sheer magnitude of smiling Jamie. He somehow looked shy and unsure, and at the same time, like he would take me to his bedroom, lay me on my back, push my knees up to my ears and—

"So tell me!" I shouted in an attempt not to spear him in the chest. "What did I say last night?"

Jamie took his muscle squeezing ministrations up over my pecs and shoulders. I winced a little as he struck upon an old injury on my left shoulder. Nothing more than an ancient pulled muscle. It didn't bother me much these days, especially in the warmer summer months, and truthfully, I often forgot about it completely. Jamie didn't seem to notice, anyway.

"You were out of it." He grimaced. "… Leathered? Is that one right?"

I gave him a wink and a finger gun to let him know he had it this time. "For the record, I would have also accepted wankered, sozzled, pissed, pissed as a fart, mullered, blotto, well oiled, and rat-arsed."

Jaime's mouth soundlessly moved over the words rat-arsed. He shook his head, evidently concluding I was making shit up again. "Yeah, no. You asked me to take you home."

Yep, that sounded like me. "I mean, the offer's still there."

He rolled his eyes, but his knee-weakening grin didn't falter. "Then you felt me up."

"Oh," I said, pulling up short because that … was not cool. Bad, bad Bowie. "I'm sorry." I meant it, and from Jamie's dropped smile and adorable as fuck puppy dog eyes, I knew he knew I meant it. "I … I don't drink normally. At all, really. It's just that …"

I wanted everyone to like me.I finished my sentence in my head.

Jamie nodded like he understood personally. Like the mountainous god before me, the picture of abject control, had ever lost his shit, drank too much, threw up on the feet of his new teammates, sexually assaulted random hot strangers, and cried in front of them.

Oh crap. A terrifying thought occurred to me.

"You weren't him, were you?!" I blurted. Jamie lifted a single brow. "The um … person who …" Fuck, there was no way to ask this without making it sound like I was a total manwhore. Which, to be fair, I was, but … "Did you come back to my apartment with me last night?"

He paused, pursed his lips together, and shook his head. "Not me. You hooked up and you don't remember it?" It was half question, half … accusation?

Anyway, why should he care if I hooked up?

"Pretty sure I didn't have sex, even though I was stark bollock-naked." I didn't know why I was telling him this, other than maybe to get to the bottom of the mystery. "But someone else was in my apartment. Someone got me home, left some water out for me, and … uh, a sick bucket. Uh, just in case."

Amazingly, Jamie smiled again. Like he'd solved the riddle, but never planned on clueing me in.

"I'm going to check your groin now." He paused. "Please don't make this weird." Jamie lifted my leg up and pulled it out laterally.

"Oh, Kitty," I said. "It's already weird."

"Yep." He breathed out a tremendous sigh before pushing my knee up to my chest. "Yes, it is."