8. Chapter 8

Masturbating in the tiny little bathroom next to Jamie's office, while Jamie stood just outside, listening to every moan I made, was the single most hottest moment of my life.

But it had been three—no, four days since then, and I still hadn't seen him. The morning after the incident, which I was now mentally referring to as Wank-Gate, I awoke to a bog-standard auto-reply style email from his office.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Sept 12th 05:31 A.M.

Mr. A Bowman,

We regret to inform you that your scheduled appointment with DR. JAMES SULLIVAN on WEDNESDAY SEPT 13th at 9:30 A.M. has been canceled.

The following appointments have been made on your behalf.

11:20 A.M. WEDNESDAY SEPT 13th

with DAN HUGHES

in room 212

And

2:45 P.M. WEDNESDAY SEPT 13th

with CHLOE STEVENS

in room 228

If you are unable to make this appointment/s please call the office on …

Blah blah blah.

No text message, no phone call to say why, though not gonna lie, it was pretty obvious. When I did ring the office, Katie answered.

"Archie, hi. No, I haven't seen him all morning. Looks like he's booked the next few days as annual leave. He has a big exam coming up. I expect he needs to study for that."

I went to the appointments with Dan (for training) and Chloe (for massage), and they were fine, and I didn't get any boners, or try to kiss them, or toss off in their bathrooms, or otherwise make a fool of myself. Jamie's office was locked when I walked by. Every time I walked by. When I asked Dan how long he'd been leading my sessions, he shrugged and told me Jamie had only requested cover for the week, but who knew?

Jamie wouldn't reply to any of my messages either, and had left me on read on TopTier. So I knew he'd seen my profile, my messages, my missed phone calls. He was simply choosing to ignore me.

It was all my fault. I had taken things one step too far. Crossed a boundary that should never have been crossed. Which, on reflection, I'd crossed the very moment I met him.

I shouldn't have insisted he massaged my fake injuries, or said all those ridiculously suggestive things to him. I should not have tried to kiss him at the trolley museum. And I definitely, definitely should not have had a wank in his office.

Even though every wank I'd had since then had been entirely fuelled by that moment. Even though he essentially told me to wank in his office. Pointed me to the bathroom. Practically squirted the lube into my hand. Even though Jamie had been tenting just as much as I had. And even though I was certain he would've had to get it out of his system the same way I did.

Not at work, though. That would be so un-Jamie. He'd wait until he got home, pour himself a glass of red, break out the luxury lube and sleeves. I bet he used expensive lube.

So Jamie didn't want anything to do with me, and that was entirely my fault. Nothing new or surprising there. He'd probably get someone else to take on the management of my recovery regime. In fact, I expected that was what he was doing right now, making phone calls, calling in favours, seeing who he could wrangle at the last minute.

I affected his deep American accent. "Hi, yeah, this is Dr Perfect. I need you to do me a solid. I've got this kid, he's a dick, and I just can't with him anymore. Take him off my hands, would you? URGH!" I kicked my leg out, catapulting the flimsy coffee table onto its side and scattering last night's takeaway cartons over the floor like an imploding house of cards.

I could call my mum. Even if only to have another human to talk to. But I didn't fancy explaining the rules of hockey to her for the eleven millionth time. Or my brothers, who'd be well into the Rugby World Cup right about now, and wouldn't find a spare minute to talk about anything else.

I could call my teammates. Aaron, or Zac, or Rowan. But what would I say? "Hey, do you remember me? Please say you remember me. Validate me. Love me. Let me play with you."

A key slid into the lock of the front door. I froze. Splayed out on the couch as though I'd been fired onto it from a cannon. In only my undies. My—actually pretty minging—undies that I hadn't bothered to change in three days.

Maybe a burglar had come to rescue me from my destitution. Maybe they were there for an intervention. Had things gotten so bad I was praying for a burglary just to have someone else to talk to besides myself?

I brushed the Oreo crumbs from my bare chest and kicked an empty Pringles can under the sofa.

Wait, was I trying to impress the burglar?

Yes. Yes, I was.

The door swung inwards and my mouth fell open as my flatmate walked into the open plan living space.

What was his name again? Chip? Chuck? Something with a Ch, anyway.

His eyes roved about over the sheer chaos of his apartment. The stack of boxes that I still hadn't moved or unpacked. The mess and rubbish everywhere. Me, half naked, filthy, spreadeagled on a couch he'd most likely have to send away to be incinerated.

"Dude!" he said, and I braced myself for the bollocking. "Wow, you've been having some serious parties while I was gone."

I took in the sheer number of accumulated pizza boxes and Chinese food cartons and empty cans of whatever, and figured it really did look like someone had a party in here. I rolled with the assumption because the alternative was so much sadder.

I hadn't eaten a proper home cooked meal in over six weeks, and Chuck-and-or-Chip's floor bore witness to that. The worst part was I loved to cook. But what was the point when I was only ever cooking for one? Was I supposed to roast a whole fucking chicken just for myself?

"Yeah, I'll clean the place up later," I said. "You know, once all the cool party drugs that the cool kids are doing these days wear off."

"Nah, don't bother." He slung a small carry-on sized bag in the general whereabouts of his room. "Won't be here long. Two nights max. Got a big project in San Francisco." He aimed a kick at a stack of my boxes, evidently to gauge whether they'd been emptied, gave a little shrug and "Hmm" upon discovering they were still full, and crossed over to the fridge, helping himself to a Diet Coke.

"So, good parties? You had a lot of girls over?" He handed me a can and cracked open his own.

I shook my head. "I'm gay."

Chuck/Chip assessed me with his head tilted to the side. "Right! Duh. You're the hockey player. Must be thinking of my other British roommate."

"You've got more than one British roommate? How many apartments do you own?"

"Sure. Well …" He demonstrably counted on his fingers. "Seven. Eight if you include my cabin in Vermont."

Shit, no wonder I never saw him.

"So, hockey season starts soon, right? You psyched?" Chip/Chuck/Chup said, stepping over the coffee table debris and taking a seat on the couch opposite.

"Yeah," I said. Because I didn't want to admit to another person I'd fucked everything up and have them speculate when I would be back on the ice. Or if I ever would. "Hey, what's your name, by the way?"

"Hunter," he replied.

Sure. Wasn't even close.

Hunter and I sat in silence for a few minutes. Though, not a comfortable silence. Most likely because I'd trashed his apartment, made little to no effort to tidy it up, not even to right the coffee table, and was still wearing nothing but my stained boxers.

"So …" I said after a while. Part of my brain clawed to fill the space with noise.

"So …" he responded.

I nodded my head, tapped my fingers against my thighs, do-do-do-ed. Hmm, having a friend was awkward. Perhaps I didn't actually need one.

Thankfully, my phone buzzed and freed me from having to think up anything to say to Hunter-not-Chup.

My heart jumped into my mouth as I saw a text message from Jamie. Saved to my contacts as Kitty. I opened it.

Kitty:

Bowman, please see me in my office. We need to talk.

J

We need to talk.My heart sank lower than the empty tube of Pringles under the couch. We need to talk. Code for I'm breaking up with you. Which was illogical because we weren't even together outside of my fantasies. We hadn't even kissed. Had only one moment where we almost kissed, and another when I violated the sanctity of his work space. But that was it.

I knew what he wanted to talk about, though. It had been a long time coming. I fired a text back.

Me:

Sure, Kitty. When?

I didn't have the mental strength to play my fuckboy games anymore. Especially when they had no effect on him. He replied almost immediately.

Kitty:

At your earliest convenience.

At my earliest convenience?! Fuck. Was that fucking doctor speak for "I'm a massive nob?" I threw my phone across the living space, startling Hunter, who I'd already forgotten was there.

"I'm not going," I told Hunter, kicking my feet up onto the couch and folding my arms over my chest.

"Why would you?" he said, taking a long slurping sip of his soda, and changing the television channel.

"Fine, okay, I'll go." I stood, showering the rug in a snowstorm of biscuit crumbs. But I'd need to shower first, because even if I was mardy with Jamie, I should wash the Doritos orange from my fingers and change my pants.

At the very least.

Jamie opened the door to his office as I rounded the corner to it. Like he'd been standing at the crack waiting for me. "Come in, Bowman. Take a seat."

"Dr Sullivan," I said, because I got the distinct impression that he would not be fobbed off with "Kitties" or my usual silly games.

Even still, I couldn't help myself. A tiny facetious idea bubbled up, and I ran with it. Jamie had neglected to mention which seat I should take, so I sat in his high-backed fancy doctor's chair behind his desk. He turned, and I held my hand out towards the padded, but nonetheless uncomfortable, patient chair.

He eyed the ceiling as though asking the Lord for patience. Evidently he decided this fight wasn't worth the energy expenditure, and sat in the chair on the wrong side of his desk.

I disguised my snort of laughter by clearing my throat.

I had worn my ripped-at-the-knee jeans, and my old Bulldogs hoodie, with the hood up. The thing used to be red, but a million washes later it was more salmon coloured. The screen print logo was faded, the cuffs were threadbare, and the laces around the neck were crusty from a decade-plus of idle chewing. Jamie, as per, looked like he'd just stepped out of an ad for beard trimmers and trouser presses.

"Listen, Bowman, do you know why I called you in?"

"Not the foggiest," I lied, and glanced over the papers on his desk. Something about a cash flow projection and profit-and-loss forecast. "What is this? Are you starting your own practice?" I wasn't sure why it came out so accusatorial.

"Yes, that's the eventual goal, Bowman. But that's not why—"

"You've called me Bowman three times in the last thirty seconds. I don't like it."

"Because I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you, and you're acting like a fucking child."

"Uh oh, big daddy voice. Maybe," I said, peering into his pen pot just so I wouldn't have to look at the disappointment on his face. "It's because I'm twenty-five. You're forty-nine"—he rolled his eyes—"You should know better. Not me."

Jamie got to his feet. Obviously decided the better of it, and sat back down. "You're right. I should know better. We both behaved … inappropriately. But seriously, Bowman …" He closed his eyes and I could almost see him counting to ten. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Jerking off in my office is … it's …"

I leaned forward across his desk. I wanted to see his face as he told me, see every muscle twitch. Wanted to see his mouth move over the words.

"It's so … unprofessional," he said, eventually. This time I fought my own eye-roll. "Anybody could have walked in and caught us—caught you—seen you. It shouldn't have happened."

Well, that was one thing we agreed on.

I lowered my voice to match his. "You were the one feeling me up all soft and sexy. I've had massages with Chloe and she didn't make me hard like you did. She didn't linger on the same spots, like, ‘Ohhh, yeah, you like that?'"

Jaime opened his mouth, no doubt to come up with some snappy retort, but I cut him off.

"And you were the one who practically told me to wank in your bathroom." I put on his accent. "There's a bathroom, right back there. Go ahead, Bowman, if you can."

"I … yes … well." He didn't deny it. "That was a regrettable oversight on my part." He wouldn't deny it, but he wouldn't apologise. So maybe I wouldn't apologise either. "I … It's just … Bowman …"

Eloquent.

A few moments ticked by. Neither of us spoke. Jamie seemed to be talking to himself inside his head, if his rapidly morphing expressions were anything to go by.

"Okay, well, thanks for dragging me into your office at my earliest convenience for this super in-depth chat, but I should head back to my apartment now. I've got Lays that won't eat themselves." I stood up and grabbed a stack of papers at random and brandished them at him. I certainly didn't enjoy the way he winced as I scrunched them a little in my palm. "Good luck with this whole new practice thing. You'll be awesome at it. And it's not like you'll be short on patients. I happen to know a few hockey dudes I could refer your way."

He almost, almost, looked as though he might smile, but dismissed the gesture immediately with a flick of his head. His voice was soft as he spoke, a little sad even. "Bowman, what are you doing?"

"Going home to eat my bodyweight in fried potatoes and watch The Princess Bride."

He raised his eyebrows. "You know that's not what I mean."

"You're br—" I started to say but stopped myself. I almost said, breaking up with me. "You're not gonna be my PT anymore."

"Bowman." Jamie raked a hand down his face. "Of course I'm still your PT. You're my responsibility." He shook his head, seemingly realising what he'd said. "Your recovery is my responsibility. I'm just saying … maybe you shouldn't be jerking off in my bathroom."

My face flared with heat. I pretended not to notice. I wanted to tell him that maybe he shouldn't be making me jerk off in his bathroom. That perhaps he shouldn't be teasing me with his magic fucking hands and his firm but soft touch and his sexy voice and even sexier smell. Or better yet, that we could sate this burning urge in his apartment before heading out to the rink together before practice. Instead, I said, "You switched all my appointments to other PT people."

"I needed time to …" He took a deep breath. "To decide a few things."

Here we go. The whole let Bowie down gently schtick. I wasn't sure whether to sit down and listen to all the reasons Jamie wouldn't be seen dead with me, or cut him off, call him a big smelly bumhead, and run away before he had the chance to tell me everything I already knew. I'm too young. Too immature. Too fucking cute. Too something else he refused to speak about. I settled for half-hovering my ass over the chair.

"Bowman." He paused, ran a hand down his face. "I've been thinking. A lot. About, well, about us, and about this insanely inappropriate thing that we—" I made to interrupt him, but he held up a finger to shush me. "That we are both responsible for. Okay? It's as much my fault as it is yours. You're right, I should know better. I'm not the kind of guy that does this, and, well … it has to stop."

My heart sank into my stomach. He was always going to say this. To break things off. Not like I wasn't expecting it. I shouldn't get to feel so bummed out about it. We had nothing for him to break off.

"At least," he continued, either unaware of my misery or unaffected by it, "It shouldn't happen at wo—"

At that moment, both our phones buzzed in unison. Mine in my back pocket, vibrating against my ass cheek, and Jamie's on the desk beside my fingers. I glanced down at his screen and saw Aaron Tyler flash up. Was my text also from Aaron? Why would he be messaging us both?

I pulled out my phone and opened the message.

Cap:

The Lounge tonite @8 everyone there no excuses

last nite out before TC

I'm pulling rank

I stared down at the device. TC; training camp. Great, yet another reminder of what I was missing out on. Another obstacle thrown at me. Something else I'd just have to suck up and get over.

I slammed my phone face down onto Jamie's papers and sat back in his fancy chair. It swivelled, so I turned it away from him. He already thought I was a baby. He didn't need to witness me having any more tantrums.

"Bowie." Bowie, not Bowman. Jamie's voice was soft.

"I'm not going to training camp. And I'm not going tonight either," I said, to Jamie's filing cabinets.

A week of training camp and then practices and six games of preseason: missed. Three weeks of sitting on the sidelines, watching the team bond, and talk hockey, and analyse strategy and the preseason games. Three weeks of being away from what I was supposed to be doing. What I was getting paid for. What I existed for.

And would they forget me? Or would it just be one of those things like being the new kid in class? Where everyone had already formed their friendship groups and then there was me trying to nuzzle my way into their cliques.

It was junior rugby all over again.

I was already the third wheel to whatever the fuck Zac and Aaron had going on.

Behind me, Jamie blew out a breath. "Bowie, listen, can we get back to what we were talking about before—"

"I said I'm not going tonight," I huffed, fully aware I was being a complete dick. But I didn't want to hear Jamie's break-up excuses on top of feeling shitty about training camp. "I'm not part of the team. I never was. So why should I go?"

"Bowie, please turn around," he pleaded.

It took a great amount of effort to uncross my arms and pull my face into a less petulant teenager expression. Then I spun the chair around to look at him. Was it even possible for a man to get more attractive in the twelve seconds I hadn't been looking at him?

"What's going on?" Jamie said, that soft calming voice reappearing.

"I'm not going to training camp," I said, desperately trying to keep the well, duh edge out of my voice.

Jamie nodded. Said nothing. Waited for me to continue. Which he knew I would because since when had I ever been able to keep my mouth shut?

"I should be at training camp. I should be there. I need them to remember I'd … that I'd do anything to keep my spot on this team. To stay on this team. I don't want to be traded again."

"None of that is in jeopardy. We discussed this already. I thought you understood." Jamie left his patient chair to join me behind the desk, perching himself on the vinyl top. "You know you're irreplaceable. Don't you?"

I shrugged because we had talked about it, and whenever we did, Jamie always managed to find the right words. The salve to my worries.

"The guys will forget about me," I whined.

"You'll still be there at training camp. Just … not playing. And you'll see them tonight."

I huffed and rolled the chair backwards. Aaron had been planning this last big blow-out for ages now. A chance for us all to let off residual steam before the serious things began. Training camp, preseason, regular season, tournaments, playoffs, where we wouldn't likely get the opportunity.

But I couldn't go tonight. For two reasons.

One, because it would just serve as another reminder of everything I was missing out on. And how much I'd have to do to catch up to the guys.

And two, because I had no self fucking control.

I couldn't have a couple of drinks and stop at that. I'd be chugging back shot after shot until someone drove me home in an ambulance if I thought for one second it would make them like me more.

"I'm not going tonight," I said.

"Aaron's pulling rank. You have to go." Jamie's lip curved into the faintest smile.

"You got the same text?"

"I think he hit up everyone in his contacts."

Highly likely. That sounded exactly like something golden-boy Aaron would do.

"So, you going?" I asked Jamie.

"Oh, God, no. Not my sort of thing. Plus, I'm not … a player. So, what's the real reason you don't want to go tonight?"

"I already told you."

I was this close to turning the chair around to the filing cabinets.

Jamie scratched the back of his head, slid his eyebrows into his hairline, sucked at his teeth. I wouldn't give in, though. Wouldn't tell him the real reason.

"Is it because of what happened last time?"

Damn him.

"Yes. Alright?"

"You're worried you'll lose control and end up puking in the street with Katie rubbing your back?"

I picked at the loose threads on my jeans. So, that had been Katie, had it?

Jamie said nothing. Again, he waited for me to fill the silence. I hated how well he knew me already.

"I just don't seem to realise when I'm being too extra. I don't know when enough is enough," I said, my voice quiet, and getting quieter with each word. "I just want people to like me."

Jamie's hand slid off the desk. "Oh, Bowie." From the look in his eyes, I thought he might reach out and stroke my cheek. "You know that's not … People like … You're …"

He was quiet for a while, and this time I didn't have any words to fill the space.

"Okay, I'll come with you. Tonight. I promised you you wouldn't miss out on anything. I keep my word, Bowman, and I'll make sure you don't lose control and drink too much," he said eventually.

"What?" Why, though? Why change his mind so quickly? "Really? Because, like, it might be fun. You hate fun. Also, I'm impossible."

He laughed. "Yes, really. And I know. Believe me."

"You're gonna have to make sure I only have two drinks. After that, you'll have to knock them out of my hand like Farrell."

"Who's Farrell?"

"My mum's cat. He hates glasses of water, and cacti, and he's kinda kicky."

He laughed again, deep and throaty, resonating in my chest and pulling up a smile on my cheeks. "I'll Farrell the fuck out of it."

The rest of the team were at the pool tables when Jamie and I entered The Lounge at around nine. A whole hour after Aaron told us to arrive, because apparently someone had difficulty choosing between a closet full of identical grey button-downs.

By the general appearance of the guys—hair sticking out at odd angles, sweaty sheeny faces, shirts rumpled—they were already half-cut.

"Bowie! Doc!" JJ yelled, waving us over.

"My main man," Aaron said.

Jamie elbowed me in the ribs, in a See, they won't forget about you way.

"He's not talking about me," I said.

But then, as if to make sure there weren't any doubts who Aaron had been talking about, all five of them broke out in a loud and very tone deaf chorus of David Bowie's "Starman".

I felt my cheeks and the tips of my ears burn.

Jamie leant his head close to mine, his mouth centimetres from my ear. Warm breath pooled against my cheek. "You're blushing."

Ordinarily, something little like being the centre of attention of the entire bar—because now every single patron was looking our way—wouldn't have had this kind of effect on me. Ordinarily, I'd relish it. Be the shit until everyone thinks you're the shit. Not that I wasn't relishing it then, but something felt different. I felt, not shy exactly—didn't think there'd been a day in my life I'd felt shy—but perhaps I was comfortable. At ease not being the cocky, in-your-face, insufferable exhibitionist for once.

It was the way I felt on the ice, I realised. Powerful, important, in control of myself. I didn't need to showboat on the ice because I believed in myself. I knew I was the shit. I didn't need to prove it to anyone else.

A month ago I'd have been joining in with the overloud singing, and the drinking myself into a stupor, and the general assholery. But now … I was happy to just be there. To be included, without the need to make a tit of myself.

Jamie had done that. Without even realising. He made me believe in myself off the ice. Made me feel like off the ice, I was a person worth getting to know.

I gave him a once over. Smart jeans, check. Expensive cologne, check. Hair, both of the facial and head-ial variety groomed to within an inch of its life, check. Button-down, check, but … his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Tattoos on display. Jamie was different too, whether he understood what it meant or not.

My thoughts swam back to his office earlier. When he'd been trying to tell me to back off. Or trying to tell himself that. I didn't know. Ickiness bubbled in my stomach. I pushed it down. So maybe I'd have one more night with Kitty, before he quit being my PT, or my massage tech, or my friend, but I would make sure I had fun with him tonight. Even if it wasn't my usual everyone-pay-attention-to-Bowie fun.

"Bet I look cute though, don't I?" I said.

Jamie shook his head. "Nope. Not at all."

"You're a terrible liar."

He leaned in again. His lips brushed my earlobe this time. "I know."

"Guys, come on!" Zac shouted. "We got drinks already. You gotta catch up. You'll have to double fist."

The breath left my nostrils with such violence I was certain I'd sprayed the entire pool table with snot. I reined in my What the fuck, America? face and turned to Jamie. "I mean, I have no immediate objections."

"That means something else in Britain, doesn't it?" Jamie said.

"Oh, yeah. Big time."

Aaron handed both Jamie and me a drink each. "Jack and coke."

"No, thanks. I'm good." Jamie pushed his drink back at Aaron, but the team captain held his palms up in a surrender gesture.

I side-eyed Jamie. I had forgotten, or perhaps I'd never known, he didn't drink, but something stirred in my memory.

You're way too hot to be sober at a bar.

I'd said that to him, hadn't I?

Sober. He'd been sober.

"No way, Doc. Last chance we can do this before training camp. Everyone on the team is getting fuuucked tonight! Including you."

"Aaron." I placed my hand on my captain's chest. "He doesn't want—"

"Fuck it," Jamie said, and before I had a chance to question him, he knocked his JD-coke back in one. "Why not?"

He high-fived Aaron, who, now sated, rejoined Zac.

"You're … you're not teetotal?" I asked once everyone else was out of earshot.

"No, I just don't drink often. I don't like the feeling of—"

"Losing control." I finished his sentence for him.

It was like all the pieces of the puzzle were pulling themselves together. The stuffy professor type. The hiding his incredible tattoos. The not drinking, or hardly drinking. The death before crumpled shirts mantra. The draconian minute by minute recovery plan.

"You're a control freak," I said to him.

"You're only just realising this?" he replied, his mouth curved into a smile.

Fuck me, playful Jamie was gorgeous. Those lips. I'd never seen more perfect, more defined, more kissable lips on anyone.

I wound my finger around the edge of his open collar and tugged it until his ear was level with my mouth. "I'm a different kind of freak all together," I whispered.

Jamie smoothed out the stubble on his upper lip as though he could erase his smile. But I could still see it reflected in his eyes. "Okay, kid. This counts as your first drink. It's weak as piss, so you might get away with three—"

"No, keep me on two. Please. I'll nag you and whine a bit. But you gotta only let me have two."

He winked at me. "I've got you."

All my insides turned to liquids and started draining into my legs, making me feel sluggish, and heavy, and warm. So warm. I've got you.

After I'd finished my second drink, and Jamie had drunk his fourth, he announced he was going to the bar to buy everyone a round. His eyes took on an unfocused sort of glaze as the guys shouted out their orders.

"And a rum and coke for little Bowie," he said, giving me a panto-villain style wink. I was grateful my teammates were sloshed and would have missed the gesture.

Rowan got to his feet and followed Jamie to help with the … tray carrying? I wasn't actually sure.

The cluster of sofas in the back became free, and Aaron and Zac practically lunged across the room for them. They sat at one end of the largest sofa. I took the other end. Rainey and JJ opted to sit on either side of a small leather chesterfield.

"Hey!" called Aaron, waving towards the door as Katie walked in. "Quick, come here and save these seats with us."

Katie dropped onto the sofa opposite me and offered everyone a smile.

"I didn't think you were going to come tonight?" Aaron yelled over the general cacophony of the bar.

"And miss my chance to see a wild Dr Sullivan outside of its natural habitat?" Katie replied. She turned to me. "You just get here, too?"

"No, been here an hour maybe."

She frowned, let her eyes travel over the other guys, in their varying degrees of hammeredness. Rainey fairing well, talking to JJ, who he had in creases. They were too far away for me to hear what they were laughing about. And then there was Zac, who had his shirt pulled up over his stomach, and Aaron, who was tracing a finger over said stomach.

As though they sensed everyone looking, the pair turned to us.

"We're gonna get matching tattoos," Zac yelled, like he was twelve and his mum was finally letting him go to the arcade with his BFF for the first time.

"Yeah, dragons," Aaron said, eyelids half closed.

"I thought we were getting bobcats."

Katie rolled her eyes affectionately. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment Jamie walked over to the group, holding a tray laden with drinks.

"Hey," he said to Katie, giving her such a warm smile, it ignited a spark of jealousy. I mean, they were friends, and he was gay, and I had nothing to be jealous of. We weren't even a thing.

And until we got the text from Aaron, I was sure Jamie had been on the cusp of telling me to get the hell out of his life.

He placed the tray in the centre of the coffee table. "This is yours," he said, handing me a drink, ignoring the rest of the guys, and letting them fend for themselves. Then he sat down. Right next to me, half on Aaron, who didn't even huff or tsk. He extricated himself from under Jamie and went to sit on the arm of the sofa beside Zac. At a glance, it almost appeared as though he was sitting on his lap.

"It's just soda," Jamie whispered to me. His boozey breath seemed to curl over my cheek. "There's no rum. I had to be sneaky because Rowan was there and he wanted to get shots but I said no, no shots, I am your therapist so there is no rum or booze."

Man, he was further gone than I thought. From four drinks, though?

"He made me do shots with him at the bar," he said, which frankly, explained a lot.

I took a sip of my coke, and was half-surprised to find it was just that. Jamie, even in this inebriated state of his, had spent so much effort ensuring I got the right drink and keeping his promise to me. A warm, fuzzy bubble replaced the ickiness bubble. Or joined it. I didn't know. There were a lot of new feelings swirling about inside me.

"SHOTS!" about four guys at once yelled as Rowan finally arrived with his own tray, bearing at least thirty tiny little plastic glasses filled with a rainbow of liquids.

I leant closer to Jamie. "I can't do shots, Kitty."

He didn't verbally respond, but he squeezed my knee once. My heart leapt into my throat.

Katie's eyes followed Jamie's hand. Then she caught my gaze, held it for a few seconds, and looked away. Possibly smirking, it was difficult to tell with the dim lighting of the bar.

Aaron, ever the diligent captain, circled the table, handing out shots and drinks. I tried to wave him off, but he pushed a little beaker of fluorescent blue liquid at me.

"Show us how the Brits do it, Archinold Bowieman," he said, resuming his perch now that his captainly duties had been taken care of.

"That s'not his s'name," said Rowan, words sliding into one another. "It's Arching Bowersman."

"Fuck off," shouted Zac. "It's Archester Bor… wait." Which made everyone laugh.

And while they were distracted figuring out my name, Jamie slid the drink from my hand and replaced it with an empty shot glass. He then downed my original shot.

I slammed my empty beaker onto the table with a dramatic Look how well I've handled my own liquor flair. Aaron nodded, pleased with my evident progress.

"Thank you," I whispered to Jamie. He didn't respond, except to move his arm a tiny fraction against mine.

After another round of shots, the conversation turned to hockey. It was all recounts of sick dangles and ill snipes, nasty toe drags. Most of it way too ridiculous to be anything more than open hockey shenanigans.

I tried to calculate how many units of alcohol Jamie had drunk. But each count landed me at around the eleven or twelve mark. Which was fine. He was a big bloke. Six foot whatever, broad shoulders, muscles from here to Bruton Willesbury. He could handle twelve units, right?

But he never drinks. He's not used to it,said a tiny voice inside my brain.

He'd have a sore head tomorrow, but he'd be okay. Probably.

Suddenly arms plunged from nowhere, wrapping themselves around my neck and Jamie's neck from behind, forcing our heads together, sandwiching Rowan's face in the middle.

"Guuuuyyyyss,"Rowan whined. "Move over."

Without further warning, he dropped into the non-existent gap between Jamie and me, forward rolling like the world's sloppiest SAS dude. He landed with his ass in Jamie's lap and his legs over mine.

Jamie's empty glass tumbled to the floor. I cradled my half drunk coke to stop it from spilling.

"Sorry, Doc," Rowan said, from Jamie's lap.

From. His. Lap.

He made no attempt to get off him, us. In fact, he wrapped an arm around Jamie's head. And Jamie was … laughing. They looked so ridiculous, like a massive child going to visit an extremely hot Father Christmas. I couldn't help but join in with their mirth, even though I wanted to swap places with Rowan.

"This man here," Rowan grabbed Jamie's jaw and turned his face to me, and despite Rowan's eyes not quite making contact with mine, I was pretty sure he'd aimed the convo at me and I'd be required to participate. "He's such a good doctor. My best. Third favourite PT. Hands down."

"Get off me," Jamie said, affectionately, but firmly shoving Rowan forward.

Rowan clung on, sat upright and wrapped his other arm around my shoulder, pulling all three of our heads together again.

"You two. Together. ‘Ssfucking beautiful, man." Rowan closed his eyes and gave us a moment's pause to reflect on his poetry. "I gotta take a piss," he added, rolling off of us and crashing to the floor by our feet. "Oh, Doc, did you hear about the Cavs' new defenceman?"

Jamie perked up, and Rowan propped himself on the edge of the coffee table, apparently having completely forgotten about his bathroom requirements.

"From fucking Florida." Rowan rolled his eyes. "Luke something. Dude hits like a fucking train."

"Uh oh," Jamie said. "Worried he could kick your ass, MacKenzie? Maybe try not to throw down with him."

Rowan slipped his knuckles under his thighs, as though hiding the evidence. "You know what it's like, Doc. Don't tell me you were a saint on the ice. I know for a fact you—"

Rowan's words reached my brain half a beat after he'd said them. You know what it's like. Saint on the ice.

"Kitty, you played?" I interrupted. "Why didn't you say something?"

Jamie shot me a look halfway between guilt and pride.

"Fucking so good," Rowan slurred. "No photos of him on the ice, though, ‘cause photography wasn't invented back then."

"Fuck off! I'm four years older than you," Jamie grunted, which only served to remind me I was in a room full of grown ass men who were behaving like uni students. Jamie aimed a kick at Rowan's leg.

"Watch your knee, old man," he said, laughing. But Jamie's face dropped.

"More shots!" Rowan announced to no one in particular, got to his feet, and stumbled off in the direction of the bar, not the bathrooms.

"You never told me you played," I said, thankful I was no longer being forced to share Jamie's attention.

The hardness of his expression softened instantly. Or maybe I had imagined it was there in the first place. "Defenceman. Loved it. Miss it. So fucking much. The smell of the ice and the crowd ... You know?"

"You played in college or highschool, or younger?" I asked, desperate to hear more. To picture Dr Sullivan, mountain of a man, zooming around the rink. Free, fluid, elegant. Starting fights. Pinning guys to the boards. I wanted that to be me.

I wanted to be the one pressed against the plexiglass, my thighs between his, my hands in each of his. Jamie holding them above my head as he brought his mouth down onto mine.

"Yes," he said. A sloppy drunk smile slid across his face and I forgot what question I'd asked.

"Would you …" I started. Paused. Was I taking things too far?

"Would I?" Jamie said, and he took my hand in his. Well, my ring and baby fingers, not the whole hand. But the sheer thrill that licked up my arm and down my spine at the contact almost made me want to puke. Distantly, I was aware of cheering.

Get a grip, Bowie. He's touched you before. Your naked back. Your chest. Nearly your dick.

"Would I?" he repeated, thumb idly sweeping along my pinky.

"Uh … Would you come skating with me? One day?"

Around us, the guys were getting to their feet.

Jamie stared into my eyes. His were etched with an emotion I couldn't quite place. Not his sad puppy dog eyes, not his determined bordering manic drill sergeant expression either, but something altogether more … lost? I wasn't sure.

"I … I'm—" he began.

But at that moment Aaron got right up into our faces and shouted, "Come on guys, we're gonna do karaoke!"

"I'm not drunk enough for karaoke," I whispered to Jamie.

We were swept along with the swell of people, out of The Lounge, into the cool September night. Jamie never left my side. Or was it the other way around?

The crisp chill in the air wicked away the sheen of bar-sweat from my skin and filled my lungs with a freshness I had forgotten existed.

Katie sidled up next to us. "Hey."

"I'm living in the moment!" Jamie randomly slurted. A cross between blurted and slurred.

"Well done! You can expect your certificate in the mail within five to seven business days," Katie said. She turned to me. "How're you coping there, Archie?"

I nodded, waited for the response to come to me. How was I coping?

I was missing out on training camp, and preseason, worrying that my team would forget about me while they were off on their jollies, and I was certain the man I'd been obsessing over was going to call off whatever mess of a thing we had as soon as he'd sobered up. Or perhaps he'd wait until after my recovery.

Despite all of this, I found myself feeling … hopeful. About hockey, about the Bobcats, about Dr Sullivan.

So I flashed Katie a smile and gave her the most British answer I could conjure. "Can't complain."

"Thank you for looking after him," she said, as though Jamie was a puppy and I was his doggy-day care manager. "Coming to karaoke?"

I looked around at the other guys. They were so far gone, there was no way they'd remember if I tapped out early. Zac and Aaron were already marching down the street, arms slung over one another shout-singing what I'd hazard a guess at "Blinding Lights" by The Weeknd. JJ and Rainey were still arguing hockey, and Rowan was finally relieving his bladder against the exterior wall of The Lounge. The same wall I'd painted with pizza and beer and one-million-proof rum all those weeks ago. Poor wall. It'd been through a lot.

"Make sure he gets home okay," Katie said, reading my silence as her answer. "I texted you his address."

"Are you going to the karaoke bar?" I asked her.

"Of course. Gotye's not going to sing itself."

"That's weird, that's Jamie's karaoke song, too." According to his TopTier profile, anyway.

"What a strange coincidence," she said, smiling. "Come on, guys." Katie looped her arms through Rainer's and JJ's, and together the three of them walked off into the night. Leaving Jamie and me alone on the street with only strangers.

He gave me a big, dopey smile.

"Thank you," I said. "For what you did tonight." He slipped a little on the curb. "You're probably not gonna remember me saying this, so I'll just have to think up some other way to show you my gratitude. I'm gonna call an Uber for you now."

"Wait … Where'd everyone go?" Jamie's eyes darted about the almost empty street, looking up at the windows of the buildings as though the guys were playing a practical joke on him and someone was going to shout Boo from one of them.

Oh, my God, drunk Jamie was adorable.

"Kitty, you're very drunk. You're gonna go home. Pass out. Maybe puke. We're not going with them, okay?"

He pushed me by my good shoulder. "Psshh, I'm not drunk." He stabilised me and gazed into my eyes. My breath caught in my throat. "If I was drunk, would I do this?"

Jamie lifted his hand from my shoulder and cupped it around my nape, angling my face up. Then he brought his lips down onto mine. Soft, so soft and gentle, like he was frightened he might break me. I hesitated for a second before kissing him back, letting him know he could be firmer. Rougher. His boozy breath mixed with mine, creating a heady cocktail. But in a hot, delicious way. My heart threw itself against my ribs, and my fingers gripped his shoulders. I needed to feel him. Needed to ground myself against his enormity. Because if I didn't, I'd likely float off into the night sky.

But he was drunk. And really, I was taking advantage.

He wouldn't be kissing me if he were sober.

I pulled away. Eased an inch of space between our mouths.

"I should have kissed you in the cart place. I'm sorry. I should have kissed you in my office on Monday. I've blown everything." Jamie renewed his grip in my hair, closed the gap between our lips again, pushed his tongue into my mouth.

Holy fuck, I was going to lose it. The feel of his tongue on mine. Rough, and smooth, and soft, and hot. The taste of him. His slick, sweat dampened shirt beneath my fingertips, and the body beneath that.

Oh my fucking god, that body.

"Kitty." I pushed another gap between us, used my forearm as a brace against that huge barrel chest of his.

"Bowie," Jamie whimpered. "I need to taste you. I need you … that fucking bowed lip of yours." He rubbed his thumb against my mouth and licked it.

Down, boy,I mentally told my cock. I wouldn't get a chub with Jamie so out of it. Not happening.

"You have no idea how long I've been thinking about these lips." Jamie lunged again for my mouth, but I sidestepped him.

"Okay, but you're drunk and this feels …" Like it shouldn't be happening.

Who was I kidding?

It felt good. So fucking good. To finally hear the man I'd been obsessed with since I first walked into his office, saying he was into me, too. To feel his lips against mine, his firm grip twisting into my hair, his hard body pressed against mine.

"But I need you, little winger."

My insides wobbled, my legs trembled as though I was running only on adrenaline. Little winger.

"I neeeeeed you. All of you. You make me feel like a fucking teenager. Let me suck you. I want you to fuck my mouth," Jamie said, looking down at the ground as if deciding on a good spot to plant his knees.

"This is escalating awfully quickly," I said.

Who even was I?

I'd have been lying if I said I wasn't tempted. That I wouldn't go home and picture exactly that, as I fucked my own hand. But I knew Jamie was only saying these things because he was pissed, and as soon as he'd sobered up we'd be back to miserable, scowly Sargeant Perfect.

But yeah, wrong wrong wrong.

"Jamie," I said, forcing him to stand straight and look into my eyes, so he knew I was being serious. "I'm not going to let you blow me outside of The Lounge—"

"Then come home with me," he said, scooping my hair behind my ear.

I blew out a breath. "Okay, I'll come home with you. But we're not going to fuck. I'm going to get you into bed. Get you some whatever Americans have in their medicine cabinet to cope with hangovers, some water, and a barf bucket, just in case."

Jamie didn't seem like he would puke, but sometimes these things could really catch you by surprise. He actually looked a little disappointed.

"Listen, Kitty, when you sober up, if you remember any of this and you feel the same, I'll let you do whatever you want with me. Fuck me however, whenever, wherever you like. But this will not be our first time. Our first time's gonna be fucking magical, and I want you to remember it all. Because I'll never forget it."

Jamie stepped into the gap between us again and planted a chaste kiss on my forehead. "Okay, baby. You call the shots. I'll make you feel real good. But not tonight."

"Thank you."

And besides,I thought, our first time is going to be me on my knees for you.