9. Chapter 9

I woke to a ripping headache and, yes, a seventy-pound golden retriever. Sitting on my chest. Licking my damn eyeballs.

I groaned as I rolled over, the expensive, silky sheets of my bed sliding across my bare chest. I gave said retriever a half-assed poorly aimed head-ruffle, then dislodged her with a groan as I reached for my blinking phone on my nightstand.

I had thirty-two unread text messages. Goddamn why?

But there was only one I cared about.

Bowie: I'm coming over and I'm bringing hangover food.

What?

I sat up so fast the room gave a sickening lurch. Brady leaped off the bed like something exciting was about to happen. Maybe it was. He was coming ... Here? How? Why? When was the last time I'd cleaned? How did he even know where I lived—Katie. That conniving, wing-manning little busybody.

Jesus, my head hurt.

This was why I didn't drink. At least I wasn't puking. And I hadn't puked anywhere last night, though my mouth tasted like a herd of zoo animals had tromped through and promptly died. I hadn't done anything too stupid. I was home. And there was nobody in my bed—shit.

Holy shit.

A memory surfaced, one tucked into a dark little corner of the tail end of the night.

That …

That wasn't ... Real, right?

I hadn't ... Kissed Bowman?

Offered to get on my knees for him, take him home …

Shit.

What had I done? I hadn't even decided what to say to him in my office, before we'd gotten Aaron's texts. I'd been so sure I was going to call the whole thing off, cite professionalism and the age difference and … And I'd peered beneath the tousled blond hair, looked into those soft green eyes, and faltered.

Shit.

And now he was on his way? I nearly fell flat on my face as I dove out of bed and the sheets tangled around me. The floor plunged like a ship on a stormy sea under my feet; I was hungover. Couldn't remember the last time I'd drank so much.

I needed water. And to brush my teeth because my mouth tasted horrible. And I needed to stop fucking panicking, except it was too late for that because I was well and truly panicking—

Deep breath, Sullivan. Bathroom. Go to the bathroom. Teeth first.

I followed the wise voice of my inner Jiminy Cricket or whatever guiding spirit helped hungover bachelors get their teeth brushed before their cute little blond friend—who they were definitely not into, hadn't kissed, and hadn't tried to blow—showed up with much-needed hangover food.

Okay, water next.

I stumbled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, Brady hot on my heels, to slug down a full glass. Kind of wanted to gag, but did it, then got the coffee brewing. Was forcing down a second glass when someone banged on the door.

Brady skidded across the hardwood like a kid in socks, whining and wagging and jazzed as all hell.

Dammit! How had he gotten in here? Probably sweet-talked my doorman with his adorable British charm and heart-stopping smile. I slammed the glass down on the counter and scanned my eyes over the space. Nothing was too out of place, but there were a ton of papers on my coffee table—

"Open up, Kitty! Or I'm coming in. I know how to pick a lock."

Of course he did. I dove across the room to shove a pair of gym socks out of sight under the couch, then wrenched the door open, Brady's collar gripped in my left hand. "Bowman! What are you—"

"Wow, Kitty." Bowman's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Is that all for me?"

Too late, I realized I was standing in the doorway in my underwear. Very, very much exposed, except for the dog in front of my knees. Dammit, inner-Jiminy! Why didn't you tell me about this?

"Oh, um. Hi. Sorry." I leapt back from the door, dragging my overenthusiastic pet with me. "This is Brady."

I was not remembering the feel of his lips, the soft push of his tongue, or that I'd begged to take him home—And he'd refused. And now …

When Bowie's eyes dropped down my bare chest to my wriggling golden retriever, his face lit up all over again. He opened his arms, and she leapt right out of my hangover-weakened grip. Crashed into him like they were old friends.

I tried not to notice how absolutely fucking adorable it was. Brady licked his cheeks, and he laughed as he crouched down to rub her ears.

"Sorry," I said again, attempting to wrestle Brady off her new best friend. "She, um, likes meeting people."

"I love her," he decided, still scratching at her floppy, fuzzy ears. "We always had dogs growing up."

"Me, too," I admitted. "The condo felt empty until I got her."

"She is a great kisser."

His eyes lifted from where his fingers had tangled in her fur. And I was reminded all over again that I was in my underwear. In front of the man I'd drunkenly kissed the night before. Then offered to blow. Why. Me.

Like she sensed a change in the mood, Brady raced off into the bowels of my condo. Leaving me. And Bowie. Who straightened from his dog-petting crouch. And I was not remembering kissing that beautiful bow lip …

His eyes raked up me. Slowly. Assessing, dark. Was he thinking about that kiss—because I was not. Definitely not. At all.

"Sorry. About. Um …" I waved in the vague direction of Brady chasing a tennis ball down the hallway in a sliding scuffle of pads and claws and rubber. "I'm … hungover. Rushing. Didn't expect …"

Words. Why couldn't I words?

"Don't be sorry." Bowie stepped in and nudged the door closed behind him with his good shoulder. "You've clearly worked on those abs. Like, a lot. Please, show them off. I am very much enjoying the view."

I was tempted to pause for a moment—stare at him, let him stare back—until his gaze dipped down towards my ruined knee.

"Yeah. I'm gonna go get dressed." I stepped into the condo, ushering him after me. "What's in the bag?"

The plastic grocery bag rustled as he lifted it from where he'd set it down to greet Brady, and he followed me into the living room. "Food."

"Did you say something about hangover food?" I slid into my bedroom, didn't bother to close the door as I wrenched a dresser drawer open. Dragged some gym shorts on, then a T-shirt.

"It will be." His voice reached me from the kitchen, and I followed it to find him unpacking the grocery bag onto the island. Eggs? Bread? Bacon? "You can leave the T-shirt off."

I chose to ignore the last quip. "What're you doing?"

"I'm cooking," he said. "Where are your pans?"

"Um." I leaned over the counter as he crouched to open the cupboard beside the stove. Closed it and moved to the next one. "Drawer—there. Why are you cooking?"

Why was he here? He'd refused to come home with me last night, after weeks of flirting and teasing and smirking. My brow bunched at the thought; I'd practically begged him for sex, and he'd said no. It wasn't like he hadn't been kissing me back, though, right? I nearly groaned thinking about the press of his tongue, soft and urgent at the same time.

But I'd been drunk. Had I imagined it?

"I'm cooking," he stood, jerking me out of my wandering thoughts, a frying pan clutched in his hand, "because Americans don't know how to do proper hangover food. And because," he set the skillet onto the stovetop, "I like to cook."

I fumbled to unpack and process that little detail I hadn't known—and never would've guessed—about him. He liked to cook? Where did that fit in the things I knew about Archie Bowman? The guy who'd told me he could do no strings attached; who'd gotten hard in my office and asked if I wanted to touch; who'd refused to let me blow him—

Drunkenly.

He'd said no because I was drunk.

The thought made my head swim. Made thoughts trip over emotions tumbling around the big, cavernous space inside my skull. I didn't know what to make of any of it.

"So, what's a proper English hangover breakfast?" I asked instead, because my brain was too sloshy for anything else. I slid into a barstool at the island and propped my chin on my hand.

This was why I didn't drink.

"Full English, mate."

I watched the shift of his muscles beneath his white T-shirt as he bustled around the kitchen, turning on the fan oven, tossing fat sausages into a sizzling pan, laying out four strips of bacon, cutting tomatoes … Shit.

My head hurt. So much that I might have drifted off a bit, staring into space—or at Bowie's toned shoulders under his shirt—with my eyes half out of focus.

Until a plate heaped with greasy food slid in front of my face. Sausages, bacon, fried eggs, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, some kind of hash browns … and were those baked beans? In … tomato sauce?

I dove in headfirst. "Fuck, this smells amazing."

"‘Cause it is." Bowie plopped down into the seat beside me, shoved a fork into my hand. "Ketchup or Daddies?"

"Huh?"

He slid a brown squeezy bottle towards me. The label read Daddies. "Can't have a fry-up without sauce. I brought this from home last time."

"But … Daddies?"

"It's ketchup, but for old men. It's delicious." Without any further questions, Bowie squeezed a river of brown onto the corner of my plate. He did the same to his own. "Eat."

I did. Shoveled in a big bite of eggs and bacon and groaned because, "Fuck. This is so good. Might be better than sex—"

Oops.

My ears burned so hot it hurt. I couldn't look at him, even to see if he was smirking, so I shoved in more food before my big fat mouth could say something it shouldn't. I was never drinking again. Ever. Ever.

"I am an excellent cook," Bowie said, voice lofty. "But I can promise you this is not better than sex with me."

I choked.

Bowie slapped me on the back and slid a mug of coffee in front of me. "Sort of nice to see Dr. Perfect be less than perfect sometimes."

"I hate you." But I did love this coffee. Between the breakfast and the coffee, my spinning brain syndrome was starting to subside.

"No, you don't."

I really didn't.

Bowie turned his bar stool, leaned his elbows back on the countertop to survey my apartment. "Your place sort of looks like mine. Except you have a dog. And you actually live here."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I wrenched my face away from my breakfast to study his profile. His mouth was relaxed into an almost-smile but his expression was serious, pensive.

"It's … empty. I just moved in, so I haven't unpacked anything." His head tilted towards me. "What's your excuse for the spartan lifestyle?"

"It's decorated." I waved at the one lone painting—some kind of winter tree aesthetic Katie had unearthed from a Pier 1—on the wall opposite the 55-inch TV.

"Twenty bucks says Katie bought that."

"This is wildly unfair."

"It would be less unfair if you weren't such a rich, hot bachelor with a stick up his ass." Bowie grinned and kicked his legs back and forth under the chair. "How do you think I feel in comparison?"

"Dunno, but you look damn pleased with yourself."

"I am damn pleased with myself."

"Why?" I asked, though I sort of suspected I might not want to know the answer.

"Well, I met this rich, hot bachelor. Kinda has a stick up his ass, but he let me cook him breakfast." He leaned in a little closer, sending a cool, delicious shiver down my spine as the words brushed my ear. "I think he liked it."

I turned my head up from my plate, and his face was right there. So close it made everything around me fade away, made the world stop spinning, too. Green eyes. Scattering of light freckles over the bridge of his nose—had I noticed those before? I was noticing now. Bowed lips quirked into that cocky smile. Mere inches between that mouth and mine.

Would be so easy to reenact what had happened between us last night. The soft brush of mouths, my tongue flicking out to sample the arch of that bowed upper lip. His tongue sliding across mine—

Except I wouldn't be able to explain it away with booze.

So I dropped my gaze to my plate and like the big, fat coward I was, I stuffed in an oversized bite of breakfast. "Liked it? That's a stretch."

I was a big fat liar and a big fat coward.

"And." Bowie straightened, grinning like he hadn't seen me staring at his mouth and the freckles on his nose. "I had a great night."

Shit. This was where I was supposed to be the bigger man, the grown-up. Talk about the kiss. I wished I weren't so hungover for this conversation, but here we were. Better to get it over with. "Bowie … "

"So, I have one important question." His blond brows arched as he turned to me again. He didn't lean in this time, though.

Oh, God. Here we go. "Go ahead and ask. I guess."

Might as well rip off the band aid. Tell him I was drunk, and it didn't mean anything and no, I didn't regret it, but it wouldn't happen again … And a bunch of other lies I didn't want to weave. Why was I still bothering?

Would it really, truly, be so bad to see where this went?

"Remember," Bowie said, one of his brows arching, "I cooked you breakfast. So you have to answer."

I sighed. "Just ask."

"Did you used to play hockey?"

"What?" My fork tumbled out of my fingers and hit the plate with a very obvious clatter. "How did you—did I say—that's what you want to ask? What?"

My ears had started to buzz.

"Yeah. You said you played in college." His green eyes drifted skywards. "Or was it high school? I was a little tipsy, too."

"Oh, um." I slid my fork so the handle hung off the edge of my plate. How had we ended up here? "Well yeah, I guess so. Why d'you think I became a hockey PT?"

"So …" The green eyes fixed on me, a playful sparkle setting them afire. "Were you going to tell me?"

How was it possible I'd have rather been talking about the kiss? How was that possible? I rolled the fork against the plate so I had an excuse not to meet his gaze. "No, probably not. I don't play anymore."

"Why not?" He didn't blink. His eyes were doing that soul-bearing green-laser thing.

The fork rolled over with a clank. "Just don't."

"C'mon, Jamie." Not Kitty or Doc or Dr. Perfect. Jamie. My stomach fluttered in a weird, unfamiliar way.

I couldn't fucking look at him. "I'm thirty-seven. I moved on."

"Bullshit." His voice wasn't cold, but there was a definite no-nonsense note to it. He crossed his arms, leaned his good elbow onto the counter. "Half the guys at the open hockey on Thursday nights are over fifty. You don't get to play the old man card."

"I'm gonna take Brady out now." I stood, and Brady raced in at the sound of her name, a mangy tennis ball hanging out of her mouth.

Bowie was not to be dissuaded. He hopped off the stool and followed Brady as I pulled on my shoes. "When was the last time you played?"

"Years. I dunno." I opened the door, and Brady barrelled out. Ten years, but who was counting?

Bowie came with us. "How many?"

"A lot."

"You own skates?" But he already knew the answer. Of course I owned skates. And sticks. Pads. Pucks. Tape. All of it.

I sighed, jammed my thumb against the elevator button. "Yeah, I still own skates."

"Okay." Bowie followed me in, tipped his good shoulder against the mirrored side. "We're going."

"What! No way."

"Yes way." He crossed his arms. Glared. "You can't … never skate again."

I crossed mine and glared right back. "Sure I can."

"There's an open hockey tomorrow night. We're going."

The elevator opened, and Brady trotted out, dragging me along for the ride. "No way! You're on injured reserve."

"Oh come on." Bowie jogged after us. "It'll be just for fun. I'll wear my brace, and you can wrap the shit out of my shoulder so I can't move it. I won't take any shots, only easy passes."

"Bowie." I turned to him as Brady stopped to examine a particularly fascinating half-wilted dandelion poking out of the sidewalk. Bowie's bright, eager face tilted up towards me. Brighter and eager-er than usual.

"Kitty."

"No."

"Training camp starts tomorrow." He turned away from me. His voice went somber. Too somber. Like someone else's voice, because the Bowie I knew was glowing and chipper and cheerful. "I'm gonna spend all fucking day sitting in the stands watching other people play."

My chest ached. I found myself without words all over again. But I couldn't stand the way that voice sounded, the way everything in him begged—and everything in me responded.

"The least you can do is let me skate afterwards." Bowie turned that eager, pleading face back to me. "Let me … be on the ice. It's summer, off-season. There'll be like, a handful of old men. Please."

"Bowie." But I was losing the argument, and I knew it.

"Come with me and keep an eye. Yell at me if I do something stupid. Or whatever. Just … come."

Fuck. Fuck my life. Fuck all of this. I didn't want to.

I did.

All of it.

I wanted all of it. I wanted to kiss him. Hot and desperate and needy, soft and sweet and tantalizing. Everything in between.

I wanted to be there for him when he needed me. When he needed a distraction. A friend. Someone to tell him it was going to be okay.

I wanted to feel the ice under my skates. With him beside me, reminding me it was all going to be okay while I reminded him of the same.

Fucking all of it.

I wanted fucking all of it.

"Either go with me," Bowie said in that same small quiet voice, with those same too-big green eyes staring, "or give me a good reason why not."

My mouth flapped open.

Closed.

Flapped again.

I didn't have a reason, and I knew it. Sure, the first couple of years had been better to stay off. But those years had passed, and I'd returned to the rest of the things in my life—the gym, running, hiking, sports. I'd never gotten back on the ice because … because what was the point? After the high of professional hockey, anything else would be a sad sham. A reminder of all the dreams I'd left behind.

Right?

Brady spotted a squirrel down the street. Fixed her eyes on it. And barked like every fiber of her being was determined to bring that sly little motherfucker down.

"Fine." I groaned, swiped one hand down my face while the other attempted to rein in the fearsome squirrel-hunting beast. "Fine. I'll do it."

Bowie grinned a big white smile I swore I'd never seen on him before.

Fuck, he was radiant.

This was a huge fucking mistake.

I knew it as I stuffed gear into my bag the next evening. It felt wrong. The smell was wrong: old and faded, not bitter and burning. Pads were too stiff and dry. Skates weren't sharp—though I'd fix that before I got on the ice.

Bowie leaned in the doorway, watching me pull equipment out of the clear plastic storage bins shoved behind my washing machine, and honestly, he was the one thing that felt right.

Maybe that's why I'd invited him over beforehand instead of simply picking him up from the Bobcats' arena, where he'd spent all day watching training camp from the stands. Because I knew, somehow, having him here would feel like that. Like he belonged.

"Dark and light jersey," he reminded me as I turned over a pair of gloves to see if the fingers had entirely worn through. "Just in case there's enough people for teams."

Nerves frothed my stomach, and I angled a glare over my shoulder at him. "Teams? I thought it was gonna be five old guys?"

"A man can hope."

I shoved in a ratty black practice jersey—luckily it just said Bears, no identifying logos—and an even older, rattier jersey from Boston University. That one declared, in even less identifying terms, Terriers. Still, Bowie watched my every move with those laser eyeballs.

I hefted my bag onto my shoulder as I stood. Why the hell had I agreed to this? Brady shoved her nose into the massive duffle, and Bowie led the way through my condo. I was tempted to ask if we could take her for an evening stroll instead.

But I didn't.

I knew Bowie needed this a whole lot more than either Brady or I needed a walkabout. So I followed him out the door, into the elevator. Threw my bag in the truck's bed, and steered us to the rink.

He practically vibrated in the seat next to me. Hummed with the anticipation of getting back on the ice. Flipped through the radio stations without settling. Chattered about things my brain couldn't latch onto because it was fixed on the bag in the bed. Weirdly, though, his excitement calmed me.

In a handful of minutes, we'd crossed to the north side of town, where the suburban sprawl bunched up around wide streets lined in towering old oaks and faded street lights. Blocky white commercial buildings mingled with elegant Victorians and charming Cape Cods in a mismatched patchwork of old and new. The big blue dome of the rink loomed up behind it all.

I steered the Tundra into the empty parking lot. Same as I did most days of the week, except this was different. It shouldn't have felt weird to show up to a hockey rink in jeans and a T-shirt, but I was so used to coming here with my sleeves buttoned up and my pants pressed down.

"You ready?" Bowie buzzed as he hopped from the truck to meet me around at the bed.

"Sure. Sure. Yeah." I shouldered my bag, collected my sticks. Another weird thing to add to the collection of things that shouldn't have been so out of place.

"You'll be fine." Bowie beamed at me, then took the lead to the rink.

I glanced over the sign-up sheet as we paid at the front desk, but there were only a couple of other names on the roster, none I recognized. Good. None of them would recognize me, either.

Bowie led the way to the Bobcats' locker room. I'd been in here before—countless times—but now, it felt wrong and unfamiliar. Not my place, not my team.

"Skate sharpener's in the equipment closet." Bowie waved a hand towards a door in the back corner, before heading to his cubby behind the bench—the top locker labeled Bowman in a neat little plaque with his number 11 underneath. His socks and pads hung on the hooks below.

I dropped my bag, dug out my skates, and headed into the musty equipment room to start up the machine. I sometimes sharpened skates for the team, when I was around, so I hadn't lost my touch. But it'd been ten years since I'd last sharpened my skates.

I was picky about my edges.

I'd be picky now, too, because that was how the ritual started. The grind of metal on stone, the critical eye, testing scrape of fingernail over blade. Repeat. Swipe, swipe, swipe, until I got it right.

I shut down the machine to find Bowie leaning in the door again, a battered old hockey bag over his good shoulder. "You ready?"

"For what?" I studied that bag. "Are we going somewhere?"

"We'll dress with the rest of the guys, right?" His brows furrowed with sudden uncertainty. "Feels weird to change here."

I nodded, surprised at the gratitude that washed over me. He got it. "Yeah, it does."

I carried my skates separately to protect those fresh edges, and Bowie led us into a locker room down the hall. Just a wide space, benches along the sides, couple of unmarked lockers behind, open showers in the back. But this felt right—maybe it was the smell: stale air and old rubber and the bitter, sour-sweat scent that had faded from my gear over the years.

That smell hit me in a wave of nostalgia so strong it almost made me stumble. It was the scent of pads stretched over a rack, the tang of sweat-soaked gloves that clung to your hands for hours, sometimes days, after you'd skated, the lingering fermentation of skates that never dried out.

The smell of my childhood, my youth, my hopes and dreams and obsession. The smell of my past, come to haunt my present.

"Jamie?" Bowie turned, his brows arched upwards to dimple a deep crease of concern down the center of his forehead. "You coming?"

"Yep." I nodded, forced myself to keep walking. Two older guys sat against the rear wall, their bags open and gear sprawled across the floor like spilled guts.

"Hey," one of them grunted as Bowie tossed his bag down. "Was hoping some other people would show up."

"Me too." Bowie plopped onto the bench. "Hope we get a few more."

Oh, my God. I stared at him. Was he … He was speaking with an American accent. I tried to catch his eye, but he dug into his bag like a dog on the hunt for a bone.

He didn't want anyone to know who he was. The British kid who'd been traded from the Cavs, ended up on IR instead of stardom. I stared at my feet. If he needed anonymity, I could give him that. Made my chest ache that he wanted to hide in obscurity, but didn't I do that every day?

I bent to unzip my bag. Fuck, this was familiar and weird at the same time. Ancient history resurfacing. Pulling gear out. Kicking off my shoes, unbuttoning pants—

And then I realized Bowie was wriggling out of his pants, and the rest of the ritual got lost behind that new development. Suddenly, I was very, very focused—and not focused at all—on sliding my own underwear off and replacing it as quickly as possible. Had he stripped all the way down? No, I would not look to confirm.

I would keep my gaze firmly on my gear. Get dressed without any inappropriate adventures down below. Because that was not allowed, not here. Never here. Eyes down, brain focused, Sully.

A third guy strode in as I tugged up my socks to Velcro them to my jock shorts. A fourth and fifth as I pulled up my pants over my socks. Beside me, Bowie drew his laces with quick, familiar fingers; he dressed in the same order I did, skates before shin pads. The guys around us started shooting the shit.

The routine kicked back in.

I tugged at the laces of my right skate. They were stiff, too dry, the cloth tearing at my fingers as I yanked to get them tight enough. Still, this was familiar. Ritual. Left skate, laces taut, top two eyelets on each left undone. Shin pads up, partially covering my laces, socks down. Clear tape to hold it all together.

Familiar. Ritual.

Maybe I could do this?

"You gonna wrap me up, Doc?" Bowie turned towards me, dressed from the waist down and shirtless from the waist up. My eyes drifted down his golden skin, fixed on his left shoulder, already held in place by a black brace.

"Yep. Turn."

My fingers trembled on the bandaging as I taped his shoulder down. Shit. I was shaking. Lacing my skates and taping my pads were part of the ritual. But now … Now I was outside of it. Faced with reality.

I wasn't twenty-five and full of dreams anymore. About to fly out onto the ice to a stand packed with screaming fans. I was thirty-seven and hadn't skated in ten years.

I was fucking terrified.

"Hey." Bowie's head tilted up towards me, and I knew he'd seen my hands shaking. His green eyes softened as they met my gaze. "You okay?"

"Yep."

He turned to face me, extracting his shoulder from my fingers. Didn't say anything as he sat, but his eyes stayed on me. The rest of the guys headed out for the ice, and it was just us. Just me and him and the skates under my feet.

Could I fucking do this? I was starting to doubt myself.

"It's gonna be okay." Bowie's hand found my shoulder, his skin warm through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. "You got this, Kitty."

The words hit me like a wave of calm. The nickname did funny things to my roiling stomach—made it roil in a different way. His fingers gave a gentle squeeze, and then he let go, bent to drag a jersey out of his bag. Bulldogs, it said, and I didn't know what team or league it was from. Not Bobcats though, or Cavs.

"Shoulder pads," I reminded him, even as I stooped to extract my own jersey. He wore light, so I chose dark.

"Nobody else is wearing them."

"You have a shoulder injury." I shucked off my T-shirt—his eyes burning through skin and ink—and tugged my black jersey on. "You wear shoulder pads."

He grumbled, but pulled them on anyway. Then his white Bulldogs jersey. Then a blue helmet with a clear half-shield. Gloves.

And then, there was nothing else. Nothing more separating me from the ice except a short walk down a padded hallway. Like a million other short walks down a million other padded hallways I'd taken in my life.

In the last ten years, even.

I stood. On the thin blades of skates that felt so fucking familiar under my feet. Headed for the door. My gloved hand reached out to grip my freshly-taped stick. Two of my fingers poked through the torn leather to grasp the smooth composite.

"Hey." Bowie's voice made me pause. He sidled up next to me. Green eyes sparkled through the clear plastic of the half-shield as he tilted his head up. The blade of his stick tapped against my shin pad. "I've got you. Okay? I've got you."

Breath slid from my lungs in a slow sigh. "Yeah. I know."

We walked down the hall. Side by side.

I've got you.

The door stood open before us, and the ice yawned wide beyond it. Wide and white, bright and cold, promising and alluring and terrifying all at once. Bowie broke into a little jog and hopped out, like he couldn't wait any longer. But he spun to face me, to wait for me.

C'mon, Sullivan. You're being a pussy.

I knew it, too. I'd built this all up in my head as some big fucking thing. It wasn't about my knee, never had been, since it had knocked me out of the pro arena. This was about me and all the walls I'd put up around this game. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to tear them down.

I stepped out onto the ice.

Fuck.

That first step. The smooth glide. The bite of cold air against my face, the sharp scent of it. The blade tapping down. Fuck. It all came rushing back like ten years hadn't passed.

"Feel good?" Bowie asked, falling into stride beside me as I let the rhythm take over. "Cause fuck, it feels good to me, and it's been like a month."

He spun around backwards to face me, his edges cutting effortless paths into the slick white. Behind him, a puck smashed into the boards as one of the older guys slapped a shot past the empty net.

"Yeah," I admitted. "Yeah, it feels good."

I opened my stride, fell into that natural power-stance. My knee didn't so much as squeak in protest as I shifted my weight to it. Or as I spun backwards, then forwards again.

Bowie kept pace beside me the whole time.

"How's the shoulder?" I cut to the right to snatch up a discarded puck. Batted it around a bit—goddamn it'd been so long since I'd last stickhandled. Since I'd spent hours in front of the TV never looking down, or wound pucks through chair legs and various pieces of furniture, brothers' and roommates' feet.

"Good." He held the stick in both hands, taking the pressure off the left one. Didn't reach for a puck. He'd be back on the ice for real soon enough, I realized. I should cherish this moment. Him and me. Here. Together.

Because it wouldn't last.

We rounded behind the net, and I pulled to a stop at the red line. Tilted my head towards him and grinned. "Race you."

I took off. Blades cutting hard. Legs pumping. Stick extended in front, puck nestled into the soft crescent of its curve. Bowie's laugh reached me as he hurtled after me, drew even. Passed me as we hit the far red line.

"Too slow, you old codger."

"I'm out of practice." I said, lungs heaving. Out of shape, too, apparently. But grinning like a fucking fool.

Bowie spun backwards to lead me around the net to the other side. "Backwards?"

My grin widened. Defensemen love skating backwards. "Sure, little winger. Backwards."

We faced each other, crouching along that red line. Both of us smirking like kids. My heart racing in anticipation.

He took off, whipping backwards, and I leapt after him. Edges sinking into ice—those perfectly cut blades carrying me flying after him. In line with him. I dug harder …

We crossed at the same time.

"Shit, Sullivan," Bowie said, his chest rising and falling heavier than usual. "Not as slow as you look."

"I think I just out-skated a literal pro." I gathered up another puck, carried it backwards around the net with me so I could keep facing him. I didn't want to look away, not from his grin or his eyes or the way he kept looking at me.

"I was going half speed."

"Fuck that." I flipped the puck into the top corner of the empty net as I rounded it. "You're breathing hard."

"You guys gonna join the game?"

The unfamiliar voice jerked me back to the present. Shit, there were other players out here. An older guy with a goatee and a black jersey peered up at me from behind the grating of a rusty cage.

"Yeah." I nodded. "Right."

"Posts, three on three," he said, eyes flitting from me to Bowie. Then he turned to lead the way to the dark-jersey bench. I followed, nerves racing over me again. Nerves, but something else, too. Excitement, I realized.

I wanted to fucking play.

Even if it was just a stupid pickup game with a bunch of old guys, no goalies—posts—and a reduced lineup. I wanted to play. For the first time in ten fucking years.

"Offense or defense, kid?" The older guy asked me, and I had to bite back a grin. I couldn't recall the last time someone had called me kid. Years. A decade, maybe.

But, I did feel like a kid again. "Wherever. I'll play anything."

"Defense." He bobbed his head towards the ice. "Make sure that other kid doesn't score."

Out at the center face-off dot, Bowie shifted his skates back and forth. I felt his gaze from here. "Sure."

Adrenaline pulsed through me as I took the ice at the back of the center circle, my eyes fixed on the man with the blond locks poking through his helmet, the smirk tilting the corners of his mouth. He needed to take it easy, I reminded myself.

But I knew he was going to let me have a little fun.

That's why we were here, wasn't it?

The realization hit me as he crouched behind his teammate. We weren't here for him, as a distraction.

We were here for me.

Because I'd said …

Shit.

Shit.

The game started with two fifty-something men hacking at each other's sticks trying to win a faux face-off. The puck broke free, catching me flat-footed. Because I was busy looking at Bowie looking at me. Watching me. Waiting for me to get back into the sport I loved.

Then an old guy in a white jersey barreled towards me, and my body launched into reflexive action. My skates moved of their own accord to put myself between the puck and the empty net behind me.

So silly, really.

And yet, I was smiling as I flew backwards. My stick shot out to poke the puck out of his control. Bowie, naturally, swooped in to collect the drop. Reading the play like a pro. He could've sent that puck tinking against the pipes of the net with the minutest flick of his wrist.

But I cut in front first.

The grin took over his whole face as he flew towards me, stick and puck extended. I hadn't skated in ten years. He couldn't stickhandle well with that over-wrapped shoulder.

I'd consider us an even matchup.

His eyes darted past me, searching out the pass. I kept my body between him and the net, forcing him out, edging him towards the boards. He slowed, still grinning. Playing with me.

Challenging me to make the next move. A wrong move.

"C'mon, Sullivan," he cooed in that delightful British voice, the one that made me all fuzzy and swoopy in places I hadn't known could feel fuzzy and swoopy. "Come and get me."

Oh, I fucking wanted to. On the ice, and off it.

In the corner of my eye, I saw his man cut low behind the net. He tapped his stick, calling for the pass. The obvious pass. Which Bowie wanted me to think he'd make. I sprang forward.

He faked the pass low, spun to take it high instead.

Except, I didn't bite. I cut my momentum the instant before my body made contact with his. Crowding him against the glass. Body to body, heat against heat. The puck slid away as I pinned his leg between the boards and mine.

He should have sprung backwards and out of my reach. Could have. He was quicker, faster, and we both knew it. Instead, he tipped his head up towards me, green eyes sparkling with life under his half-shield. "Hey, Kitty."

Fuck me.

"Seem slow there, Bowman." I pulled myself back with every ounce of willpower so I didn't do something stupid or wonderful. Like kiss him. Again. The game was still hacking on behind us.

"Don't want you to feel too bad about being out of shape." He winked at me—fucking winked!—and took off like a shot.

Fuck. Me.

I headed to the bench for a line change instead.

"Looking good out there." The old guy from earlier hopped up after me, sending our second sub out onto the ice. "You from around here?"

It struck me as humorous and ironic and a little sad that I could be a stranger in the place I worked. But why would anybody out here know me?

"Boston," I said, and his eyes dropped to the name scrawled across the front of my jersey. I kept talking before any pieces snapped together. "Name's Jamie. I'm, uh, his PT, so that's why he calls me …"

Smooth, Sullivan. Real smooth.

Because doctors often take their patients ice skating.

"I'm a physical therapist," I corrected, continuing my reign of astronomical smoothness. "Not a, um, hockey … player."

Fortunately, a winded senior heaved himself over the boards, and I vaulted one-handed out onto the ice to save my ass from further embarrassment. Almost ran smack into Bowie as he tore down the middle.

He soared past me, and I launched after him. Blades ripping through the ice. Legs pumping. He wasn't going full speed, or I never would have caught him. But clearly, he wanted to play.

He let me edge up next to him as we flew into the zone. "Hey, Kitty."

Then, he slammed on the brakes. Like he expected me to go flying past, right out of the play. Instead, I whirled to face him, putting my body between him and the net once again. He shot forward. Trying to get around. Trying. Trying …

With his magic hands in full use, I wouldn't have stood a chance. He'd have flicked his wrists, deked, swept me like he had Rowan and JJ.

But not today.

Once again, I forced him to the side. Away from the net. Towards the boards. I set my shoulder against his chest to ever so gently pin him. "Going somewhere, Bowman?"

"Not anymore." He tilted his helmet against the glass, and for an instant, it was just me and him. My body pressed to his. His opened up to me, head back, eyes half-lidded.

Fuck.

He was doing it again.

So I lowered my head until the front of my helmet tapped against his half-shield. I grinned like an idiot, because I couldn't fucking help it. "Admit it. You're impressed by this old man."

"Kinda yeah." His eyes sparkled. "You gonna make a move, Kitty?"

This time, I tore away from him, because someone had to be the rational adult. The game raged on around us.

Really, though, the rest of it didn't matter. Not to say we weren't team players—shit, Bowie's passing was even better than his hands. He made his teammates look like All-Stars, weaving passes and pucks through my defense like we were standing still.

But when it was me and him on the ice, it was just us. Him. Me. The ice and the puck and us. Going harder than we should've because he was injured and I was old and out of practice.

But we did it anyway. Grinning like fools. Having fun.

Two hours of ice time flew by in a blink and suddenly the zam was sliding out and the guys wheezed their way back to the locker room and it was me and Bowie again, staring at the clock like we couldn't believe all that time had just up and left.

"So." Bowie's grin stretched ear to ear, and he didn't stop looking at me as we glided towards the door. "You had fun."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Which was clearly a lie because my grin was about as dopey as his.

Bowie's stick tapped against my pads again as I stepped off the ice, back to dry land. "Kitty's got moves though, ay?"

"You sound surprised." I took the lead into the locker room, where the other players undressed. I plopped down onto the bench and scraped my helmet from my sweat-slicked hair. "Did you think I'd let you walk all over me?"

"Hm … Kinda?" He tossed his helmet and shouldies into the bottom of his bag, and I almost laughed at the slight pinch between his brows. Kind of wanted to soften it away with the pad of my thumb. Wanted to lean in a little too close just to feel the warmth of him.

"Don't love having your ass beat by an old retired guy?"

"Define ‘beat'." He tipped his head to me, grin going sharp as his voice dropped to a murmur. "There are things you could do to my ass that I wouldn't mind."

I swallowed hard against a sudden dry patch in my throat.

"You kids joining the men's league?" The skater sitting beside Bowie leaned over, unaware of the borderline-dirty conversation blossoming between us. "Starts next month."

The man on his other side turned, too. "Yeah, Doc, my team needs good defensemen."

I nearly choked as those words hit me in the chest.

"You should join." Bowie kicked at my skate. "Old guy beer league seems your speed, yeah?"

"Fuck off, Bowman." But I was smiling. "I'll think about it."

"He's joining," Bowie decided, kicking off his skates. "Now, it's been real, gentlemen, but I'm going to grab a shower in the Bobcat's cushy locker room."

He shouldered his bag, then strode right out in his socks and jock shorts. The tanned skin of his perky, bouncing cheeks was just visible through the black mesh.

"That's the new Bobcats kid, isn't it?" one of the old guys said as we all watched him walk out. They probably weren't looking at his ass, though. "The British superstar."

"Archie Bowman," someone breathed. My heart did this weird little fluttery thing inside my ribs at the sound of his name.

Another guy swore. "No wonder none of us could keep up with him."

The man who'd been sitting on Bowie's other side leaned across the bench towards me. "Doc did."

Hell yeah.

I did, didn't I?

"Start talking, Kitty." Bowie followed me out of the rink into the late-September evening. His shower-wet hair was plastered to his head, and he glowed like we'd just stepped off the ice.

I got it.

I felt that glow through my chest and limbs. My bag weighed down my shoulder, my own wet hair cooling in the night air. "Talking about what?"

"You played in college, right?"

I chucked my bag into the bed, paused as he leaned against the driver's side door. "Yeah. Boston University."

His brows lifted. "All right, that's pretty impressive."

"But that's not where"—I blew out a quiet breath, because it was time to come clean—"Bowie, I used to play pro."

"What?" His eyebrows disappeared into his wet hairline, his face opening up with shock. "How—why—for who—You didn't tell me? Why did you stop?"

"For the Boston Bears," I said, because that much I could give him. "It's sort of a long story. I don't want to get into it right now. I didn't tell you because it's a thing in the past. But … I'll tell you all about it later. Okay?"

His forehead wrinkled with thought, and I figured he'd protest, demand the whole story. But he nodded. "Yeah, okay. But I won't forget."

I rolled my eyes. "I know."

His face softened into faint amusement. "That explains some fucking things though."

"Such as?" I shifted forward a step. The sheer gravity of his presence reeled me in, and I couldn't help but be drawn into his orbit. Maybe that was the story of these last six weeks. Him, slowly pulling me closer because he was a star too big and bright and beautiful to look away from.

"The magic hands." He smirked, drawing my gaze like metal to a magnet. "And feet. And stick."

"You want to know about my magic stick?" Who was I? I'd, clearly, been spending too much time with Archie Bowman. The worst part was that I didn't even mind.

"I'm rubbing off on you." He shot me one of those signature filthy smirks, and I was lost. Gone. Irretrievable.

"Do not make that into a dick joke." I bit down on the smile because it was tough to sound grumpy and serious when you were grinning like a high school kid and staring at someone's very beautiful mouth.

"You were the one making dick jokes. And listening to me wank in a bath—"

I closed the distance between my mouth and his in a short swoop.

One moment, separate. The next, my lips pressed against his. My hands curved around his cheeks to tilt his head up, better fit his mouth to mine. A tiny groan escaped his throat as he melted into me. His body softened like butter.

The rest of the world washed away.

His fingers dug into my hips, pulling me in so all I felt and sensed was him: his lips soft against mine; the pepperminty scent of his shampoo mingling with traces of cologne and hockey gloves. My knee pressed into his thigh, pinning him against the side of the truck, so we stood chest to chest, leg to leg, mouth to mouth. My fingers traced the cut of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, danced with stray strands of golden hair.

Me and him.

Us.

A moment frozen in time that might have lasted an eternity.

Except I pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to keep the kiss from turning into anything other than what it was supposed to be: spontaneous and sweet and tender and perfect. Soft. Beautiful. Us.

I didn't step away. Couldn't leave the heat and hardness of his body, never wanted to extract my hand from his cheek, to pry his fingers off my hips. Never wanted to stop touching him.

I tipped my forehead down against his. "Thanks for today."

Another moment, frozen in perfection, like a photograph of feelings I'd hold onto forever: damp strands of his hair against my forehead, cool evening air on my cheeks, his breath on my lips and his scent in my nostrils.

I opened my eyes to study the freckles on his nose, fluttering down to mingle with the forest of dark lashes splayed over his cheeks.

Bowie's green eyes blinked open. His breath still whispered against my mouth. "Can you thank me again? Harder?"

I laughed. Pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "You've ruined it."

"Kiss me again, Kitty," he whined, fingers tugging at my hip. His lips parted, chin angling up to chase my lips.

"Nope." I pulled back a few more inches. Keeping contact, but not pressing into him. "I'm starving. You want to grab dinner?"