“I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine how hard that would’ve been. Having a brother who’s a college football star is bad enough; I can’t fathom what would happen if he made the pros.”

It feels good to be able to share stories with new friends who actually understand. We spend the rest of the evening talking about what it’s like to have brothers who play sports where women are constantly throwing themselves at them. Tonight I feel like I fit because I’m me and not because of my last name.

CHAPTER 7

OW

Bishop

I think I’m still in shock. I’m also in a lot of pain, and that’s with all the drugs they’ve pumped into my system.

The white sheet barely covers my junk—not that I care about modesty, since I’ve been prodded and inspected by half a dozen people in the past hour. The verdict is unanimous and shitty: I have a groin injury. On a scale of not bad to really fucking awful, I’m sitting on the really fucking awful side.

I look down at the inside of my thigh. The bruising spreads from my groin all the way down to my knee, and it’s already turned a horrible blackish-purple color.

“You’re going to need at least six weeks to recover,” the team doctor tells me.

“I can’t be out that long.”

“I’m sorry, Bishop, but this needs time to heal.” He motions to my crotch.

“Six weeks, though?” I look to Waters, who wears a grim expression. “The season starts in three. I gotta be on the ice for that.”

Waters runs a hand through his hair. “I understand that this is upsetting, Bishop, but if you push too fast, too soon, you’re going to do more damage, and then you’ll be on the bench for a hell of a lot longer than six weeks. We’ll start rehab as soon as the swelling goes down and the pain levels are tolerable.”

I know he’s right, but the gnawing panic takes hold. I’m already having problems with this back-and-forth between defense and forward, struggling to manage the shifting roles. And now I’m benched for six weeks after the first exhibition game. This is the opposite of ideal.

I’m given a prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories. I assure the doctors I don’t live alone and have someone to help me get to the bathroom and all the other bullshit. Thankfully, Kingston showed up at the clinic after the game, so I don’t have to rely on Waters for a ride home.

The only silver lining among a sky of dark clouds is the fact that I saved the goal, and we won the game as a result.

I dress gingerly, and Kingston wheels me to the side entrance. Instead of letting him bring the car around, I insist on crutching across the lot, because I’m a stubborn idiot.

By the time I get my ass into the passenger seat, I’m nauseous with the pain and there are black spots in my vision.

“I’m sorry, Bishop. I know it’s not a consolation, but Hessler got a five-minute penalty, and Bowman checked him pretty good in the third period.” Kingston pulls out of the parking lot and heads toward my place.

The penalty and Hessler getting checked don’t fix my problems, unfortunately. “How am I going to gel with the team if I can’t be on the ice with everyone?”

“You’ll still be at games and practice and training.”

“But I won’t be able to do anything.” I bang my head against the back of the seat, which is a bad idea, since I already have a headache to go with the groin pain.

“Maybe it’ll heal a lot faster than six weeks? It could look worse than it is.”

“Maybe.” Based on how it feels right now, I’m not sure that’s the case.

I doze on the ride home, wiped out from the pain and the medication. When we get to my building, Kingston offers to come up with me and make sure I’m settled. I assure him I can deal with an elevator ride and that my brother will be home to manage the rest.

Mostly I just want to be alone with my shitty mood and my bad luck.

The pain is brain-meltingly awful as I crutch inside and across the foyer to the elevators. Kingston’s car is still idling in front of the building, likely to make sure I don’t do a face-plant. I swipe my card over the sensor, grateful when the doors slide open and I can hobble in before I pass out. Blinking through the spots in my vision, I swipe my key card again and give Kingston a thumbs-up before the doors slide closed.

I lean against the rail as I speed toward the penthouse floor, willing the meal I had several hours ago to stay where it is. I imagine there isn’t much in my stomach, but vomiting would be more than I can handle. All I want is to lie down and not move for twenty-four hours, give or take a day.

I must nod off briefly, because between one long blink and the next I’m looking at the penthouse foyer. I’m woozy as I leave the elevator, and in my uncoordinated state I manage to lodge the end of my crutch in the stupid gap in the floor. I yank on it, which sends a violent shock of pain through my body, shorting out my brain and turning my vision into the Milky Way.

I groan a few expletives, and the crutch pulls free, causing me to stumble forward. I go down, because my brain and my body aren’t able to handle the level of pain I’m still in, despite the excessive amount of medication they pumped into me before sending me home—which should definitely tell me something about the severity of my injury.