“Just a friend.” I shift so I’m blocking the passenger-side window. “What’re you doing here so late?”

“Running ice drills with a few of the guys—you know, keeping sharp for tomorrow night’s game.” He’s still trying to see around me. “Is that a girl?”

“Uh, yeah.” King and I might be friends, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him it’s the team captain’s little sister driving my car.

“Since when do you have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t. She’s a friend who also happens to be a girl.” She’s not even really that.

“You’re being awfully cagey about her if she’s just a friend. Don’t think I can’t tell you’re trying to hide her.” He opens his driver’s-side door and climbs in. “Miss you on the ice, buddy. Give me a call if you need anything; otherwise I’ll stop by later in the week, ’kay?”

“I’ll make sure I’m stocked up on two percent milk.”

“Does a body good.” He actually means it like the commercial, not like he’s full of himself. I wait until he closes his door before I turn back to my SUV. I have to open mine all the way so I can get in, but my body blocks most of King’s view.

“Does that guy play for Seattle too?” Stevie leans forward, like she’s trying to see around me.

“Yeah. That’s Ryan Kingston; he’s a goalie. Why?”

Stevie shrugs. “No reason.” She watches him pull out of the spot. He waves as he passes us, so she waves in return.

“He’s a super-straight arrow, and there’s no way in hell he’d be interested in you.”

She glares at me, full top lip pulled up in disgusted sneer. “Could you be any more offensive?”

I hold up a hand. “That came out wrong. You’re the team captain’s little sister. He’s a rule follower, so even if he was interested, he would never make a move, because it would go against his moral code. Also, he has a girlfriend, and they’ve been together for years.”

“Right. Okay. Let’s also not forget that I’m a boner-killer.”

I sigh. I should probably learn how and when not to be an asshole. “I only said that because I thought you were screwing your brother.” I cringe. “I mean I thought you were his other woman, not his sister.”

“Uh-huh.”

She has to know she’s hot. I don’t see how she couldn’t. She sees her own face in the mirror every day. It’s not hard to look at, and neither is the rest of her. “You’re not a boner-killer. You got hit on by the damn Uber driver with me sitting right next to you. That has to tell you something about your appeal to the opposite sex.”

“That guy looked like Justin Bieber’s emo brother.” She types the address to our building into the GPS while I shift around, trying to get comfortable—which isn’t easy, considering my pain level.

It’s been six hours since I took anything for the discomfort and swelling, partly because I want to see how bad the pain gets. The medication the doctor prescribed is good for taking the edge off, but it also keeps me from knowing exactly how severe the injury is. Based on the black spots in my vision every time I make a sudden move, I’m thinking it’s pretty damn bad. I groan as I stretch my leg out.

“Did you ice your injury today?” Stevie flips through my music presets until she finds something she presumably likes.

“Yeah.”

“What about heat and stretching?” She shifts the SUV into gear.

“Nope.”

“When do you start rehab?”

“Probably in a couple of days.”

“You should stretch and massage the areas around the injury site that aren’t too tender to keep the muscles from seizing.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” I don’t get why she’s suddenly on a worried-mom-style inquisition. It’s frustrating that I can’t escape the questions, because I’m trapped in this vehicle with her.

“You’ll be back on the ice sooner if you start taking care of it right away.”

She said she was a professional, but I never asked what kind. “What is it you do?”

“I’m a physiotherapist. I work in sports rehab.”

“Guess that makes sense, with Bowman being your brother and all.”

“My brother has nothing to do with the reason I’m a physiotherapist. I like sports, both playing and watching, and I like the challenge of helping athletes who need rehabilitation.”

I should not find that trait appealing at all. Nor should I be scanning her body or noting how toned and defined her shoulders and arms are. She also smells good. Like cake and berries or something. I crack a window so I don’t start huffing her. “What kind of sports do you play?”

“All kinds. I played hockey when I was a kid. In high school if there was a team, I was on it, and in college I played soccer. I was on scholarship, but I pulled my groin in third year. I ended up with a tear and a hernia and had to have surgery. I probably could’ve kept playing, but that was sort of the deciding factor for me. Rehab was hard, but I had a great physiotherapist, and it made me want to help athletes recover from injuries.”

“That’s what you do now, then? Rehab athletes?”