“Hold on. All of that happened the night you first showed up here?” She was riding the Hot Mess Express: blotchy face, red eyes, uncoordinated, loud.

“Yup.”

“On your birthday?”

“Correct.”

I push up on my elbows. It’s not easy, and it makes a lot of body parts ache. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you.”

“I was making a lot of noise; you thought I was my brother’s mistress. You had no idea.”

“But if I had—” If I hadn’t already strongly disliked Rook, I might not have jumped to conclusions about her. She still woke me up in the middle of the night, but I might have been less of a jerk.

She pushes to a stand. “I think we’re done for tonight. You should ice it again so it doesn’t get too aggravated from all my prodding.”

I grab her wrist. “Hey.” I try to get my ass off the floor, but I don’t have my crutches and it’s awkward as hell.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Hold on a sec.” Stevie gets them for me and helps me up. She quickly rolls up her yoga mat and heads for the door like her ass is on fire.

“Stevie.” I feel like I should say something helpful. Like her ex is an idiot, because clearly he is. Stevie is gorgeous and feisty and probably way too nice for his cheating ass. She’s way too nice to be helping me.

She spins around, flustered and looking a lot like she’s hovering on the edge of tears. Shit. I better not make her cry. I don’t know how to handle tears.

“Don’t be nice to me right now, Bishop.”

Obviously she’s psychic, or I’m wearing my panic on my face. “But—” I try to think of something to say that isn’t nice but isn’t dickish, either, as she puts her hand on the doorknob. “I still don’t have your number.”

Her head falls forward, and she glances over her shoulder, a rueful grin making a brief appearance. “Same time tomorrow night. I’ll wear a muumuu, and you wear some actual clothes so you can keep yourself in check.”

I stand in the middle of the living room for a long time after she’s gone, trying to figure out what I could’ve said to keep her from leaving upset.

Half an hour later I slip a piece of paper under her door with my number on it. It sounds like it’s not a big deal, but it hurt like a bitch to bend over, even if it was only for a few seconds.

An hour later I get a message from an unfamiliar number.

Did you ice your leg?

I fire one back:

Stevie?

It doesn’t take long for a response to appear:

No. It’s a random person asking about your leg.

Yes. It’s Stevie.

Bishop: Are you okay?

Stevie: Fine.

Bishop: Your ex is a fucking idiot.

The dots appear and disappear a bunch of times before she finally responds.

Stevie: Ice your leg, Shippy.

Bishop: Don’t call me that. Lying in bed with ice on my leg right now.

Stevie: So you can follow orders. Good to know.

Bishop: Just depends on who’s doing the ordering.

Stevie: See you tomorrow.

Bishop: Okay.

I stare at the series of short messages for a long while, wondering what the hell is wrong with her ex and how someone as strong and feisty as Stevie could have ended up with someone like that in the first place.

The next night Stevie shows up at seven and acts like she didn’t tell me someone screwed her over recently. She also wears a huge hoodie and oversize jogging pants. She looks ridiculous. It should help, but it doesn’t.

I want to ask personal questions about her ex and her dad, but there’s no way for me to bring it up without it being awkward, so I leave it alone.

The week that follows is a weird form of torture. The daily double PT sessions are definitely helping the healing process. The bruising begins to fade from the horrible black to more of a purple green with some nice yellowing patches at the edges. It’s ugly, but it’s improving, and my team physiotherapist keeps praising me for all the hard work I’m obviously doing outside our sessions to help with recovery.

It’s all Stevie. If I’m in a mood—and let’s face it, I’m perpetually in a mood—she keeps pushing, dishing out the attitude the same way I give it to her.

For the first few days she wore baggy sweats, but it didn’t seem to have an impact on my physical reaction. So she stopped with the oversize clothes and went back to those athletic running shorts and tanks layered over sports bras.

And unless we’re in the private gym specifically for the people who live on the penthouse floor—which means it’s rarely ever used—I stick to my uniform of boxer briefs and sometimes basketball shorts.

Tonight I’m thinking maybe once Stevie gets home, we should order in dinner and get down to the PT. I’m feeling good, and tomorrow I have a checkup with my doctor, so I want to go in all loose and limber. We can work on some stretches, and Stevie can massage my leg, and I’ll finish with heat and ice.

Tomorrow night is the get-together at Alex’s place. I don’t really want to go because

I don’t love all the social shit;

it means I won’t get in a PT session with Stevie.

The season starts in a week, so I need to put some effort in with my teammates, since I won’t be on the ice for at least the first few games, and that’s me being optimistic. I’m hoping that with the extra PT, I won’t miss much more than that.