“That doesn’t even make sense. To get back at you for what? Not being injured?”

“Because he’s had a beef with me for years and because I became team captain when I chose to come to Seattle. It was supposed to be him.”

I throw my hand in the air. “Of course it has to be about you.”

“He’s been an antagonistic ass since preseason training has started. He’s jealous and he doesn’t like that I’m tight with management and our coach. Fuck!” He paces around like he’s a caged MMA fighter waiting for the bell to ring. “I bet he did this on purpose. I bet he knew this would piss me off when I found out. That’s why he’s letting you rehab him. I doubt him coming out into the hall, dressed the way he was, asking if you two were still on for tonight, was an accident.”

“Are you serious with this?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing; more than that, I don’t want to believe it, because I honestly feel like, shitty attitude aside, Bishop may actually be benefiting from my help.

“I’ll get the pool house set up for you, and you can move in there. There’s no way I’m letting you live across the hall from Winslow if he’s going to pull this kind of shit.”

The anger I try to keep a lid on most of the time pops off. “Do you even hear yourself? Not everything is about you, RJ! For the first few weeks, Bishop thought I was your mistress. He had no idea I was your sister. So whatever plot you think he’s hatching against you is in your head.”

“You don’t understand, Stevie—”

I slash a hand through the air. “No. You don’t understand. You have no idea what it’s like to be your little sister. It’s always been about you. How much better you are at everything, how much attention you always got. Is it so hard to believe Bishop is letting me help him because I’m actually capable?”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, Stevie. I know you are, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to make this about me—”

“Then stop, because it has nothing to do with you.”

He blinks a bunch of times, probably shocked by my outburst, and his expression softens. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” His phone goes off. Judging by the ringtone, which is the refrain from a sappy song, it’s Lainey.

I’m on the verge of really losing it on him, so this interruption is perfectly timed. “You have to get home.”

“Stevie.”

I step out of his reach. “I love you, RJ, I really do, but this is my life, not yours. No one stopped you from making your own choices, bad or good, so you need to let me do the same.”

This time he doesn’t try to stop me from getting back on the elevator. Once the door is closed, I drag my palms down my face and exhale my frustration. I don’t want to second-guess Bishop’s motives for letting me help him, and now that’s exactly what I’m doing.

What if he is using me? I let my head drop back against the glass and stare up at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling, annoyed that one conversation with my brother would make me reevaluate everything.

When the elevator doors slide open, Bishop is there, in all his ridiculous underpants glory, waiting for me.

I don’t have the mental or emotional energy left to deal with him right now. “Session canceled.” I brush past him.

“What? You can’t do that. I have an appointment with the team doctor tomorrow.”

“Have a bath, do some stretches, and follow it up with an ice compress, and you’ll be fine. You don’t need me for that.”

He’s right on my heels, literally. His crutch nearly lands on my foot. “What the hell is going on? What did Rook say to you about me?”

“Nothing. He said nothing.” I unlock my door, and of course, because Bishop is a giant of a man, he bulldozes his way in before I can shut him out.

“Bullshit. If he didn’t say anything, why are you flaking out on me?”

“Because I’m not in the mood to deal with your level of asshole.”

“He said something. Why won’t you tell me?”

He grabs for my wrist, but I smack his hand away. “Because my conversations with my brother are none of your goddamn business.”

He stabs at the floor with the end of his crutch, like he’s stomping without using his feet. “If the conversations are about me, then it is my goddamn business.”

I throw my hands in the air. “What is it with you hockey players and your fragile, overinflated egos?” I don’t wait for a response, because it doesn’t warrant one. “You know what? I’m done with this bullshit. Go home.” I skirt around him and yank the door open, motioning for him to leave.

“So you’re bailing on me when I need you?”

“Like I said, you don’t need me. Take a bath, stretch if you want to, or don’t. Just give me some space, please and thank you.” I’m looking at the floor because I’m on the verge of tears, and I do not need Bishop here when that happens.

His crutch appears in my vision and then his bare feet and his junk. His underwear is ridiculous tonight, with the whole CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE warning. His abs are also ridiculously amazing, and they’re right in my face. I want to run my hands over the smooth planes and trace all the dips and ridges.