I’m realizing now, after that blowout with my brother and Bishop’s current line of questioning, that I might actually be starting to like this guy. Which isn’t great for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that my brother seems to hate him, and he’s also a high-profile NHL player: something I generally try to avoid.

“Stevie?” Bishop’s voice is low.

I watch his hand lift in my peripheral vision, and for a moment I think he’s going to tip my chin up and force me to look at him. In which case I’ll most definitely lose it in front of him.

Shit. I really do like him.

His rough fingertips barely graze my cheek before his hand falls back to his side. “I’m going to leave, not because I want to, but because I don’t know what to do or say to make this better, and I don’t want to make it worse.”

He crosses the threshold, and I let the door fall closed behind him; then I turn the lock and secure the chain latch. I listen for the sound of his door, but after a few seconds of silence I give in to the urge to check the peephole. He’s still standing in front of my door, frown fixed in place, looking a whole lot confused.

It makes me want to invite him back in, and not for a therapy session.

CHAPTER 15

PARTY TIME

Bishop

I haven’t seen or heard from Stevie since last night. I’m pretty sure she was on the verge of tears when I left her apartment. I wanted to do something to make it better, but I had no idea what that something would be, so I did nothing.

Maybe I should’ve hugged her. That would’ve been something. But I didn’t want to screw this up, and she seemed really pissed off. And now I’m waiting for her to message me, because she asked for space. I don’t know what that means. So my brother’s claiming the pussy idea is on hold until I can figure it out. Also, Rook’s reaction to the whole thing hasn’t been great. I really hope he’s not going to mess this up by making her not want to work with me anymore.

Tonight I have to go to Waters’s house for his morale-building team party. I’m not in the mood for it, since it means being social and friendly for a lot of hours. But I can’t build rapport on the ice right now, so I need to show my face. At least for a couple of hours.

Kingston picks me up at seven thirty. Waters lives on the outskirts of the city in a huge house that verges on being a mansion. A lot of the top earners on the team live out here. I think Rook might be one of them, which would make sense, since he’s pretty much up Waters’s ass all the time.

Kingston pulls into a driveway lined with our teammates’ cars and parks behind an SUV. The inside of Waters’s house boasts top-of-the-line finishes and appliances and modern furniture.

Waters’s wife, Violet, greets us in the kitchen. She’s a tiny woman with brownish hair and a really big rack. She’s dressed in a pair of black leggings and a Seattle T-shirt with the logo stretched across her chest. She also looks like she’s pregnant. Either that or she’s smuggling a basketball under her shirt.

“You must be Winslow.” She motions to my crutches. “I saw that happen, and my beave cried in sympathy.” She points to her crotch, as if that needs more of an explanation. “I can’t imagine how much that hurt. You know, Alex has had his share of on-ice injuries over the years, but never a groin pull, thank the Lord for that. I can’t imagine what I’d do if he was out of commission for six weeks. He took a bad hit back when he was playing for Chicago and messed up his shoulder, but all the important parts were still in working condition, you know?” She pats her rounded belly. “And obviously those parts work incredibly well.”

I’ve been warned about Waters’s wife. We all have. By Waters. He explained that Violet has zero filter and pretty much says whatever is in her head. I thought he might be exaggerating, but obviously not.

“I guess that’s a good thing?” It comes out more like a question than anything.

“Alex seems to think so, and usually so do I, but he keeps knocking me up, so right now I’m on the fence, since it means I can’t have a glass of wine for another year, again. Speaking of booze, can I offer you boys something to drink?”

I’m no longer on pain meds, so I accept a beer, but Kingston declines.

“Wine? Cocktail?” She motions to the endless supply of alcohol. “Oh! I have Jell-O shooters! You boys should do one!”

Rook appears beside her, out of nowhere, holding a beer. “Kingston, Winslow, glad you could make it.” He gives us both a nod, but his gaze lingers on me for a couple of extra seconds. “You sure you wanna start passing out the Jell-O shooters already, Vi? If I remember correctly, the last time you had Jell-O shooters at a party, there was an impromptu karaoke session. I have a video of your rendition of ‘I Like Big Butts’ saved somewhere on my phone.”

Violet points a manicured nail with little sparkly jewels on it at him. “I’d just finished breastfeeding and hadn’t had anything to drink in almost two years. Also, you were supposed to delete that. And one Jell-O shooter for these boys won’t lead to karaoke.” She passes one to Kingston.

“What’s in it?” He sniffs it.

“Mostly Jell-O,” Vi replies.

“And vodka,” Rook explains.

“Oh, thank you, but I’m driving, ma’am.” Kingston offers it to me. I don’t want to be rude, so I take it, toast the beginning of the season, and suck back the lemon Jell-O shot, coughing as it burns its way down my throat.