What she says makes sense. He never pushes me to come to games; he always makes sure I’m protected from the media stuff because it was so hard on me as a teenager. And I see it in the way he is with Lainey, so doting and head over heels in love with her. Always trying to make up for the time he missed when they lost touch after their summer in Alaska together.

I also see how that extends to me.

The sound of Kody rustling around in his bed draws our attention to the monitor. We’re both quiet for a few moments, waiting to see if he’ll settle. “Da-eee!” he calls out groggily.

Lainey gives me a wry smile. “It’s as if he knows his dad is out. I’m going to check on my little man.”

“Okay. I’m going to go to sleep.”

She gives my shoulder a squeeze as she passes. “I’m always here, Stevie, in whatever way you need me. A sister, a confidant, a mediator for you and RJ. We both love you so much.”

“Thanks.” A lump in my throat makes the rest come out in a whisper. “I love you too.”

I’m up early the next morning with Kody. RJ doesn’t come down until after eleven, and he and Lainey make a greasy breakfast of bacon, eggs, and hash browns. I stay out of the kitchen while they cook because they’re super touchy, and I don’t need to see that.

Once we’ve eaten, RJ and I take Kody outside. We set up the hockey net, and RJ tends goal while me and Kody take shots at him. It’s fun and honestly cathartic. Lainey eventually comes out to get Kody and put him down for his afternoon nap, and RJ and I keep passing the puck. It’s been a long time since he and I have played sports together.

He stays in net while I keep firing shots at him, enjoying the way he has to keep dodging them when they almost connect with his groin. A charley horse in the thigh takes him down.

He curls into the fetal position on the ground and grumbles a litany of juicy curses.

“Sorry. You all right?”

“It’s like you’re purposely aiming for my balls.” He groans and sits up.

He grabs my outstretched hand, and I help pull him up. “That’s because I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making the thing with Winslow about me, for trying to tell you what to do, for making you feel like I don’t think your career has value, or that you’re anything but amazing. It’s just . . . me and Winslow haven’t seen eye to eye, like ever, and I worry about you.”

“I know you do, and I get it, but he’s been really focused on rehab and getting back on the ice, not on trying to get into my pants.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”

“I can appreciate that. But I need to make my own decisions.”

“I know. So am I forgiven?” He gives me the famous Bowman half smile that pops his dimple.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you’re forgiven.”

He pulls me into a big bear hug that makes it feel like my ribs are bending.

“But if he does end up hurting you, I’m probably going to beat his ass.”

I try to jab him in the ribs, but he hugs me tighter.

“I love you, kiddo.”

“I love you, too, even if you’re a pain in my ass.”

RJ drops me off at home late in the afternoon. I’m 100 percent not looking forward to dealing with Joey, which is why I stayed at my brother’s so long. I’d hoped Joey might be inclined to give up, but apparently not. He said he’d be over by four thirty. The only reason I agreed at all is because my suitcase was forwarded to his place, and he promised to bring it with him. He’s already had it for more than two weeks now.

I’m gritty with sweat from playing hockey, and I haven’t washed my hair recently, so it’s nice and greasy. I add an oversize sweatshirt to my dirty-sweats-and-tank ensemble and pull my hair up in an extra-messy bun, highlighting the stringy greasiness. I wash any residual makeup off my face—there wasn’t much to begin with—and do an armpit-sniff test. I’m definitely ripe. I want to be as disgusting as possible for Joey.

At a quarter after four there’s a knock on my door. He’s early. I take a few centering breaths, school my expression so it looks annoyed more than nervous, and open the door. Except it’s not Joey. It’s Bishop.

He, too, is wearing sweats and a T-shirt. The sweats hug his thighs, and the shirt, which has holes in it—not the strategic kind either—pulls tight across his chest. Is there anything this man wears that doesn’t look good on him?

I glance over his shoulder at the elevator, almost expecting Joey to show up at this exact moment.

His gaze sweeps over me, pausing at the text across my chest that reads F THIS S and then lifting to my hair. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Huh?” I did not expect him to say that or for him to look so concerned.

“Are you sick?” He motions to my outfit. “You usually dress differently.”

I look down at my outfit. “Oh. Uh . . . this is on purpose.”

“Oh. Okay.” He shifts from foot to foot like he’s nervous about something. “I, uh . . . I have pizza for you. I thought maybe it would make you less mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m annoyed with the circumstances and the way everyone keeps overreacting.”