I run a palm down my face. I’d really like to tell him to go fuck himself, but it will make this whole gala situation that much more difficult. I promise myself that once this is over and I have my suitcase back, I will tell him my grudge is going to last until the end of time, and possibly even beyond that, so moving on would be smart. “Can we deal with this fundraiser-decorating thing?”

“Yeah. Sure. Let’s get the work out of the way so we can catch up.”

Joey wants to sit on the couch, but I insist it will be easier to do online research at the dining room table. I should know better than to think it’s going to thwart him. He pulls a chair right up beside me and keeps slinging his arm over the back of mine, making comments about how nice my hair smells. Which is bullshit, because I haven’t washed my hair in days.

I get up to pour us glasses of water. His is lukewarm from the tap—I’m not offering him anything that will make him feel welcome—and I need some space from his breathing down my neck, literally. I don’t think it’s been more than twenty minutes, but I fire off a text to Bishop, telling him that anytime he’s ready, I could use an intervention. I’m not even finished filling my own glass when there’s an aggressive knock. I feign surprise and skirt around the counter so I can answer the door. Joey looks totally put out by the interruption.

“Oh! Hi, Bishop! What’s up?” I say loudly.

Earlier when he stopped by, he was wearing sweats and a T-shirt. Now he’s shirtless, with all his perfectly defined muscles on display. He’s wearing a pair of actual shorts, but they look like they’re from the eighties. They show off the bruises coloring the inside of his thigh. They’re no longer black and blue and purple. They’ve faded to yellow green around the edges, the center a mottled purplish pink. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a slight sheen to his skin. Or maybe it’s the lighting.

He arches a brow. “Wow. You should’ve gone into acting.” He brushes by me, using only one crutch, the pizza box in his other hand. “I’m here for my rubdown,” he announces. He tosses the pizza box on the counter and makes a show of being surprised by Joey sitting at the table with his mouth hanging open.

“Oh shit. Did I get the time wrong?” Bishop taps his temple. “I had it in my head that you were gonna work me over for dinner.”

“Bishop Winslow?” Joey’s chair screeches across the floor. He crosses over to where Bishop leans against the counter. Their size difference is almost comical. Joey is maybe five eight or five nine, although he tells everyone he’s five eleven. Bishop is mammoth in comparison.

“Joey Smuck. I’m a huge fan.” Joey wipes his hands on his jeans and holds one out.

Bishop looks at his hand but doesn’t take it. “Your last name is Smuck?”

“Yeah. How do you two know each other?” Joey looks to me and drops his hand. “I didn’t think you hung out with your brother’s teammates.”

“Stevie’s my neighbor. She woke me up in the middle of the night when she moved in here.” Bishop turns his attention to me. “How long ago was it now?”

He doesn’t give me time to respond, which is just as well, because I have no idea where he’s going with this.

“Anyway, she was a beautiful fucking mess, and I was an asshole because she was making one hell of a racket. Now she gets to cause me physical pain on a regular basis, since she’s helping me rehab. It’s endless retribution. Isn’t that right, bae?”

I almost choke on my spit with the bae comment. I cough a couple of times to clear my throat and choose to ignore the pet name. “Uh, yeah. That about sums it up.”

“You’re rehabbing an NHL player? Why didn’t you say anything?” Joey asks.

“Because it’s none of your goddamn business, is it?” Bishop says with a smile, then smacks himself on the forehead. “Oh shit, I’m not supposed to be here for another hour, am I? I totally forgot you had that thing you said you couldn’t get out of. I can start with my stretches while you guys are doing whatever you’re doing. That’s cool, right?”

He struts across my living room and grabs the yoga mat, winking at me as he passes.

“You won’t even know I’m here.” He unrolls the mat in the middle of the living room so we’ll have a perfect view of him from the dining room table.

Joey looks like he wants to argue or help him hold his balls—I’m not sure which is more likely. We settle back in at the table, but I honestly can’t concentrate on anything now, and neither can Joey.

Bishop’s sudden appearance in my apartment means that Joey now thinks he needs to stake a claim on me. He stretches his arm across the back of my chair and moves in even closer, so I slide mine in the opposite direction.

All the while Bishop is warming up less than twenty feet away. However, he’s not doing normal stretches. They’re almost obscene, like he’s warming up for a Magic Mike–style performance. He also keeps groaning, loudly, which is distracting.

Eventually he pushes up from the yoga mat and saunters over, abs flexing, along with every other muscle in his body. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I get your help for a sec, bae?” He’s laying it on super thick.

Joey leans in even closer. I can feel his breath on my cheek. He must’ve eaten something with onions or garlic recently. I elbow him in the ribs, trying to get some space. “Sure.”