“I’m sorry, what?”

“Just sorting out timelines in my head. You can pick me up at two thirty, or whenever is good for you.”

I don’t bother to hide my annoyance at his freaking entitlement. “I already told you, I can’t fit in a PT session that day. I have to get my hair done and do my makeup and maybe even my nails.” I’m not big on self-pampering and that kind of thing, but it’s a formal event, and Pattie and Jules are excited to get all dressed up and looking pretty, so I figure I might as well do it too.

“I’m not asking you to fit in a PT session, Stevie. I’m coming with you to this shindig.”

“Why would you want to come to my work event?”

“Because Douche McFuckhead is going to be there.”

“You don’t want to do that, Bishop. It’s going to be full of amateur athletes. They’ll be humping your leg all night.”

“And I’ll be humping yours, so it should be an exciting night.”

“Honestly, it’s sweet of you to offer, but you really don’t need to come.”

“Do you not want me to come?” He’s wearing an expression I’ve never seen before. He almost looks . . . hurt.

“No. I mean, yes, I want you there, but it’ll suck for you.”

“So it’s settled. I’m your date next Saturday.” He focuses back on the game, and I focus on trying to control the butterflies in my stomach.

CHAPTER 20

I’LL CHECKMATE YOUR ASS

Bishop

Things I’ve enjoyed recently: Stevie, rehab with Stevie, me telling Stevie’s ex that he’s an asshole and an idiot, me watching hockey with Stevie, me going to ice practice with Stevie—girl can skate like a pro—Stevie’s hands on me, the smell of Stevie.

Things I have not enjoyed over the past few weeks: fighting off painful, nearly constant semis when I’m with Stevie; whacking off alone in my shower to the image of Stevie in her running shorts; playing away games where I can’t see Stevie; dealing with Bowman’s constant bitchy attitude when we’re training together, which is most days.

Tonight is my first game back on the ice. I talked to Stevie earlier in the day. She went over my postgame regimen and wished me good luck. We have two more away games before we’re back in Seattle, which is another four days of phone conversations and video chats. Four more days without Stevie’s hands on me. Four days of whacking off in the shower.

On the upside, I don’t have to constantly remind myself not to ram my tongue in her mouth and dry hump her. Small mercies, I suppose.

I’ve been trying to give her the time she needs to get over the douche ex and me the time to recover from the groin injury. The day I took her to get her suitcase was an eye-opener. I realized a number of things that made me reevaluate my strategy. First of all, she wasn’t over what that asshole had done to her. That made sense, since she’d been with him for a year and he’d screwed her over only weeks earlier.

Second, her comment about the asshole ex calling me a rebound has made me not want to be a rebound. Plus the whole almost-kiss situation made me highly aware that as into her as I might be, my body was in no condition to do anything about it. While my brother’s cockblocking via his misplaced insulin pissed me off, it also saved me from messing things up completely.

And that was before I took into consideration the whole conversation with Alex about keeping things professional. I don’t want it to look like I’m not taking my rehab seriously. So I put the brakes on and backed off. I eased up on the pervy comments, and I spent more time hanging out with her after rehab sessions. Basically, I injected myself into her life in a way I hoped would seem innocuous beyond all the PT.

Now that I’m back on the ice and I won’t be relying on her for rehab, I figure I’m safe to start implementing my plan once I’m back in Seattle, which won’t be until Saturday.

For now, I need to focus on hockey. I glance at the clock; in about fifteen seconds I’ll be hitting the ice for the first time this season. I get to my feet, ready for my shift.

Rook claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Don’t do the splits.”

I grunt in response, because it’s better than telling him to fuck off, and take my position left of center. I’ve been practicing with the team the last week or so, but I don’t have the same number of hours on the ice with my line, so it feels a lot like the first day of school.

We manage to keep the puck on Vegas’s end of the rink, and no one scores while I’m on the ice. It’s not a goal or an assist, but at least it’s better than letting them score. Since it’s my first game, I’m rotated in every other shift. By the beginning of the third period, we’re up one goal—scored by Rook, of course.

I hit the ice, hoping I can help add another goal to the scoreboard to give us some padding. Instead, one of the Vegas players gets up in my space and nearly trips me. He ends up in the penalty box, and I’m pulled from my shift early so the team doctor can make sure I’m okay. One of the rookie players takes his turn on the ice while I’m being checked over and gets the assist I was hoping for.

In the end we win, but I’m not thrilled about my performance. I should be happy that I’ve managed to play an entire game and I don’t feel like I’m going to die, but there’s a lot on the line for me, and I have weeks of missed ice time with my teammates to make up for.