Page 121 of Playing With Fire

Bishop rinses his shaker cup and leaves it in the sink. “You coming tonight?”

“To the game?”

“No, Baby Becks. My underground fight club.”

So, we’re back to Baby Becks.

“I knew there was something sketchy about you.”

“You should see me in the little shorts.” He teases, and a laugh escapes before I can stop it.

Damn him. He can always make me laugh, and I hate how easy it feels with him. He leans a hip against the counter, far too pleased with himself.

“Are you inviting me?”

His expression shifts, the teasing eases. “If I am, would you come?”

The question sounds casual, but the way he asks tells me it’s anything but.

Yesterday, I decided I needed distance.

Last night, I committed to the plan. Dinner with Avery after work. Home while Bishop was still out with the team. Then straight upstairs with Darcy and my pink notebook, where I managed several pages about fictional people whose romantic problems were considerably easier to solve than mine.

I was asleep before Bishop got home. Distance achieved.

Today, apparently, I’m directionally challenged.

Because before I can claim I’m busy washing my hair or come up with another equally pathetic excuse, I find myself saying, “Yeah, I’ll come.”

His eyes hold mine for a beat.

“Good.” He exhales a ragged breath and leaves the room.

One word.

Still, the way he says it makes me close the apartment listing without saving it.

So much for distance.

Ispend the rest of Saturday pretending that agreeing to come tonight doesn’t completely undermine my new plan to put some space between Bishop and me.

It’s fine. Sleeping wrapped around him was an isolated incident. A sleep-related accident. Like sleepwalking. Except with considerably more chest muscles.

I’m still thinking about those chest muscles when the lights drop inside Ignite Arena. So, clearly the convincing is going well.

I’m wearing Phoenixes' green tonight, but no player’s name stretches across my back. Just a team sweatshirt beneath my jacket, jeans, and enough layers to survive an arena without losing feeling in my toes. The salty smell of popcorn tempts me, reminding me that I missed dinner.

The crowd erupts around me, twenty thousand voices rising at once as the opening video flashes across the massive screen overhead. Ash, the mascot, takes to the ice, hyping up and already roaring to the stadium. Music pounds through the arena hard enough to vibrate beneath my feet, and cold air rolls up from the ice.

Then the Phoenixes skate out.

Even from here, he’s easy to find. Twenty-two. Captain’s C. Blond hair visible beneath his helmet.

Bishop circles through warm-ups; he takes a pass, snaps a puck toward the net, then circles back into line. As if he feels me staring, his head turns.

Our eyes can’t possibly meet from this distance. At least that’s what I tell myself. Then his stick lifts slightly off the ice in my direction.

My stomach flips. Ridiculous.