Page 124 of Playing With Fire

Not my finest moment.

I wasn’t pissed at her; I was pissed at myself. And I was dangerously close to crossing a line we couldn’t come back from. Based on the tears in her eyes, I did a shit job explaining that.

The puck drops again. This I understand.

If only everything else were this fucking simple.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DELANEY

O’Shea’s is louder than I expected.

Then again, walking into a Chicago bar after a Phoenixes win probably isn’t the best time to judge its normal volume.

The place has the warm, lived-in feel of an old Irish pub—dark wood, exposed brick, worn floors, and framed photos covering nearly every available stretch of wall. Music competes with dozens of conversations, glasses clink somewhere ahead of us, and the smell of fried food, beer, and smoky, chargrilled meat hangs in the warm air.

After two hours inside a freezing arena, it feels like walking into another season.

“Bar’s in the back,” Bishop says close to my ear.

The car he arranged picked me up at the apartment before the game, saving me from having to figure out parking around Ignite Arena on a Saturday night.

Afterward, I waited for him, and now I’ve gone from watching him play hockey to following him through a crowded Irish pub like this is a completely normal Saturday night.

It isn’t.

Especially when the crowd tightens and Bishop moves in behind me.

His hand settles against my lower back.

It’s probably practical. The place is packed, and he’s keeping someone from knocking into me. My body doesn’t care about practical.

Heat spreads beneath his palm, sinking through my sweatshirt while the solid warmth of him presses briefly along my back.

“Come on.” His mouth is close enough to my ear that I feel the words as much as hear them. “We’ll grab drinks before everyone heads back.”

A shiver runs down my arms. Definitely still cold from the arena. Couldn’t possibly be anything else.

We make our way to the actual bar tucked into the back of the pub. Just to the left is an enclosed room that, judging by the Phoenixes already disappearing through the door, belongs to the players.

“Delaney!” Deacon waves me over like we’ve been friends for years instead of acquaintances for approximately a week.

Hutch is beside him, accepting congratulations for his goal from anyone willing to give them.

“I’d like it officially noted,” Hutch says when I reach them, “that I carried this team tonight.”

Bishop comes up behind me. “You scored one goal.”

“Our first goal.”

“You want a sticker?” He laughs.

“I want respect.”

“You’re in the wrong locker room.”

Hutch flips him off, and I laugh. I miss this; it reminds me of Declan and Bishop and the guys on the team at North Pines—the camaraderie.