Page 130 of Playing With Fire

“Don’t get lost.”

“I managed Chicago public transportation all week. I think I can find the bathroom.”

I step past him, and his fingers skim my back as I go. The contact lasts only seconds, but the absence lasts a lot longer.

The hallway feels cooler after the warmth and noise inside the players’ room. I can still hear everyone talking and laughing as I make my way toward the bathrooms.

There’s a line. Of course there is.

I lean against the wall behind two women who look like they walked directly out of an Instagram post. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. One is wearing a Phoenixes jersey tied at the waist over a little black dress. The other is sporting some kind of blinged-out jersey cut into a minidress. It’s not the thousands of tiny green and black crystals that catch my eye.

It’s the bedazzled number 22 on her back.

She glances back toward the bar with a pout. “Don’t waste your time on Bishop.”

Now she has my full attention, but I tear my eyes away so they don’t see me staring and stop talking.

Her friend whines. “Why?”

“The outta town rule.”

“What’s that?” Another random girl in front of them asks.

“He doesn’t hook up in Chicago.”

I keep my eyes trained on the framed photographs of Chicago sports legends on the opposite wall.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Away games are your best shot if you want to end up in his bed.”

A cold chill settles beneath my ribs, chasing away every bit of warmth from the drink.

“Believe me.” The blonde laughs. “I tried in Lauderdale.”

My arms tighten around my chest.

“And?”

“He disappeared before I could get anywhere.” She sighs. “Someone must’ve beaten me to it.”

“Lucky bitch.”

“Yep. If you think he’s a God on the ice, you should see him in the bedroom.” I can’t be sure, but it sounds like she’s speaking from experience.

They laugh.

I don’t.

Lauderdale was Tuesday. The same night Bishop was texting me from his hotel. I tell myself it means nothing.

Because it does mean nothing: Hayes Bishop is single, and he can sleep with whoever he wants, whenever he wants, wherever he wants.

I’m his roommate, well, technically, I'm not even that.

I’m temporary.

His best friend’s little sister. An obligation. Nothing more.