Page 180 of Playing With Fire

Ken: Tell him late.

Me: Wait… did you just call him Darcy?

I smile.

Me: I knew it. You love him.

Ken: My phone must have glitched I typed Demon.

Me: Sure.

Another message appears.

Ken: Ready for your birthday?

Me: Among other things.

Ken: You gonna be awake?

My fingers hover over the screen.

Halloween flashes through my mind. Parking garage. Then the bathtub. The rowing machine. And we can’t forget the couch that started it all. This whole damn penthouse is tainted with near misses at this point.

We’ll see how brave you are when he gets home.

I type one word.

Me: Maybe.

And this time, I’m not sure which one of us I’m teasing.

But I really hope my birthday wish comes true this year.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BISHOP

I’ve seen my name on thousands of backs.

Grown men who’ve probably been watching hockey longer than I’ve been alive. Kids pressed against the glass—women who’ve asked me to sign places that definitely weren’t made of fabric.

Never meant much. Until Becks walks down the aisle toward the ice wearing mine.

The puck Mercer sends across warmups hits my skate instead of my stick and ricochets toward the boards.

“Jesus, Cap.”

“Fuck off.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

I circle back for the puck. “Your face did.”

Mercer follows my line of sight anyway and his grin is immediate. “Ah, I see.”

“You don’t see shit.”

Across the ice, Becks reaches her seat. Brown hair loose over her shoulders like she had it for Halloween. Black leggings. White sneakers. And my fucking jersey.