Page 181 of Playing With Fire

She turns to say something to the woman beside her, giving me the full view.

BISHOP. 22. Across her back in green and black.

Something low in my chest pulls tight.

I know it’s just a jersey. But it’s mine. On her. And it means a hell of a lot more than I even thought it could. And apparently that’s enough to make me forget how hockey works.

I hadn’t been sure she’d wear it. I left the box on the kitchen counter before morning skate with a card taped to the top.

For tonight.

— B

Then, because I knew she’d bitch about me buying her something:

Not technically a birthday present.

I’d heard her laugh from my bedroom while I was grabbing my bag. She came around the corner holding it against her chest.

“You bought me your jersey?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.”

“Happy Birthday, Baby Becks.”

“Thanks, Ken.”

I’d left before I could ask if she planned to wear it. Now I have my answer.

Like she can feel me staring, Becks turns toward the ice. Finds me almost immediately. She smiles and pinches the front of the jersey between two fingers and lifts her shoulders.

“Happy?” She mouths.

I nod my head and her smile gets bigger. So does mine. As much as I hate to admit it, I like her eyes

Mercer skates past. “You two done?”

“Keep moving, nine.”

He laughs, but I should really follow my own advice.

Instead, my eyes go back to her. My number has never looked that fucking good.

We lose.

Which puts a pretty effective damper on my mood. New Jersey gets one early in the third, we answer six minutes later, then give up another with less than four minutes left.

I have a lane late.

I pass.

Mercer’s shot gets blocked.

Game over.

By the time I get through media, shower and change, I’m still replaying the fucking decision. I should’ve taken the shot.