Page 3 of Playing With Fire

I toss another tainted journal into the open box beside my bed, before burying them beneath three paperbacks and an old North Pines sweatshirt.

“Traitor.”

He yawns. Apparently, even my cat is bored with my inability to write a fictional man who doesn’t somehow turn into–

He-who-must-not-be-named. My brother’s best friend. Pro hockey captain for the Chicago Phoenixes. And quite possibly the most irritating man alive. Also–

Nope.

Still not talking about the V. Or the fact that it may have contributed to the corruption of a childhood nickname that originally had a lot more to do with blond hair, blue eyes, and an uncanny resemblance to a certain plastic boyfriend.

Some things should stay between a girl and her journal. Preferably forever. And at the top of that list…

Hayes Bishop.

Because apparently five years, two mediocre college hookups, and several hundred miles of carefully maintained distance, with the exception of family holidays, haven’t been enough to convince my subconscious that he’s definitely not book boyfriend material.

Which is especially pathetic considering the real Bishop never looked at me the way Pink Composition Book Bishop just did.

And he never will. So why my mind keeps conjuring him, I have no clue.

Actually, I do. Chicago.

Nevertheless, it pisses me off because writing is supposed to be my escape. Something I do because I’ve spent most of my life with my nose buried in someone else’s happily-ever-after and eventually started wondering what would happen if I tried writing one of my own.

It’s not supposed to expose the fact that hidden somewhere inside my traitorous brain, part of me is still eighteen years old and crazy in love with my older brother’s best friend.

Especially not today.

Because tomorrow, I’m moving to Chicago and starting a new chapter of my real, grown-up life. The irony isn’t lost on me that Bishop lives in Chicago. But the Windy City has nearly three million people; what are the chances I actually run into him? Basically zero.

My Chicago will be publishing offices and coffee shops. Bookstores and crowded sidewalks. A tiny studio apartment where I’ll eat Chinese takeout and scribble in my journals.

His Chicago is Ignite Arena, locker rooms, private team facilities, fancy restaurants, and gorgeous women who don’t spend Friday nights arguing with fictional men in pink composition notebooks wearing pajamas with coffee stains.

Our worlds don’t overlap. They haven’t in years… outside of the obligatory holidays where my parents dote on him like their third child, and I spend the evening not thinking of him like a brother.

Moving to the same city won’t magically change that.

The only realistic chance I’ll have of seeing him is if the Phoenixes play St. Louis and I decide to watch my brother’s team–the Archers, which would still put Bishop approximately two hundred feet away from me, safely separated by several thousand people, a sheet of ice, a wall of Plexiglas, and a row of puck bunnies.

Perfect.

Bishop can stay exactly where he belongs. On the ice and far, far away from me.

Who knows, maybe I’ll meet someone tall, dark, and handsome. Getting laid might actually help my writer’s block and⁠—

“Delaney?”

A knock sounds against my half-open door a second before my mom pokes her head inside. Her voice isn’t just a splash of cold water. It’s a full-body polar plunge on my steamy thoughts.

“What? Yeah, hey, Mom. Just packing.” I sit up so quickly my crisscross desk chair nearly tips backward.

“Looks like it.” Mom’s eyebrows rise as she steps inside. The door opens wider, her gaze moving over my childhood room, or what is left of it.

A worn-out reading chair by the window, looking out over the backyard, covered in clothes. A white daybed with a floral duvet, way too many throw pillows, and my great-grandmother’s old quilt. Bookish artwork covering the walls. Half-empty bookshelves and a cluttered desk filled with memories and secrets.

Three cardboard boxes sit open on the floor. Two are overflowing with books, one with clothes, and absolutely none of them are packed according to any recognizable system.