Page 356 of Playing With Fire

“I have.”

“No, Bish. You told her you love her. Have you told her what you want?”

I don't answer.

He shakes his head.

“Read the ice. Find the opening. Make the play.”

I look up.

Declan smiles faintly.

“You've been saying that shit since we were kids.”

“It's good advice.”

“Then maybe you should take it.”

He claps a hand against my shoulder.

“Make the fucking play, Bishop.”

By the third period, we're tied at two. Declan's scored once. I've got an assist. And neither team is giving an inch.

I should be thinking about hockey. Instead, I keep looking toward the seats behind our bench.

Delaney isn't there.

She texted before warmups. “Meeting ran long. I'll explain later. Love you.”

I told her I loved her too.

Then spent the next two hours trying not to imagine what life would look like if she moved to New York.

The penthouse without her notebooks.

The kitchen without her coffee.

The bedroom without Darcy taking up half my pillow.

The silence.

Jesus.

I can't do that again. Not after finally knowing what it feels like to come home to her.

There's less than a minute left when I hear the crowd shift. Not a roar. Just that strange ripple of movement when people notice something happening.

I glance toward the glass.

And there she is.

Delaney.

Golden-brown hair falling over her shoulders. My jersey hanging off her frame. And a pink composition notebook pressed against the glass.

My heart slams against my ribs.