Page 88 of Playing With Fire

All these years around the Becketts, and hearing those words is still like a slap shot to the chest.

“Thanks, Coach.”

The apartment is quiet when we get back. Not empty. There’s a difference.

Darcy meets us at the door with an offended yowl that suggests we’ve abandoned him for six months, not a few hours.

Delaney immediately crouches. “I know. Poor baby, life is so hard.”

He rubs against her knee. I lock the door behind us and loosen my tie.

Beneath the familiar smell of the apartment, a different scent catches my attention. Warm. Sweet. Becoming familiar.

Her.

A pink book catches my eye on the coffee table.

Her composition notebook.

There’s a mug beside it. One of her sweaters is draped over the arm of the sectional. Her shoes are kicked beneath the console.

None of it was here a week ago.

I stand there a second too long.

“Bishop?”

I look up.

She’s watching me.

“What?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I shrug, pulling my suit jacket off. “Tired.

“Me too.”

She grabs her notebook.

“So, first game at Ignite, what’d you think?”

She stops at the stairs.

“You fishing for a compliment, Ken?” Her smile comes slowly.

“Funny.”

“You played a good game, but I seem to remember you being faster in college.” The smile on her face lets me know that she’s just giving me shit.

“We won, didn’t we?”

“My brother lost.”

“Exactly.”

She rolls her eyes and starts upstairs.