“How’d you sleep?” she asks, working along my trapezius.
“Fine.”
“Liar. You’ve got tension knots that say otherwise.”
I smirk. “Maybe I just have a stressful job.”
“Mm-hmm.” She digs into a particularly tight spot, and I bite back a groan. “What were you stressed about?”
You. At the bar last night. The way you looked at me like I was more than a shoulder to fix.
“Just game stuff,” I say. “Chicago’s been hot lately.”
“Their offense is ranked third in the league right now.” She moves to my rotator cuff. “But their defense has been shaky. If you can get pucks on net, you’ll have chances.”
I twist to look at her. “You’ve been studying their stats?”
“I study everyone’s stats.” She pushes me back down. “Stay still. And don’t look so surprised. I’m good at my job.”
“Never said you weren’t.”
“You were thinking it. That face you made—” She mimics an expression of exaggerated shock. “Very flattering.”
“I was not making that face.”
“You absolutely were.”
I’m smiling now, and I don’t even know when that happened. She has this way of pulling it out of me, even when I’m trying to be serious.
Her hands move lower, working along my spine, and I have to close my eyes. Focus. Hockey. Chicago’s penalty kill. Their power play setup. Anything except the warmth of her palms and the way her fingers find every spot that needs attention like she’s got a map of my body memorized.
“You’re distracted today,” she says.
Understatement. “I’m fine.”
“You keep tensing up. More than usual.” She pauses. “Is this about last night? The bar?”
Yes.“No.”
“Because if I said something that made things weird—”
“You didn’t.” I open my eyes and meet hers. “It wasn’t weird. It was... nice. Talking to you.”
Something shifts in her expression. Just for a second. Then she looks away, clearing her throat.
“Well. Good.” She steps back. “You’re cleared. Shoulder’s holding up. Don’t do anything stupid out there, and ice between periods.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I mean it, Bishop. I’ll be watching.”
“I know you will.”
Our eyes meet again, and there’s a moment—just a beat—where neither of us looks away. The air feels heavier. Charged.
She breaks first, turning to her tablet, and I grab my shirt and get the hell out of there before I say something I can’t take back.
• • •
