Game time.
There’s nothing like it. The roar of the crowd, the cold bite of the ice, the way everything else just... stops. When I’m on the ice, I’m not a single dad with a failing childcare situation and a woman I can’t stop thinking about. I’m just a hockey player. Pure instinct. Pure focus.
The first period is a grind. Chicago comes out hard, testing our defense, and I spend most of my shifts battling along the boards. My shoulder holds—it’s tight, but functional. Tori’s protocol is working.
In the second period, we start finding our rhythm. Banks breaks up a two-on-one and sends the puck up the ice to Logan, who dekes past a defender before feeding it to Archer at the point. Archer one-times it, and I’m already moving toward the net, stick ready.
The rebound comes right to me.
I don’t think. I just shoot.
Top corner. Glove side.
The goal light goes red, and the guys swarm me, knocking their helmets into mine, gloves pounding my back. Logan’syelling something I can’t hear over the crowd, and Banks gives me a nod—which, from him, is basically a standing ovation.
And then, without meaning to, I look toward the bench.
She’s there. Standing behind the medical staff area, tablet in hand, and she’s—
Smiling. Actually smiling. At me.
My chest does something stupid, and I have to force myself to focus on the faceoff.
Get your head in the game, Bishop. She’s just doing her job.
In the third period, I get an assist on Logan’s game-winner. We take it 3-2, and the locker room after is loud and chaotic, the way it always is after a road win. Coach gives us a brief speech—“Good start, don’t get comfortable, Detroit’s next”—and then it’s showers and postgame routines.
I take my time, letting the hot water work out the soreness in my muscles. By the time I’m dressed, most of the guys are lounging around, half in their suits, riding the high of the win.
“Hell of a shot, Bish.” Logan drops onto the bench next to me, hair still wet. “That release was filthy.”
“Got lucky.”
“Lucky my ass. That was pure skill, and you know it.”
Grayson Reed wanders over, towel around his waist, smirking at something on his phone. I tense automatically. Reed’s got this way of making everything feel like a transaction—like he’s always calculating what he can get out of any situation.
“Did you see that hot PT during warm-ups? Standing by the boards?” Grayson grins. “I’m telling you, she was into it. Couldn’t take her eyes off the ice.”
“She’s paid to watch us,” Banks says flatly, not looking up from his book. “It’s her job.”
“Nah, man, this was different. She waswatching.” Grayson makes a crude gesture that makes my jaw clench. “I’m gonna shoot my shot. Girl like that, legs for days, ass that won’t quit—”
“Reed.” My voice comes out harder than I intended.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “What?”
“She’s staff. Show some respect.”
“Whoa, easy, Daddy Z.” He holds up his hands, grinning. “Didn’t realize you’d already called dibs.”
“I didn’t call—” I stop myself. Take a breath. “Just keep it professional. She doesn’t need that crap from us.”
Logan shoots me a look I can’t read. Banks definitely notices—I see his eyes flick up for a half-second before going back down. Archer’s inhaling a protein bar in the corner, headphones in, checked out from the conversation entirely.
Grayson shrugs, unbothered. “Whatever, man. Your loss.”
He saunters off toward the showers, and I have to physically unclench my fists.
