After a moment, something in her expression shifts. It softens.
“Okay,” she whispers.
• • •
We’re in Minneapolis for a two-game series against the Wild, and the arena is packed—twenty thousand fans, most of them here to watch us lose.
My shoulder feels solid. Not perfect—I don’t know if it’ll ever be perfect again—but stable. Strong enough to do what I need to do.
Tori caught me before warmups, her hands cool and professional on my skin as she ran through our pre-game routine. Stretches. Range of motion, the same thing she does with every player.
But when she finished, her fingers lingered on my shoulder just a second longer than necessary.
“You’ve got this,” she said quietly. “Go show them.”
Now I’m on the ice in the second period, and we’re tied 2-2 with the Wild pressing hard. My line’s been solid—goodpossession and a few quality chances—but nothing’s fallen in yet.
Coach calls a timeout, and I skate to the bench, breathing hard.
“Bishop.” He catches my eye. “Next shift, I want you crashing the net. None of this perimeter bullshit. Get in there and make something happen.”
“Got it.”
The timeout ends. I take a long drink of water and scan the crowd while I wait for my next shift.
I don’t mean to look for her. I’ve trained myself not to—too risky, too obvious, too easy for someone to notice where my attention goes.
But my eyes find her anyway.
She’s in the section reserved for team staff, a few rows up from the glass. Black sweater, hair pulled back, tablet in her lap as if she’s tracking something official.
Her face is carefully neutral. Professional. The same expression she wears in the training room when others are watching.
But her eyes are bright. Focused. And fixed on the ice.
On me.
“Bishop! You’re up!”
I hop the boards and hit the ice, legs fresh, lungs clear. Logan’s on my wing, Banks anchoring the defense behind us.
The play develops fast. Logan wins the faceoff, kicks it back to Banks, who finds me with a stretch pass at center ice. I take it in stride, crossing the blue line with speed.
The Wild’s D-man steps up to meet me. I fake left, cut right, and he bites it hard, his momentum carrying him past me. Suddenly, I’ve got a lane—not much, but enough.
I drive to the net. Their goalie squares up, tracking the puck. I wind up as if I’m going high glove—my bread and butter—and he commits, getting into position.
At the last second, I change the angle. Quick release. Five-hole.
The crowd explodes. Logan crashes into me, whooping, and then Banks is there, slapping my helmet, grinning that rare Banks grin.
But I’m already looking for her.
I find Tori in the stands. She’s on her feet with everyone else, tablet forgotten, both hands pressed to her mouth.
Her eyes meet mine.
She’s not cheering. She’s not even smiling, not really. But the look on her face—
