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“I didn’t disappear.”

“You left without saying goodbye.”

“I texted you.” I take a sip and lean against the island.

“After you left.”

Across from me, Bishop screws the lid onto his shaker cup. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s already dressed for practice in black Phoenixes joggers and a gray hoodie. Darcy sits on the floor beside him, like they are new besties.

“I was tired.”

“Bullshit.” The word lands harder than his tone. “You were fine. Then you weren’t. Something happened.”

For one stupid second, I’m back in the bathroom at O’Shea’s.

Don’t waste your time on Bishop.

Away games are your best shot.

You should see him in the bedroom.

My coffee suddenly tastes more bitter than it did five seconds ago. “Nothing happened.”

“Becks.”

“What?”

His easy expression disappears, and his blue eyes darken to gray as he studies me. “Did someone hurt you?”

No one but you.

The thought comes so fast I nearly say it. Instead, I take another sip of coffee. “No. Nothing like that.”

He studies me long enough for warmth to creep up the back of my neck.

Then he nods once. “Okay. If that’s really how you want to play this.”

That’s it. No interrogation. No pushing. Somehow that’s worse. Like he knows I’m hiding something but is willing to let it go.

I’m torn between being honest and keeping my mouth shut. Because telling him why I was hurt opens a door he seems determined to keep bolted shut.

He takes a drink from his shaker and we shelf another awkward conversation.

I wrinkle my nose. “Did you put peanut butter in that?”

“And banana.”

“Your commitment to drinking breakfast continues to disturb me.”

“You’ve never tried it.”

“I have eyes.”

“That’s not how taste works, Becks.”

“I’ve read enough about protein shakes to understand the concept.”

He slides the bottle across the island. I stare at it.