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So, Collins, it is.

Dad hands me a Diet Dr Pepper on the way to our seats, and the first cold, fizzy sip tastes exactly like every hockey game I grew up attending.

The players hit the ice for warm-ups. The arena erupts. And despite myself, so does my stomach.

“There they are,” Mom says.

I spot Declan first in the St. Louis colors. My heart swells with pride. Then breaks a little, knowing they wanted to play in this arena as teammates, not rivals.

Then number twenty-two glides onto the ice.

Bishop.

My heart gives one stupid, traitorous kick.

I curl my cold fingers around my drink.

Maybe it’s the uniform. Maybe it’s the lights. Maybe it’s because the last time I saw him, he was barefoot in gray sweats, stealing the last piece of leftover pizza out of the refrigerator.

But this Bishop is different.

This is Captain Bishop.

And I’d forgotten how good he looks on the ice.

Fast. Confident. Completely in control in a way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, that familiar itch starts—the one that makes me want to reach for a pink notebook and turn a feeling into a story.

Usually, that’s a good thing.

Except I already know what happens when I start imagining heroes with blue eyes and dimples.

And this is one story I have no business writing.

BISHOP

Green looks good on her.

I coast backward along the blue line and pretend I’m not staring through the glass at Delaney Beckett.

It’s not easy.

Mostly because she’s standing three rows behind our bench, waving both arms over her head like I’m somehow going to miss her.

I lift my stick.

Her grin gets bigger.

Then she points down at herself. More specifically, the ancient Phoenixes jersey hanging halfway to her knees.

I shake my head.

She laughs.

Even through the glass, I know exactly what she’s asking.

What’s wrong with it?