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“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, Stevie. I know you are, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to make this about me—”
“Then stop, because it has nothing to do with you.”
He blinks a bunch of times, probably shocked by my outburst, and his expression softens. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” His phone goes off. Judging by the ringtone, which is the refrain from a sappy song, it’s Lainey.
I’m on the verge of really losing it on him, so this interruption is perfectly timed. “You have to get home.”
“Stevie.”
I step out of his reach. “I love you, RJ, I really do, but this is my life, not yours. No one stopped you from making your own choices, bad or good, so you need to let me do the same.”
This time he doesn’t try to stop me from getting back on the elevator. Once the door is closed, I drag my palms down my face and exhale my frustration. I don’t want to second-guess Bishop’s motives for letting me help him, and now that’s exactly what I’m doing.
What if he is using me? I let my head drop back against the glass and stare up at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling, annoyed that one conversation with my brother would make me reevaluate everything.
When the elevator doors slide open, Bishop is there, in all his ridiculous underpants glory, waiting for me.
I don’t have the mental or emotional energy left to deal with him right now. “Session canceled.” I brush past him.
“What? You can’t do that. I have an appointment with the team doctor tomorrow.”
“Have a bath, do some stretches, and follow it up with an ice compress, and you’ll be fine. You don’t need me for that.”
He’s right on my heels, literally. His crutch nearly lands on my foot. “What the hell is going on? What did Rook say to you about me?”
“Nothing. He said nothing.” I unlock my door, and of course, because Bishop is a giant of a man, he bulldozes his way in before I can shut him out.
“Bullshit. If he didn’t say anything, why are you flaking out on me?”
“Because I’m not in the mood to deal with your level of asshole.”
“He said something. Why won’t you tell me?”
He grabs for my wrist, but I smack his hand away. “Because my conversations with my brother are none of your goddamn business.”
He stabs at the floor with the end of his crutch, like he’s stomping without using his feet. “If the conversations are about me, then it is my goddamn business.”
I throw my hands in the air. “What is it with you hockey players and your fragile, overinflated egos?” I don’t wait for a response, because it doesn’t warrant one. “You know what? I’m done with this bullshit. Go home.” I skirt around him and yank the door open, motioning for him to leave.
“So you’re bailing on me when I need you?”
“Like I said, you don’t need me. Take a bath, stretch if you want to, or don’t. Just give me some space, please and thank you.” I’m looking at the floor because I’m on the verge of tears, and I do not need Bishop here when that happens.
His crutch appears in my vision and then his bare feet and his junk. His underwear is ridiculous tonight, with the whole CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE warning. His abs are also ridiculously amazing, and they’re right in my face. I want to run my hands over the smooth planes and trace all the dips and ridges.
I’m realizing now, after that blowout with my brother and Bishop’s current line of questioning, that I might actually be starting to like this guy. Which isn’t great for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that my brother seems to hate him, and he’s also a high-profile NHL player: something I generally try to avoid.
“Stevie?” Bishop’s voice is low.
I watch his hand lift in my peripheral vision, and for a moment I think he’s going to tip my chin up and force me to look at him. In which case I’ll most definitely lose it in front of him.
Shit. I really do like him.
His rough fingertips barely graze my cheek before his hand falls back to his side. “I’m going to leave, not because I want to, but because I don’t know what to do or say to make this better, and I don’t want to make it worse.”
He crosses the threshold, and I let the door fall closed behind him; then I turn the lock and secure the chain latch. I listen for the sound of his door, but after a few seconds of silence I give in to the urge to check the peephole. He’s still standing in front of my door, frown fixed in place, looking a whole lot confused.
