Page 37 of Offside

Me: I need to tell you something after work. Nothing to do with your shoulder.

His answer arrived before I put the phone down.

Bishop: Are you free for dinner?

Bishop waited outside the staff entrance at six-thirty. He wore a dark coat, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The transfer of his care had been effective for three days. He hadn't found a reason to pass my table, ask my opinion, or send me a shoulder update. I missed him.

"Before we go," he said. "I need to say something."

"Go ahead." I waited.

"Our professional relationship is over."

I nodded. "It ended Friday when Zoe accepted your case. It won't return to me."

He looked at my hand. "Can I?"

I reached for him, and his left hand closed around mine. The contact was simple; warm palm, rough fingers, and pressure that adjusted when I squeezed gently. I was surprised how strong it affected me—even more than those twelve seconds of his thumb against a knot in my back—because we didn't need a reason to explain it.

"Let's eat," he said. I let him lead me toward the restaurant.

We walked three blocks to a neighborhood place with red booths and laminated menus. Bishop had chosen somewhere neither the team nor staff regularly went. Finally, we didn't need an excuse to be alone together. We ordered burgers. He took his without onions. I ordered mine with everything and watched him steal a pickle from my plate without asking.

"You don't eat them, and I'm not letting it go to waste," he said, his eyes scanning the restaurant.

I watched him set the pickle beside his own burger. "You're monitoring the entire place and pretending not to watch me."

"Occupational hazard. I watch everything."

I told him about Denver.

"Karin Halvorsen sent a formal offer today. Lead rehabilitation role. Three clinics, program authority, staff. They need an answer by New Year's."

His thumb stopped against the back of my hand. "You applied?"

"No. She approached me in July. I didn't answer the recent calls until today." I kept my hand under his on the table.

"Do you want it? It sounds like an impressive offer."

"There are good parts to it, for sure. But other parts, I'm not as sure about."

"Which parts of the Denver job do you want most?" Bishop asked.

I told him about having authority over a program from the beginning; the hiring decisions and time to build the long return-to-sport progression instead of fitting it into the next flight. I told him what I'd miss if I took the job. The direct work with players, being in the room with them, as well as colleagues who understood when a note needed a second set of eyes and when a person needed silence. Bishop listened through all of it.

"Denver's a good city, from what I've seen of it," he said.

"Have you spent enough time there to know that?" I asked curiously.

"I've played there a lot—never lived there."

"Then you don't know if it's a good city to live in."

"The mountains look expensive," he said, grinning. His thumb resumed its slow movement against my hand.

I laughed. "That's your entire assessment of the city?"

"You asked for my opinion," he said. "Or you were about to."