Page 69 of Offside

The winger crossed the line without a passing angle, and Garrett took the puck when he tried to cut back.

Bishop was already moving the other direction. Garrett sent it to him low. Bishop advanced it with one touch, and Eriksson carried it deep enough for the Storm to change. His body had lost the reach, but his next play preserved the lead. The final horn sounded with the score still at three-two.

25

Bishop

The building emptied slowly after the win. Equipment carts moved first. Coaches left with video already open on their tablets. Players showered and dressed, then headed out for the night.

Zoe completed Bishop's postgame assessment at the corner station. Reyes reviewed the response and left him with the established overnight plan. I remained at my desk with Hayes's note open until Bishop's care was finished and both women were gone. I didn't know the details; I knew only what anybody in the room could have seen. The shoulder had caught, he'd released the puck, and he'd finished the game.

When I saved the last note, Bishop stood at the edge of the corner station in his coat.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Not yet," I said.

The table between us was empty. The overhead light was off, leaving the station lit by the wider room. For years I'd stood there with professional access to his body and told myself the limits around that access made wanting him irrelevant.

It had never been irrelevant.

"I love you," I said. "I wanted to say it here."

Bishop went completely still. I kept going. Stopping would have turned it into something he had to rescue.

"I love you, and I think part of me will always want to reach for your shoulder when it hurts. I spent years being the person who did. I know what the catch looked like tonight. I wanted to be there for you."

"You didn't," he said. "You stayed with Hayes." He looked toward the table Zoe had used.

"No." I had to say it. "Wanting to help doesn't give me the right to make myself your clinician again. Loving you doesn't either."

"I know," he said.

"I can stay near you without turning that into your therapist. I can care that it hurts and let Zoe handle the work."

Dammit, I was getting emotional. Bishop heard it. He moved around the table, stepping closer to me.

"Breathe, Declan," he said. "I'm here."

He put his left hand at the back of my neck.

"Wanting someone doesn't mean authority," he said. "You taught me that." His thumb moved once across my cheek. "I love you."

I held his gaze while the words landed. His forehead touched mine. The plainness of it hurt more than a speech would have.

"Shoulder's still mine," he murmured, "but you're still who I want beside me when it hurts."

At Bishop's apartment, his shirt got caught at the right elbow again.

He'd pulled the left sleeve free and brought the collar over his head, but the fabric twisted before he could slide it down the right arm. The shoulder caught, and he stopped with half his face covered.

"Don't," he said from inside the shirt. "I've got it."

"I didn't even move." My hands were still at my sides.

"You thought about it," he said.

"You can't even see me," I said.