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Exactly what I spent all of yesterday trying to remind myself, so why does hearing another woman say it make me feel pathetic all over again?

Maybe because less than half an hour ago, his chest was at my back and his hand on my hip while another guy tried to buy me a drink.

Maybe because all night he’s been touching me and standing too close and making me wonder. Making me feel things.

Things that erase the distance.

Maybe because for one stupid hour in that room, surrounded by his teammates, I let myself forget all the reasons I’m supposed to know better.

The bathroom door opens. The women move forward. But I don’t. Frozen in place, I momentarily lose my spot.

I need air. More than that, I need a minute where Bishop isn’t touching me and smiling at me and making it dangerously easy to forget exactly what I am to him. And what I’m not.

I pull out my phone and type out a text to Bishop.

Me: Heading home. Good game! Thanks for tonight.

My thumb hovers over send.

I should go back and tell him. I know I should. He arranged my ride to the game. Brought me here. Introduced me to everyone as if I belonged with them. And I had a great time.

But even Cinderella only had until midnight.

I know how this scene plays out in romance books. The heroine runs off, all hurt or angry, and not even giving the hero a chance to explain. Instead of a conversation to resolve the misunderstanding, we get three chapters of angst.

But this isn’t fiction. And he doesn’t owe me an explanation.

I take a steadying breath and reconsider walking back into that room, standing next to Bishop as I belong. Then little Miss Bling Queen and her Barbie bestie exit the bathroom with freshly painted lips, in a cloud of body spray, and I know I’m way out of my league. I have a pretty good idea what he does with women he actually wants. And it’s not throwing them off his lap as if they burned him.

I order an Uber and move up; I’m next in line.

I’m not mad at him. That would be ridiculous. If anything, I’m mad at myself for being a fool.

I knew his reputation before I moved into his apartment. My brother knows it. Heck, half of Chicago probably knows his reputation.

Hockey. Planes. Hotels. Women.

None of that is new.

Even the line to the ladies' room knows all about his “out-of-town rule.” So why does the thought of someone waiting for him in a hotel room in Lauderdale make my stomach hurt?

Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. Because somewhere between coffee and groceries and apartment hunting and falling asleep on the couch, I let myself forget the one thing I should have remembered.

Hayes Bishop isn’t mine. Never has been. Never will be. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it.

By the time I leave the bathroom, I don’t feel like celebrating anymore. I see him across the room.

Mercer says something that makes him laugh, head tipped back, dimple flashing. For half a second, I almost go back.

Then a woman brushes past me toward their section, eyes already fixed on the players.

Right.

I try to settle my tab, but Eddie assures me it’s been taken care of. I pull on my coat and slip outside before I can talk myself out of it.

The cold air hits hard; thankfully, I just got an alert that my driver is pulling in.

I open my messages… and press send.