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As O’Shea’s disappears behind me, I tell myself I’m doing the smart thing.

Creating a little distance.

It would probably be more convincing if it didn’t feel so much like running away.

CHAPTER TWENTY

BISHOP

Iglance toward the players’ room door again.

Still no Laney.

My empty beer bottle has been sitting on the table in front of me for the last ten minutes, and I’ve checked the door as many times as there have been minutes.

The bathroom line could be long. I reach for my phone.

One notification waits on the screen.

Baby Becks: Heading home. Good game! Thanks for tonight.

Sent eight minutes ago.

I read it twice.

My fingers tighten around the phone.

Eight fucking minutes.

“The fuck?”

I unlock my phone. I type out a reply

Me: You left?

No typing bubbles. Nothing.

“Trouble in paradise?”

I look up to see Mercer take a drink of his beer. Then his mouth curves. “Or, in this case, the penthouse.”

The asshole actually cracks himself up.

“What makes you say that?”

He gestures toward the door with his bottle. “Your girl just left.”

“She’s not my—” His words catch up with me, and my head snaps up from my phone. “Wait. What did you just say?”

“Delaney.” Mercer’s smile fades. “She left.”

“What do you mean, she left?”

“I mean, she walked out the front door.”

“When?”

“A few minutes ago.”