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“Don’t need to.”

“Bishop said the exact same thing.”

Another pause.

“Why did you ask Bishop?”

“I was feeling lonely and was curious if he had single teammates.”

“What the fuck, Laney?”

I pull the phone away from my ear.

“Calm down.”

“No hockey players.”

“You’re a hockey player.”

“Exactly. I know them.”

“You do realize you're insulting yourself too?”

“I’ll survive.”

“What if I like hockey players?”

“Develop better taste.”

I laugh, but something inside me doesn’t. Because suddenly Bishop isn’t Bishop sitting shirtless on a rowing machine. He’s Declan’s best friend. Dad’s former player. Mom’s honorary second son. The man my brother trusts enough to put me under his roof without thinking twice.

The wall slides quietly back into place.

At least for a while.

Until Bishop FaceTimes me from Calgary.

And I answer from his bathtub.

His face appears on-screen.

“Why’d you—” He stops.

I smile from beneath the bubbles. “Hi, Ken.”

His eyes narrow. “Where are you?”

“Home.”

“I can see that. Where exactly in my home?”

I angle the phone and feel a tingle down my spine when his jaw tightens.

“Are you in my bathtub, Baby Becks?”

“Technically.”

“Okay, Steve, care to explain how the fuck is that technically?”