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He usually says it like a joke. The same kind of shit he’s said a hundred times over the years, but tonight it lands differently.

“Got it.” I hang up.

But when I walk out of the locker room, all I can think about is my name across Delaney Beckett’s back. And how badly I want to put my hands there, even knowing what it’ll cost me to do so.

DELANEY

Twenty-three feels suspiciously like twenty-two.

Except twenty-two didn’t involve sitting in Ignite Arena wearing Bishop’s name across my back while he stared at me like he was considering committing a felony.

So maybe there’s potential.

By the time I get back to the apartment, it’s after ten. Bishop had to do media and whatever else captains do after losses, so I took the car he’d arranged to drive me home rather than waiting.

I haven’t changed. I tell myself that’s because the jersey over my black leggings is comfortable. Not because every time I caught Bishop looking at me tonight, butterflies swarmed low in my belly.

My phone buzzes while I’m curled into the corner of the couch.

Mom: Home from the game?

Me: Yep.

She calls instead of replying.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” The echo lets me know I’m on speakerphone.

“Thanks, Mom.” I smile. “You’ve said that six times already.”

“It’s your birthday. After nineteen hours of labor, I’m allowed.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“I still hate that we couldn’t come.” She sounds sad.

“Mom. It’s fine, really.”

“I know.”

My dad had a game tonight, but even if he didn’t, asking them to make the drive to Chicago in the middle of the week would’ve been ridiculous. Mom apparently doesn’t agree.

“We’re doing cake at Thanksgiving,” she informs me.

“You don’t have to.”

“We’re doing cake.” Dad’s voice booms from somewhere behind her. “And presents.”

“Your father says presents too.”

“I heard him.” I laugh. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. We love you.”

“Love you too.”

“And tell Hayes I’m sorry about the game.”

“I’m not telling him that tonight.”