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Or at least, I hope he does.

“Bish,” Declan calls. “Come look at this.”

Bishop glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Some idiot online ranked you below Mercer for best centers in the league.”

“Mercer's a winger, dumbass.”

“Exactly. That's why it's funny.”

Bishop shakes his head. “Give me five minutes.”

He picks up his bag and heads toward the stairs.

I watch him go.

And wonder how I'm supposed to survive an entire Christmas with him sleeping down the hall.

An hour later, I slip upstairs while Mom finishes getting Christmas Eve dinner ready.

Dad and Declan are downstairs setting the table, although judging by the arguing coming from the dining room, they're accomplishing very little.

I left my makeup bag in the upstairs bathroom earlier, and if I don't grab it now, I'll forget until tomorrow.

The bathroom door is cracked open, warm steam drifting into the hallway.

The shower's running.

Bishop.

I hesitate, then knock lightly.

“Hayes?”

“Yeah?”

“I left my makeup bag in here.”

“Come get it.”

I push the door open.

Mist clouds the mirror, and the bathroom smells like his soap. My makeup bag is right where I left it, beside the sink.

I reach for it.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Leaving already?”

I glance toward the shower. “Were you expecting company?”

“Wasn't until about thirty seconds ago.”

I smile despite myself. “You're ridiculous.”

“Been told that.”