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Ken: Sure it is.

Me: Ken.

Ken: Baby Becks.

Me: Seriously.

Ken: Team dinner, gotta go.

Me: Convenient.

Ken: Extremely.

I stare at the exchange.

There’s a reason.

I know there’s a reason.

And now I want to know what it is.

Me: I’m asking again later.

Ken: Looking forward to it.

My stomach does that stupid little flip again.

I toss my phone onto the bed.

Darcy stares at me.

“Don’t.”

He blinks.

“I’m not doing anything.

Another blink.

“Shut up.”

BISHOP

Boston is gray from the second we get there. Low clouds, cold rain, the kind of gloomy October sky that makes four in the afternoon look like seven in the evening.

By the time the game is over, I have a bruise across my left hip, a split along my bottom lip, and legs that feel heavier than they should this early in the season.

The locker room is loud. Tape rips. Shower water runs somewhere behind me. Guys talk over each other while equipment hits the floor.

I drop onto the bench in front of my stall and reach for my phone.

There’s already a message waiting.

Of course there is.

Baby Becks: Your face okay?

I touch my tongue to the cut on my lip.