Pattie blinks a couple of times; her lack of reaction is fairly impressive. “Wow, so Joey isn’t always full of shit. Good to know.”

“You already knew?”

“To be fair, Joey isn’t the most reliable source of information. We take everything he says with a grain of salt, or more like a brick. Particularly the part where he keeps insisting you two are on a break while you adjust to living in Seattle,” Jules replies.

“Of course he said that.” I roll my eyes.

“It must be kind of annoying to have a brother who plays professional hockey, especially when it’s suddenly so freaking big here.” Jules shoves a loaded nacho chip in her mouth.

“It can be when people go all gaga over him.” I love the hell out of my brother, but it sure can be frustrating to be his solidly average sister.

“I can sort of relate. My brothers play college football, and women are constantly throwing themselves at them,” Pattie says.

“Sometimes they have stalkers.” Jules nods somberly. “Girls get crazy over athletes.”

“Right? It can be too much to handle.” I roll my eyes on a laugh.

“Remember that time Mike forgot he invited like three girls to the homecoming game, and they got into a brawl over him?” Jules says to Pattie, then turns to me. “It was insane. They legit had a mud-wrestling match on the field because it had rained that day. The whole thing was videoed and ended up all over social media.”

“Oh God. That would be horrible.” I can feel my cheeks heat with shared embarrassment.

“I can’t even imagine how it would be for you, though. The bunnies are the worst for posting stuff.” The way Pattie says it doesn’t sound like she’s fishing; it’s more like empathy.

I look around, checking to make sure no one is paying attention to us, and lower my voice. “I think the worst was the viral threesome video.”

Pattie makes a face and Jules cringes. “I remember that. People wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“I was in high school.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah. It was . . . not the best.” I remember that day so vividly. It set off a chain of events that made me avoid social media for the rest of the year. Even now, all my accounts are set to private, and I never use my last name. “I walked into class, and the teacher wasn’t there yet. Everyone was huddled over their phones, and they all went silent the moment I stepped into the room. I knew it had to be something with RJ. I mean, all of a sudden all these girls in the popular cliques wanted to hang out with me when he made the NHL—girls who wouldn’t have given me the time of day before that. But this was different . . . people started laughing and whispering. I ended up taking a week off school until the worst of it blew over. I really learned who my true friends were then.” The whole thing soured me on my brother’s fame. Any kinds of perks were suddenly eclipsed by the media backlash and the storm.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine how hard that would’ve been. Having a brother who’s a college football star is bad enough; I can’t fathom what would happen if he made the pros.”

It feels good to be able to share stories with new friends who actually understand. We spend the rest of the evening talking about what it’s like to have brothers who play sports where women are constantly throwing themselves at them. Tonight I feel like I fit because I’m me and not because of my last name.

CHAPTER 7

OW

Bishop

I think I’m still in shock. I’m also in a lot of pain, and that’s with all the drugs they’ve pumped into my system.

The white sheet barely covers my junk—not that I care about modesty, since I’ve been prodded and inspected by half a dozen people in the past hour. The verdict is unanimous and shitty: I have a groin injury. On a scale of not bad to really fucking awful, I’m sitting on the really fucking awful side.

I look down at the inside of my thigh. The bruising spreads from my groin all the way down to my knee, and it’s already turned a horrible blackish-purple color.

“You’re going to need at least six weeks to recover,” the team doctor tells me.

“I can’t be out that long.”

“I’m sorry, Bishop, but this needs time to heal.” He motions to my crotch.

“Six weeks, though?” I look to Waters, who wears a grim expression. “The season starts in three. I gotta be on the ice for that.”

Waters runs a hand through his hair. “I understand that this is upsetting, Bishop, but if you push too fast, too soon, you’re going to do more damage, and then you’ll be on the bench for a hell of a lot longer than six weeks. We’ll start rehab as soon as the swelling goes down and the pain levels are tolerable.”

I know he’s right, but the gnawing panic takes hold. I’m already having problems with this back-and-forth between defense and forward, struggling to manage the shifting roles. And now I’m benched for six weeks after the first exhibition game. This is the opposite of ideal.

I’m given a prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories. I assure the doctors I don’t live alone and have someone to help me get to the bathroom and all the other bullshit. Thankfully, Kingston showed up at the clinic after the game, so I don’t have to rely on Waters for a ride home.

The only silver lining among a sky of dark clouds is the fact that I saved the goal, and we won the game as a result.

I dress gingerly, and Kingston wheels me to the side entrance. Instead of letting him bring the car around, I insist on crutching across the lot, because I’m a stubborn idiot.

By the time I get my ass into the passenger seat, I’m nauseous with the pain and there are black spots in my vision.

“I’m sorry, Bishop. I know it’s not a consolation, but Hessler got a five-minute penalty, and Bowman checked him pretty good in the third period.” Kingston pulls out of the parking lot and heads toward my place.

The penalty and Hessler getting checked don’t fix my problems, unfortunately. “How am I going to gel with the team if I can’t be on the ice with everyone?”

“You’ll still be at games and practice and training.”

“But I won’t be able to do anything.” I bang my head against the back of the seat, which is a bad idea, since I already have a headache to go with the groin pain.

“Maybe it’ll heal a lot faster than six weeks? It could look worse than it is.”

“Maybe.” Based on how it feels right now, I’m not sure that’s the case.

I doze on the ride home, wiped out from the pain and the medication. When we get to my building, Kingston offers to come up with me and make sure I’m settled. I assure him I can deal with an elevator ride and that my brother will be home to manage the rest.

Mostly I just want to be alone with my shitty mood and my bad luck.

The pain is brain-meltingly awful as I crutch inside and across the foyer to the elevators. Kingston’s car is still idling in front of the building, likely to make sure I don’t do a face-plant. I swipe my card over the sensor, grateful when the doors slide open and I can hobble in before I pass out. Blinking through the spots in my vision, I swipe my key card again and give Kingston a thumbs-up before the doors slide closed.