31. The Thing About Me
31
THE THING ABOUT ME
Miles
The thing about the Montreal team is they swear—and chirp—mostly in French.
The thing about me? I understand most of it.
Montreal’s Armand Delacroix is one of the most aggressive forwards in the league—with his game play and his mouth. When Bishop strips the puck from him and races down the ice with it, Delacroix mutters something wildly insulting under his breath, but I ignore it. For now.
By the third period, though, Delacroix’s chirps have gone from mildly annoying to flat-out nasty. The French equivalent of “Your mom sucks my dick” reaches my ears just as Bishop spins around, his voice sharp and cutting.
“Maybe learn to play better, fuckwad,” Bishop fires back, his tone dripping with venom though he doesn’t know exactly what Delacroix’s said.
Our opponent’s face darkens, and for a second, I think he’s going to peel off his gloves and throw down. It’s hockey—fighting’s part of the game, and sometimes the guys just need to settle it.
But Bishop doesn’t give him the chance. Skates scraping against the ice, he snags the puck from Delacroix again—a clean, beautiful steal—and flips it to Bryant. Bryant tears down the ice and slams the puck into the net.
I pump a fist in celebration, and Bishop does the same, smacking gloves with Bryant.
As we hop over the boards for a line change, Delacroix skates by our bench and mutters, just loud enough for a few of us to catch, “I’m seeing her tonight.”
I snap my head toward him, my voice clipped. “Enough with the moms.”
Delacroix raises an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, like he didn’t expect me to understand him.
Coach peers down the bench at the commotion while Bishop glances my way, a confused frown creasing his forehead. “He’s saying mom shit?”
“Of course he is,” I say, waving it off as I clap Bishop on the padded shoulder. “Ignore it.”
But Bishop doesn’t look like he’s planning to ignore anything. His jaw is tight, and he’s gripping his stick like he’s imagining snapping it in half—or over Delacroix’s head.
“Fuck him,” Bishop growls, low and dangerous.
I lean in closer, keeping my voice calm. “Seriously. Ignore him. You start something, you’re getting a penalty. Coach hates that shit. Don’t give Delacroix the satisfaction.”
Bishop lets out a noise somewhere between a growl and a huff, like a bull at the gates, ready to charge .
But when he’s back on the ice for the next line shift, he stays cool. Delacroix keeps chirping, upping the ante with smirks and jabs, but Bishop doesn’t take the bait. He skates hard, clean, and focused, ignoring the hell out of the French barbs.
And when Bishop strips Delacroix of the puck one more time and helps set me up for a goal, I can’t help but grin.
The scoreboard’s doing all the talking now.
“What was Delacroix saying to Bishop?”
The question comes from a podcaster. His phone’s thrust forward and he’s recording every word.
I’m seated at the table in slides, shorts, and my jersey, hair still damp with sweat. “They were debating recipes,” I say, my voice dry.
The podcaster tilts his head. “Excuse me?”
“Poutine recipes,” I clarify with a shrug. “It’s an age-old debate.”
It takes a second, but he cracks a grin. I haven’t broken player code, and he knows I won’t give him anything juicier.
Another reporter—gruff, no-nonsense—doesn’t let up. “Bishop looked pissed out there.”
I pause, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”
The reporter doubles down. “Why was he so pissed?”
I lean back slightly, keeping my expression neutral. “His socks were cold, I’m guessing.”
A ripple of chuckles moves through the room, but one or two reporters look annoyed. Doesn’t matter. I’m done discussing it. I don’t like playing diplomat, but it’s part of the job—protecting the team on and off the ice. Sometimes that means playing verbal pinball with reporters too.
Another voice cuts in. “Did Delacroix’s comments fuel your performance tonight?”
That’s a fair question. A damn good one too. But I know better than to show my hand. So I keep my cards close to my chest. “Everything fuels me,” I reply evenly. “That’s the beauty of hockey—it’s unpredictable, and you use it to your advantage.”
The follow-up comes fast. “When you played for Vancouver, you tore your ACL. How’s it holding up now?”
I clench my jaw briefly. I’ll never escape that question. But showing frustration doesn’t help anyone. I take a breath and let it go, reminding myself it’s a valid thing for him to ask.
I rap my knuckles lightly on the table, grounding myself for a beat. “No complaints,” I say, but I know that’s not enough. Injuries are a big deal, especially major ones, and so is the work it takes to recover. They can haunt you, but they can also define you. If I downplay the injury, I disrespect all the effort I—and everyone who helped me—put in. “I work hard to stay healthy. Injuries like that—they take you out physically, sure, but mentally too. You don’t forget what it’s like to sit out for months. I’m grateful to be on the other side of it, but I take nothing for granted.”
The room goes quiet for a moment, the weight of those words settling before Coach steps in to wrap up the presser.
As I head for the bus a little later, Coach catches me near the locker room. His voice is low, deliberate. “Good job out there. ”
The way he says it, I know he’s not just talking about the game. He’s talking about protecting Bishop—in the presser and on the ice. About being honest when it counted. Coming from him, those words mean everything.
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
That’s it. No more mention of the potential co-captain assignment. He’ll decide when he’s ready—and I’ll just have to hope like hell I’m up to the task.
Later, on the plane, as the lights of Montreal flicker and shrink below us, my phone buzzes. A photo pops up from Leighton. I wait briefly for that flicker of guilt. For the unease that follows it—the sense that I need to keep all these feelings in check. That I ought to resist her. But those emotions don’t come. I feel only the warm, hazy wish to connect with her.
I click on the photo, guilt-free. It’s a shot of my bed, covered in four Chihuahuas sprawled like they own the place, with the caption: They regret nothing.
Fuck… I can’t help it. I grin too big, angling the phone away even though no one’s looking in the dim light of this short flight to Toronto.
It’s not just the photo. It’s that she knows me. She knows what I need after a game, and she gave it to me.
I probably should be thinking about her relationship with her dad, and my relationship with him too. I ought to be thinking about my career—the work, time, sweat, and tears I put into it—and how grateful I am to still have it, like I told the media tonight. I should definitely be wary of the past, and all the ways romance can go wrong.
And yet—it’s like I’m a little bit high, a little bit hooked. I don’t dwell on any of that. And I don’t look her dad’s way, not once, as I type back: I’m calling you later when I land.
The thing about travel is that sometimes time zones work in your favor. By the time I flop down onto the king-size bed in my Toronto hotel room, it’s nearly one a.m. But on the West Coast, it’s only ten p.m., still early enough to call Leighton.
I toe off my shoes and loosen my tie, the dim light in the room perfectly matching my mood.
I don’t bother telling myself I’m only checking in with the dog-sitter. Settling back against the headboard, I hit Leighton’s contact. She answers almost immediately.
“So, Delacroix was talking shit about Bishop’s mom?”
I love that she cuts straight to the chase. “However did you know?”
“An educated guess. I know what asshole hockey players are like.”
“You’d be right. Did you catch the whole post-game press conference?”
“I did.”
Something about that warms my chest, like the sun breaking through on a cold morning. “Do you normally watch post-game press conferences?”
I didn’t go to law school—though I took the LSAT—but I know the rule: Never ask a question on cross-examination unless you already know the answer. I’m ninety-five percent sure Leighton doesn’t normally tune in to those things. Which means…she had a reason tonight, and I can’t resist fishing for it.
“No, I don’t,” she admits .
My grin widens, and I keep teasing her. “So you just happened to tune in this evening?”
“Well, I guess you could say that,” she says, her tone light and playful. “It was just playing in the background while I kept the dogs entertained.”
“Oh, of course, right. That makes perfect sense,” I say, going along with her. “You probably didn’t even care about the game since you don’t seem to know anything about hockey…”
“Nope, not at all,” she says breezily. “Not even when that guy wouldn’t stop chirping at Rowan in the third period.”
I smirk. “Uh-huh. Guess you caught more of the game than you’d thought.” She watched the whole game and the presser, and I am eating up her interest.
“I guess I did,” she says dryly.
“And you know what? I really don’t regret saying yes to talking to the press now.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the quiet of my hotel room, doing something strange to my chest—making my heart flip in a way I like too much. This feeling—it’s addictive. I spend so much of my day working hard. Hell, I’ve spent so much of the last few years working hard, focusing, moving forward and moving on. But when I talk to Leighton, I feel…peaceful and just happy in the moment. I feel like I’m finally enjoying the present for what it is.
“How was the rest of your day?” I ask, leaning into the conversation. “I hope I didn’t stress you out with the dogs or anything earlier. And Bippity’s…escape artist situation.”
“No, you didn’t,” she assures me.
“Did she give you any more trouble?”
“She was perfect,” Leighton says .
“Am I still in the doghouse for not telling you about her habits?”
“Hmm. If it means more of your hot chef skills, maybe.”
“I take it you liked the pasta?”
“I had it for dinner two nights in a row. Loved it,” she says.
That makes me unreasonably happy—being able to do something as simple as cooking for her. “Good. I’d be happy to make it up to you again. What did you do the rest of the day?” I’m craving all the details of her. I’ve spent so long resisting Leighton McBride that I can barely help myself now. I want to inhale all her stories.
“I had a photo shoot, then I had some things to deal with at the studio…”
I sit up a little straighter, the tightness in her voice catching my attention. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” she says quickly. “I’ll sort it out.”
“What is it?” I ask, pressing gently. I want to be the one she turns to when something’s on her mind. I want to be the one who helps her when she needs it.
“Nothing to worry about right now,” she says, and it’s clear she doesn’t want to get into it. I table my concern for the time being, but I’ll find a way to bring it up again later.
“Besides,” she adds, her tone lighter, “I got good news later in the day! I’m going to be photographing you again soon. For a team calendar. Apparently, you won the fan vote.”
“Yeah, Everly mentioned that. I got an email about it. So, I guess we’re going to spend more time together.” I try to play it cool, but I know I’m failing. Hell, I’ve always failed at playing it cool with Leighton.
“You really don’t mind?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “That we’re going to spend more time together at work?”
“I don’t mind at all,” I assure her, my chest warm, my heart bouncing around fearlessly in it. I swallow, weighing how much to say, how far to give in, then finally say, “If we’re splitting hairs? I fucking love it.”
I can feel her smile, even though I can’t see it. It’s in the pause, the soft sigh, the rustle of what I assume is the duvet. It’s in the ache in my chest—the wish that I were there with her.
“I guess I don’t mind either,” she says.
I close my eyes for a beat, letting myself linger in the way everything feels so damn good right now. This is what I truly can’t resist—this connection. “So how were the dogs the rest of the day?” I ask.
“Do you want me to show you?”
“Video call?” I ask, already reaching for the button. “Fuck yes.”
A few seconds later, my phone lights up with her video. When I accept, it’s the best night ever.
She’s exactly where I want her.
In my bed.
Her chestnut hair is fanned out over my pillow, four little dogs wedged at her sides like they belong there. Like she belongs there.
In that moment, I know two things: I’m inextricably fucked, and I don’t care about anything but stealing moment after moment with this woman.
We talk longer—about the calendar, the game, her dinner, the view, my mom’s cruise, and a million other things. It feels like we’ve slipped into our own world, warm and hazy, where nothing else matters.
But then, she abruptly says, “I have to go. ”
It takes me a second to process, to connect this cozy moment with her sudden shift. Reality hits—sour, unwelcome. We don’t have a relationship. She probably really does have to go.
“Okay. Good night,” I say, keeping my tone all business.
“Good night,” she replies softly, and then the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, like I can find some kind of answer in it. Like it’s a magical device that can replay her voice and translate her words into what I want them to mean. That she’s found that portal, and it’s not just a sex portal—it’s a romance one too.
Like I want desperately.
But it’s quiet. Silent. No insight into her, no window into her thoughts.
Sighing, I climb out of bed, head to the bathroom, and go through the motions of getting ready to sleep. My mind keeps circling back to her—the way she sounded, the way the call ended too soon.
Then, this longing in my chest. This gnawing desire to talk to her, to be a part of her world, to see her, hear her, touch her.
Get it together, man.
I resolve to go to sleep and reset my mind in the morning. But when I return to bed, a notification on my phone blinks up at me.
Dog-cam: Person detected .
My first instinct is to ignore it. But then—fuck it—I tap the notification without thinking twice.
And there she is.
Leighton’s in the living room, standing purposefully in front of the camera, like she’s checking out her reflection. She’s wearing my jersey.
My jersey— my fucking jersey —hangs off her shoulders, the hem brushing her bare thighs. She shifts, her fingers teasing at the fabric, lifting it just enough to make my heart pound.
She knows I’m watching.
The way she looks into the camera, her lips quirking in the faintest smile—it’s not just casual. It’s deliberate.
My chest burns hot, and I can’t look away.
She’s not stripping. Not yet.
But this?
This is for me.