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Jax argues with Deacon over something that happened during the second period. Whylde contributes exactly enough commentary to make both of them louder.

Mercer slides a fresh basket of fries toward me, and Bishop steals one.

“Get your own.”

“They taste better when they’re yours.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” I roll my eyes at his logic.

“Doesn’t have to.”

I slap his hand away when he reaches for another. He steals it anyway. We share the basket until it’s empty, and I enjoy listening to the guys joking with each other. It’s oddly comforting. Who knew being in an Irish pub, surrounded by hockey players and fried food, would make me miss home so much.

Eventually, Bishop pushes away from the table and lifts his nearly empty beer.

“Want anything?”

I glance at the melting ice in my glass. “I’ll come with you.”

We step out of the players’ room and back into the main bar. The crowd has gotten thicker, forcing me close enough to Bishop that my arm brushes his as we wait for Eddie.

Bishop reaches across me to set his empty bottle on the bar. That’s when a guy standing a few feet down catches my attention.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, I⁠—”

“She has one coming.” Bishop’s voice comes from directly behind me.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s close. Really close.

One hand is braced against the bar beside me, his chest nearly brushing my back as Eddie sets down his beer.

The guy’s attention moves from me to Bishop. Then, to the hand Bishop apparently doesn’t realize he has settled against my hip possessively.

Or maybe he does.

“Right.” The guy gives me a quick smile. “Have a good night.”

“You too.” Bishop picks up his beer and tips it at him, then takes a drink like absolutely nothing weird just happened while the guy disappears back into the crowd.

Over Bishop’s shoulder, I catch Mercer leaning against the doorway to the players’ room.

He looks from Bishop’s hand on my hip to me, then back to Bishop. The corner of his mouth kicks up before he lifts his own beer to hide it.

Great.

I turn to face Bishop, expecting him to move. He doesn’t.

His arm is still braced against the bar beside me, holding his beer, his other hand resting at my hip, leaving me caught between six-foot-three of hockey player and the edge of the bar.

My pulse gives one hard beat. “I can answer for myself, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you answer for me?”

“He asked if you needed a drink.” Bishop glances at the glass beside me. “You now have a drink.”