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What the fuck did I just say?

Another pause. Longer this time. “Why do you know that?”

“Because I carried the fucking boxes.”

“Uh-huh.” I can hear the smile in his voice now, and it’s starting to piss me off.

“You really called to interrogate me about a jersey?”

“A jersey with your last name across it.”

“It’s my arena.”

“And?”

“And I’m sure as hell not gonna have another guy’s name on her back in my arena.”

Apparently tonight I’m incapable of shutting the fuck up because my response is a flashing neon sign saying: I want your sister.

I stare at the floor. Beckett doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Which is worse than yelling.

“I’m trying to decide what the fuck that means.”

“It means she’s sitting in the Phoenixes’ family section. Wearing an Archers jersey would be obnoxious.”

“You sure that’s the only reason?”

“Fuck you.”

He laughs.

I stand and shoulder my bag. “You done?”

“Almost.”

“What now?”

His voice changes. “She have a good birthday?”

Some of the irritation drains out of me. “Think so, I can’t really ask her since I’m stuck on the phone with your nosy ass.”

“Mom feels like shit they couldn’t come down.”

“Becks knows your dad had a game at North Pines.”

“She still should’ve had somebody there.”

I think about her in the stands tonight. The way she smiled when she found me.

“She has me.” The words come out quieter than I mean them to.

Beckett exhales a ragged breath. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Bish.”

“Call your sister, D.” Is the only response I can come up with.

“I did this morning.” He clears his throat. “Keep your hands off my sister.”