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“Sounded like one.”

“Don’t push it.” She bites back.

“I know.” I settle back with a satisfied grin.

A tiny pause.

“Goodnight, Bishop.”

“Night, Baby Becks.”

She hangs up.

I set Beckett’s phone on the table between us.

Beckett keeps looking at me.

“What?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Your sister telling me she hates me?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nostalgic.” I shrug like that explains everything.

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Then his expression sobers. “Thanks, man.”

Two words.

That’s it.

No warning.

No ‘keep your hands off my sister.’

No suspicious stare.

Why would there be?

Coach Beckett taught me half of what I know about hockey and a decent amount about being a man.

Mrs. B has fed me at her table since I was a kid.

Beckett is more brother than friend.

And when he lets his little sister stay under my roof, he knows one thing without ever needing to ask.

She’s safe with me.

The certainty lands somewhere uncomfortable.

I rub a hand over the back of my neck and reach for my phone.

“I’ll call my building.”

Ten minutes later, Laney’s name is on the guest list, security knows she’s coming, and the building manager has instructions to give her access to my spare parking spot and a key.