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“Night.”

“Night, Baby Becks.”

Halfway up, she turns.

“Oh, but Collins was still better than you.” She grins and continues up the stairs before I can answer.

I watch her walk up and stare at the faded green number thirty-six on her back.

COLLINS.

Wrong fucking number.

It bothers me way more than it should.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BISHOP

By the time the plane levels out somewhere over Tennessee, Jax has borrowed my charger, Mercer is asleep across the aisle with his hood pulled over his face, and I’ve checked my phone four times in twenty minutes.

Nothing.

I lock the screen and toss it onto the empty seat beside me.

“You waiting for someone?”

I glance across the aisle at Jax, who is glued to his phone. “No.”

“Cool.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Then shut up.”

“Wasn’t talking.”

“You were about to.”

That gets a grin.

I turn toward the window before I give him the satisfaction of another reply.

Clouds stretch beneath us in every direction, bright white against an endless blue sky. The steady hum of the engines fills the cabin, layered beneath the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere behind me, and the shuffle of cards from the table up front.

First regular-season road trip. Lauderdale tomorrow. Boston Thursday. Then back to Chicago for Montreal Saturday.

Two games on the road before we get a night in our own beds and turn around and do it all over again.

Normally, I like this part. There’s a rhythm to the road I’ve known most of my adult life. Planes. Hotels. Morning skates. Team meals. Games. Occasional hookup. Sleep. Repeat.

Everything you need packed into one bag. Everything else is left at home. Because what matters most is on that ice.

My phone buzzes against the seat, and I grab it before I can stop myself.

Jax snorts.