“Viral how?”

“There’s a video.”

“What kind of video?” I get this horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, the kind I used to get when RJ started playing professional hockey and he was constantly on some social media site doing unspeakable things with women. No one ever needs to see their older brother, who up until that point I’d idolized, making out with two women at the same time in a hot tub.

“The kind where it looks like you’re trying to climb inside each other’s mouths.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.” My stomach is no longer sinking; it’s flip-flopping around.

“I can’t do that unless you want me to lie to you.” I can practically hear Pattie’s cringe.

“Shit.” Reality sets in, along with panic. “Shit, shit, shit. Is it really bad?”

“Like, is it a bad video?”

“Is a video of people making out in public ever good?” I roll off the bed and pace the room.

This would explain the massive number of messages I have this morning. There were a lot from my brother, so I’m taking that as an omen of the not-good variety. “What site is it on? Can we get it taken down? People can do that, right?”

I’d like to believe viral in the hockey world is a lot different from viral in the general sense of the word, but I’m not sure that would be accurate. Not with this being Seattle’s first year with a hockey team.

“The video has been shared fifty-seven thousand times and has more than four hundred thousand likes.”

“Oh my God.” I think I might actually be sick.

“If it makes you feel better, it’s a really hot video.”

I consider that for several stupid, long seconds. It shouldn’t make me feel better at all, but in the grand scheme of things I guess it’s better than looking like a wasted hag. “I wish that helped.” My phone buzzes with yet another message from my brother. Obviously he’s seen the video—it’s the only explanation for the incessant texts.

“What do I search so I can see this video?”

“I’ll put a link in your messages, but whatever you do, don’t read the comments.”

I don’t ask if it’s that bad again, because clearly it is.

I’m about to put her on speakerphone and check the link she’s sent me when the bathroom door swings open. “Wanna sixty-nine before breakfast?” Bishop stands there in all his gorgeous naked glory, his predatory expression and slight smirk dripping slowly from his face as he takes in what is likely my highly panicked expression.

“What’s going on?” He takes several steps toward me. He’s half-hard, so his peen bobs distractingly.

“I gotta let you go,” I tell Pattie.

“Call me later.”

“’Kay.” I end the call and glance at my phone.

“Stevie? Why do you look like you’re about to freak out?”

“There’s a video,” I croak, scrolling to Pattie’s most recent message, including the link to the video. It was uploaded by user J$0124 twelve hours ago and has endless tags and hashtags attached to it. Since Joey’s birthday is January 24, I’m going to go ahead and say he’s the reason for this unnecessary bullshit.

“What kind of video?”

“Of us kissing, apparently.” I hit the play button.

The video starts as I pull Bishop’s mouth to mine. His hand hovers close to my cheek for several long seconds before it settles against my skin. It’s a tentative, almost romantic kiss at first, until we really get going. Then it’s not so sweetly innocent. I’m the one gripping his hair; I angle his head to the side; I push my hips into his.

We are totally dry humping on the dance floor. In front of my colleagues, bosses, and clients. This is really, really bad.

Another message comes in from my brother.

“I can handle this,” Bishop says.

“How exactly are you going to handle this?” I wave the phone around in the air, my panic overriding any remaining thread of logic. I accidentally hit play again, and the sound of us groaning into each other’s mouths fills the room. It’s so much different when I’m seeing it secondhand through my phone. And infinitely more mortifying. “RJ is going to lose his mind.”

“I’ll explain the situation.”

“Which is what, exactly?” I start pacing, trying to find a way to calm myself down, but the more time I have to let this sink in, the worse the panic gets. The hashtag #puckbunny is attached to the video. It’s essentially my worst nightmare come true.

“That we’re dating.”

“You can’t tell him that!”

Bishop crosses his arms, the furrow in his brow deepening along with the downturn of his lips. “Why not?”

I flail and pace some more. “Because . . . because you can’t! This looks so bad!” I’ve been made to look like a puck bunny. And now all the work we did to get Bishop back in the game means nothing because we’re eating each other’s faces. I made out with him at a work function. It makes me look anything but professional now. And any recommendation he might have given me is useless since everyone saw us playing tonsil hockey.

“Well, the easiest way for it to stop looking bad is if we tell people we’re dating.”

“But we’re not dating.”

Bishop pokes at his cheek with his tongue. “Are you still hung up on your douche ex?”

“What? No! Of course not.”

“Then why can’t we be dating? We spend all our free time together.”

“That was for PT.” I hear what he’s saying, and he’s right: it makes the most logical sense. But I can’t get out of the spiral of panic that this video incites. I’ll be right in the middle of Bishop’s limelight now that he’s back on the ice. The same limelight I’ve worked so hard to stay out of. The one that’s only ever given me grief the very few times I’ve been inadvertently caught up in it.

Until now it’s been blissfully peaceful. Sure, Bishop would pick me up in public places, but he always wore a hat and sunglasses, and I always had a hoodie to hide behind. At work no one would make a big deal of him coming to the clinic because everyone was used to athletes, and no one wanted to be the uncontrollable fan who loses their mind over someone they might one day have the honor of treating. Plus I work on a university campus, which is the last place anyone would ever expect an NHL player to hang out.

“Last night had fuck all to do with PT,” Bishop says.

“You haven’t touched a woman in how long? Emotions were running high. You’re on testosterone overload, which I totally get. You were doing me a favor, and we took it to the next level.” Stevie, stop talking! I know I’m spewing the most horrible BS and I need to stop, but I’m freaking out.

Bishop blinks slowly. “I thought we already established that this wasn’t a favor. It was me making sure that your dick ex knows that you’re not available and he doesn’t have a chance with you. Not ever again. That video makes things a lot easier, if you think about it.”

“Easier how?” All I can see is the nightmare this is going to be: people asking questions and wanting things from me because I know Bishop and I’m related to RJ. All the time I’ve spent protecting myself from the spotlight has been for nothing.