Chapter Seven
Making a Friend
Sydney
Archer drops this on me while I’m making the twins’ lunch.
“Winnie wants to take you out.”
I look up from the cutting board where I’m slicing strawberries into pieces small enough that the twins can’t choke on them. “Who’s Winnie?”
“Banks’s fiancée. She does yoga for the team. She’s, uh—” He reaches past me for a glass, his arm brushing mine, and I lose the thread for a second. “She’s great. You’ll like her.”
“You want me to go out with a stranger.”
“She’s not a stranger. She’s basically family at this point. Hockey family, anyway. And I thought it would be good for you to know someone here, in case you need anything while I’m on the road.”
He says this casually, like it’s just logistics.
Like he’s handing me the spare key to the Lexus again.
But I can see the underlying concern he won’t voice, that I’m in a city where I don’t know anyone, spending my days with two three-year-olds and my nights on his couch.
Maybe Archer thinks I need a local girlfriend.
“When?” I ask.
“Saturday. Bree has the kids.”
I haven’t been out—actually out, adult-out, no-diaper-bag-out—since I got here. The thought of wearing real clothes and drinking wine at a table that doesn’t have Goldfish crackers ground into the surface is almost disorienting.
“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Tell her I’m in.”
He nods. “Great. I’ll pass along your number.”
The wine bar is in the West Village, one of those narrow candlelit places with exposed brick, and a chalkboard menu. I’m wearing the one nice dress I packed—black, simple, the kind of thing that works for everything from job interviews to funerals to whatever this is.
Winnie is already at a table near the back when I walk in.
She stands when she sees me, and the first thing I notice is that she’s warm.
Not warm like polite. Warm like the sun—immediate, full-body, impossible to resist. She’s got honey-colored hair, curves, and a smile that makes me feel like we’ve already been friends for years.
“Sydney.” She pulls me into a hug before I can decide if we’re hugging people. “I’m so glad you came. Archer talks about you constantly.”
“He does?”
“Constantly. It’s actually a little embarrassing for him. Banks had to tell him to cool it during a team dinner because he kept bringing up ‘Syd said’ and ‘Syd thinks’ like you were his thesis advisor.”
I laugh and sit down, immediately feeling better about everything.
She’s already ordered a bottle of red, which she pours without asking, and within five minutes I know three things about Winnie: she’s originally from the Midwest (Indiana), she’s been with Banks for about a year, and she has zero tolerance for bullshit, which she delivers with such cheerful warmth that you don’t realize you’ve been called out until it’s over.
“So,” she says, settling back with her glass, “tell me everything. How long have you and Archer known each other?”
“Oh gosh, forever. Since high school.”
She nods. “And you’re living in his house.”
“Temporarily, yeah. Just to help with the twins.”
“Mm-hm.” She sips her wine. “That’s a long time. You must know him better than anyone.”
“Probably. Yeah.”
“And you’ve never…” She lets the sentence trail off, one eyebrow raised, the question so casual it barely registers as one.
“No.” I say it quickly, too quickly. “We’re friends. We’ve always been friends.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
Except my brain—my unhelpful, traitorous, wine-loosened brain—chooses this exact moment to supply a memory I did not request.
I asked him one afternoon after school.
We were in his truck, parked in my driveway with the engine running. I don’t remember what we had been talking about—homework, probably, or the hockey game that weekend—and I just said it. Blurted it out like it had been sitting in my throat for months, which it had.
“I want you to be my first.”
He went still. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he stared straight ahead through the windshield at my mom’s garage door, not saying anything for what felt like an hour but was probably just seconds.
“Syd.”
“I’m serious. I’ve thought about it. I don’t want it to be some random guy at a party. I want it to be someone I trust, and I trust you more than anyone.”
He said no. Gently, carefully—he said he didn’t think it was a good idea, that it could mess things up between us, that he didn’t want to hurt me.
I told him it was fine, no big deal, to forget I mentioned it.
I got out of the truck, walked inside, and went straight to my room, pressed my face into my pillow and tried not to cry.
Two days later, he showed up at my door. My mom was at book club. He stood on the porch with his hands in his pockets and said, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay. If you still want to. I’ll, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll do it. If you still want me to.”
It happened a couple of days later. His parents were out, so he invited me over. The house was quiet in a way that made every sound louder—the click of the lock, the creak of his bed frame, the rustle of his sheets when he pulled them back.
We stood there looking at each other for a long time. He was so tall, even then—six-two at eighteen, all limbs and broad shoulders he hadn’t grown into yet. I remember thinking he looked terrified, and that made me feel braver, because if he was scared too, then at least we were scared together.
He kissed me first. Slow and careful, his hand on my jaw, tilting my face up. I’d kissed boys before, but not like this—not with my whole body leaning into it, not with my hands sliding up his chest and feeling his heart hammering under my palm.
We lay down. He was above me, his weight new and warm, and everywhere. I remember the exact moment I stopped being nervous—when he pushed my hair back from my face, looked at me—really looked at me—and said, “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
He was careful. So careful it almost broke me. When he pushed inside me, there was a pinch—sharp and brief—and I sucked in a breath, causing his whole body to lock up. He froze, hovering over me, his arms shaking.
“Syd. Are you—”
“I’m okay. Keep going.”
“Are you sure?”
“Archer. Keep going.”
He did. Slowly. Watching my face the entire time, adjusting every time my expression changed, reading me the way he reads the ice—every detail, every shift.
The pinch faded, replaced by heat and closeness, his mouth on my neck and his breath against my ear.
I wrapped my arms around his back and pulled him closer because I’d dreamed about this—literally dreamed about it, lying in my bed across town and imagining what it would feel like to have him this close—and the reality was better.
The reality was his skin hot against mine, his hands in my hair, and the quiet sounds he made. Soon, he couldn’t seem to be careful anymore. He swore, apologized, and asked if I was okay as he moved faster. I told him I was.
Afterward, he pulled me against his chest. His heart was still racing, and I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathed him in, and thought: he feels it too. He has to feel this too.
The next morning, he picked me up for school and asked if I wanted to stop for coffee.
His voice was normal, his smile was normal, and everything felt normal as I sat in the passenger seat.
It was then that I understood with perfect, devastating clarity that everything had changed for me and nothing had changed for him.
“Sydney?”
I blinked. Winnie was watching me across the table, her glass halfway to her lips.
“Sorry. Zoned out.” My face was on fire. My whole body was on fire. “Can you excuse me for a second? I need to use the restroom.”
“Of course.”
I grab my bag and walk to the bathroom with the focused calm of a woman who is absolutely not falling apart. The bathroom is small—one stall, a mirror, a sink with fancy soap. I lock the door, press my hands on the counter, and look at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed. I turn on the cold water and press my wet fingers to the back of my neck.
It was a long time ago. Since then, I’ve had other relationships. I dated Matt for a year and a half. I’ve kissed and slept with other men, building a life that had nothing to do with Archer Lockwood’s bedroom.
But my body seems to remember none of that. It recalls his hands, his breath on my neck, the sound he made—quiet, involuntary, surprised—like touching me was something he hadn’t anticipated.
I stare at myself in the mirror. “Get it together,” I whisper.
I dry my hands, fix my hair, take one more deep breath, and walk back out.
Winnie is on her phone when I sit down, and she puts it away with a smile. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Long week.”
“I bet.” She refills my glass—this woman is generous with the wine—and leans forward on her elbows. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“When I first started working with the team, Banks and I had to fake-date to get the other guys to back off. It was this whole arrangement—rules, boundaries, totally professional.” She takes a sip. “It lasted about three weeks before we were making out in a supply closet.”
I choke on my wine. “Seriously?”
“I’m telling you this because I recognize what it looks like when two people pretend they don’t have feelings for each other. I did it for an entire season. I almost lost the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too scared to admit I wanted it.”
I set my glass down. “Winnie, Archer and I are not—”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying.” She shrugs, easy and without pressure. “Sometimes the thing you’re most afraid of is already happening. Fighting it just makes it hurt more.”
I have no idea how to respond. So I drink my wine and change the subject to something safer—her yoga practice, my dance background, the overlap between the two—and Winnie lets me redirect without pushing. She’s good at that.
By the end of the bottle, we’re laughing about the players’ flexibility (or lack thereof). She’s shown me three videos of Banks attempting crow pose that should probably be classified as comedy, and I feel lighter than I have in weeks.
“We’re doing this again,” she says as we settle the check. “Next Saturday. Same place.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. “I’d like that.”
We hug outside on the sidewalk. She holds on for a moment longer than polite.
“He’s lucky to have you, you know,” she says. “Whatever you are to each other. He’s lucky.”
“We’re friends,” I say, and the word feels different than it used to. Smaller. Like it doesn’t truly capture what he means to me.
“Sure,” Winnie replies with a smile, then hails a cab.
I stand on the sidewalk and watch her walk away. The city is loud around me—horns, voices, the distant rumble of the subway beneath my feet. I pull out my phone and text Lauren.
Me: I made a friend tonight.
Lauren: A real one or a hockey wife?
Me: Both. She’s great.
Lauren: Did she ask about Archer?
Me: Obviously.
Lauren: And?
I stare at my phone as the city hums around me.
A taxi honks nearby. Somewhere in a brownstone across town, Archer is probably on the couch in his sweatpants, watching a game.
The thought of him there—comfortable, alone, waiting for me to come home—makes my chest ache in a way I’m running out of excuses for.
Me: And nothing. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
Lauren: You keep using that word.
I pocket my phone and flag down a cab. The driver asks where I’m headed, and I give him Archer’s address. When I say it out loud—his street, his house number—it sounds like going home.
But it’s not home. It’s temporary.
Everything about this is temporary.
I repeat it twice in my head during the ride back, as if the repetition can make it true.