Chapter Two
Not My Problem
Banks
I’m in the weight room, working through my second set of deadlifts, when the doors to the training room swing open and half the team spills out like puppies who just discovered a new toy. They’re loud, animated, and way too energized for guys who just spent an hour stretching.
“Bro, did you see her?”
“I’m signing up for every session. Every single one.”
“Those leggings should be illegal.”
I rack the barbell and grab my water bottle, watching the chaos unfold through the glass partition.
Logan is bouncing around like the golden retriever he is, talking with his hands, practically vibrating.
A few of the younger guys huddle together, phones out, probably already stalking her Instagram.
We have a playoff push this spring. These idiots are acting like they’ve never seen a woman before.
“You see the new girl? Yoga just became my favorite part of the week.”
I turn to find Grayson Reed leaning against the squat rack, that smug smile plastered across his face. I don’t like Reed; never have. He’s got the talent to be good and the attitude to make sure he never will be.
“Didn’t notice,” I say.
“Bullshit.” He grins wider. “You can’t put a woman who looks like that in a room full of hockey players and expect us to concentrate. Dana’s either clueless or she’s running some kind of social experiment.”
I stare at him until his smile falters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I turn back to the weights. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
He mutters something under his breath—probably an insult, definitely not worth my time—and wanders off. Good. I have three more sets to finish, and I’m not in the mood to babysit.
Except now I’m thinking about her.
The yoga instructor. Winnie. Tori’s friend.
I met her once, about a month ago. She’d stopped by our table at lunch, said hi to Zayden, then turned that smile on me.
I’d opened my mouth to say something. Hello, nice to meet you…whatever normal people say. But nothing came out. It was like I’d forgotten how to speak.
Just sat there like an idiot, managed half a nod, and shoved food in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to explain why my brain had suddenly stopped working.
She’d looked at me like I was either rude or broken. Probably both.
Whatever. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to play hockey, collect my paycheck, and go home. In that order.
I grab a protein bar from my bag—my third of the morning—and tear it open. The weight room is emptying out now, guys heading to the showers or the locker room or wherever else they go when they’re not making fools of themselves over a pretty face.
This is exactly why you don’t hire someone who looks like she walked out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog to work with a bunch of—
I stop myself.
It’s not her fault she’s beautiful. It’s not her fault that half the roster has the self-control of a fourteen-year-old boy. She’s here to do a job, same as the rest of us.
Doesn’t mean I have to like the distraction.
I finish the protein bar and start on my next set, trying to focus on the burn in my muscles instead of the noise in my head. It doesn’t work. My brain keeps circling back to things I don’t want to think about.
The way the guys looked at her. The way Reed smiled when he talked about her.
The way she’d smiled at Zayden like they were old friends, easy and warm, and hadn’t even tried to make conversation with me.
Not that I wanted her to. I don’t do conversation. I don’t do small talk.
I learned a long time ago that getting close to people only leads to disappointment. Foster homes taught me that. Four different families in eight years, each one promising this time would be different. This time you’ll stay. This time we’ll be a real family.
Lies. All of it.
So I stopped trying. Stopped hoping. Built walls so high and so thick that nobody could get through, even if they wanted to.
It’s easier this way. Safer.
“You’re going to pull something if you keep scowling like that.” Zayden drops onto the bench next to me, water bottle in hand. He’s in workout gear, a towel slung around his neck, looking way too cheerful for leg day.
“I’m not scowling.”
“You’re always scowling. But this is more than usual.” He takes a long drink. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Convincing.”
I grunt and reach for another protein bar. Zayden watches me unwrap it with raised eyebrows.
“That’s your fourth one today.”
“Your point?” I’m starving again. I’m always starving.
He shakes his head but doesn’t push it. That’s one of the things I tolerate about Zayden—he knows when to let things go. Zayden’s been through a lot. He was a single father before Tori came into his life, and he’s one of my best friends on the team.
“So,” he says, stretching out the word. “Tori’s friend started today.”
I chew. Swallow. “The yoga instructor?”
“Yeah. Winnie.”
“I noticed.” I take another bite. “So did everyone else.”
Zayden’s quiet for a moment. I can feel him studying me, trying to read something in my expression. Good luck. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of giving nothing away.
“She’s good people,” he says finally. “Been through some shit recently. Bad breakup. She’s trying to start over.”
I don’t respond. It’s not my business. I don’t care about her bad breakup or her fresh start or any of the other details Zayden is clearly trying to feed me.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “she could use people in her corner. The guys can be a lot.”
“Not my problem.”
“Never said it was.”
We sit in silence for a minute. I finish my protein bar and crumple the wrapper, tossing it toward the trash can.
Movement catches my eye through the glass partition.
She’s out there. Winnie. Standing by the water fountain, talking to one of the equipment managers.
She’s laughing at something he said, head thrown back, hand touching his arm in that easy way some people have.
Like physical contact is natural, simple—not something that has to be calculated and controlled.
Something twists in my chest.
I ignore it.
She’s pretty. So what? Lots of girls are pretty. Doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t change anything.
Her eyes drift across the facility, scanning the room, and for a second—just a second—they land on me.
I look away first.
“I should finish my sets,” I say, standing.
Zayden nods, but there’s something knowing in his expression that I don’t like. “Sure, man. See you at practice.”
I grab my water bottle and head for the far corner of the weight room, as far from the glass partition as I can get.
Not my problem. Not my business.
I repeat it like a mantra as I load up the barbell.
I glance toward the glass one more time. She’s gone.
Good.
I turn back to the weights and get to work.