Chapter Four
Wine and Bad Ideas
Winnie
Tori and Zayden’s townhome is the kind of place that makes you want to throw out all your furniture and start over.
Exposed brick walls, hardwood floors that gleam under warm pendant lighting, and a kitchen island big enough to land a small plane on. The whole place is tasteful, gorgeous, and impossibly expensive.
I try not to feel weird about it as I knock on the door, a wine bottle in one hand and a block of fancy cheese in the other. Tori grew up middle-class, just like me. She just happened to fall in love with a professional athlete who treats her like a queen and has the salary to match.
Good for her. Really.
The door swings open, and I’m immediately tackled by a six-year-old blur of dark hair and sparkly pajamas.
“Winnie!”
“Hey, Maisie!” I crouch down to catch her, somehow managing not to drop the wine. “Look at you! Are those dinosaur slippers?”
“They’re T-Rexes.” She holds up one foot proudly. “Daddy got them for me. They roar when you stomp.”
She demonstrates, stomping her foot on the hardwood. A tinny roar echoes from the slipper.
“That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know.” She grabs my free hand and tugs me inside. “Come on, Tori said you were coming over for girls’ night, but I told her I’m a girl too, so I should get to stay up.”
“Nice try, little shadow.” Zayden appears from the living room, scooping Maisie up and tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She shrieks with laughter. “Bedtime was fifteen minutes ago.”
“But Winnie just got here!”
“And Winnie and Tori are going to have friend time.” He glances at me, grinning. “Hey, Winnie. Good to see you.”
“You too. Love the dad moves.”
“I’ve been practicing.” He shifts Maisie to his hip. “Say goodnight.”
Maisie pouts but knows a losing battle when she sees one. “Goodnight, Winnie. Will you come back soon?”
“Absolutely. Pinky promise.”
We link pinkies, shake on it, and then Zayden hauls her toward the stairs while she waves dramatically over his shoulder like she’s being carried off to war.
Tori appears from the kitchen, two wine glasses already in hand. “She’s been asking about you evening. You’ve officially achieved celebrity status.”
“I’m honored.” I hold up my contributions. “I brought wine and cheese.”
“And I already have wine and cheese.” She grins. “So now we have too much wine and cheese, which is always the correct amount.”
I follow her into the living room, where the coffee table is already covered in snacks—crackers, grapes, three different kinds of cheese, and what looks like some kind of fancy fig spread. Candles flicker on the mantle, and soft music plays from a speaker somewhere.
This is exactly what I needed.
I sink into the corner of the couch, accepting the wine glass Tori hands me. “This place is disgustingly beautiful, you know that?”
“I know.” She curls up on the other end of the couch, tucking her feet underneath her. “When I moved in, Zay wanted to make sure it felt like mine too. He told me to hire a decorator if I wanted, but I insisted on doing it myself. Turns out I have excellent taste.”
“Humble, too.”
“Always.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Okay, spill. Tell me about this rocky start.”
I take a long sip of wine, letting it warm me from the inside. “Where do I even begin?”
“At the beginning. Day one. All of it.”
So I tell her. About the extra players showing up—way more than signed up.
About the front-row stares and the not-so-subtle comments.
About Grayson planting himself three feet away from me, treating every stretch like his personal entertainment.
About the whispers and snickers and the feeling of being watched every second of every class.
About hiding in the equipment closet afterward, trying to hold it together. Like an emotional weirdo.
Tori listens without interrupting, her expression darkening with every word.
“And then there’s Banks,” I say, reaching for a cracker. “He showed up at my session today. Just stood in the corner, watching. Didn’t really participate. Just… lurked.”
“Banks doesn’t lurk. He observes.”
I raise one eyebrow. “There’s a difference?”
“According to Zayden, yes.” She sips her wine. “But he told Grayson to shut up? That’s interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it. Terrifying is another. The whole room went dead silent. Grayson actually looked scared for a second.”
“Good. Grayson should be scared.” Tori pulls her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “What did Banks say to you afterward?”
“He asked if I was okay. Which was weird because the one time I met him before, he barely acknowledged I existed. I figured he hated me.”
“Banks doesn’t hate you. He just takes a while to warm up. He’s not great with new people.”
“Or words.”
“Or words,” she agrees. “But he’s a good guy. Zay trusts him completely.”
Footsteps on the stairs announce Zayden’s return. He appears in the living room doorway, looking tired but content.
“She’s down,” he reports. “Two stories, a glass of water, and a lengthy negotiation about whether T-Rex slippers can sleep in the bed.”
“Can they?”
“Apparently yes, but only if they mind their manners and don’t roar.” He grabs a bottle of water from the kitchen and drops into the armchair across from us. “So, Winnie. I hear the new job is going well.”
I exchange a look with Tori.
“I may have filled him in,” she admits. “Just the basics.”
Zayden leans in, his expression shifting to something more serious. “So, the guys are giving you a hard time?”
“That’s one way to put it.” I reach for my wine. “Your teammates are acting like teenagers who’ve never seen a woman before.”
“To be fair,” Tori cuts in, “you are drop-dead gorgeous. That’s not an excuse—it’s just a fact.”
“It shouldn’t matter what I look like. I’m there to do a job.”
“No, you’re right. It shouldn’t.” Zayden runs a hand through his hair. “Grayson, especially, from what Tori told me. He’s… a lot.”
“He’s a pig,” Tori says flatly.
“He’s young and dumb, with too much money and not enough supervision.” Zayden sighs. “I’m not defending him; what he said was out of line. But the rest of them…”
He trails off, looking uncomfortable. I can tell he’s trying to find a way to express his thoughts without making it worse.
“Just say it,” I urge him. “I can handle honesty.”
“Okay.” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Look, hockey culture is… different. We joke about everything. We tease each other constantly. Chirping is basically its own language—and it’s not just on the ice.
It’s in the locker room, the gym, even the showers.
Nothing is off-limits. Your gear, your haircut, your girlfriend, your mom—everything gets roasted. ”
“Okay… So they’re treating me like one of the guys?”
“Kind of? In a really misguided way?” He grimaces.
“It’s not an excuse. I’m not trying to make excuses.
But most of them aren’t trying to be disrespectful; they just don’t know how to act normally.
They see someone new, someone who—” He stops, clearly choosing his words carefully.
“Someone who doesn’t look like the usual trainers, and their brains short-circuit. ”
“So it’s my fault for being attractive?” I raise one eyebrow.
“No! God, no.” He holds up his hands. “It’s their fault for being immature idiots who can’t function like adults. I’m just saying… most of them are harmless. They’re not trying to make you uncomfortable; they just genuinely don’t know how to act. And they like turning everything into a joke.”
I never wanted to be someone’s joke. “That doesn’t make it easier for me to do my job.”
“No. It doesn’t.” He sighs. “I can talk to some of them if you want. Pull the veteran card. Remind them you’re a professional who deserves respect.”
“Would that help?”
“Honestly? Maybe for a day or two. Then they’d forget and go back to normal.” He pops a grape in his mouth, then looks at Tori. “Babe, should I…?”
“Go.” She waves him off. “We need to brainstorm, and you have an early practice.”
He stands, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Don’t stay up too late scheming.”
“No promises.”
He squeezes my shoulder as he passes. “It’ll get better, Winnie. I promise.”
“Thanks, Zay.”
Then he’s gone, footsteps retreating up the stairs, leaving just me, Tori, and the wine.
She immediately refills both our glasses.
“The worst part is, Dana has actual metrics for this program,” I say. “Flexibility improvements. Injury reduction. If the guys aren’t taking the sessions seriously, I’ll never hit those goals. And if I don’t hit those goals…”
“You lose the job.”
“I can’t take another hit like that. Not after everything.”
Tori nods slowly. “Okay. Let’s problem-solve. What are our options?”
“I could talk to Dana.”
“And say what?”
“I don’t know. That the guys are being inappropriate? That I can’t do my job because they won’t stop staring at me?” I take a long drink. “She’ll think I’m being dramatic or that I can’t handle it. Either way, it doesn’t look good.”
“Okay, so Dana’s a last resort. What else?”
“I could report specific players. Grayson, mainly.”
“Would you?”
I consider it. “I don’t want to make enemies. I just started this job. If I go in guns blazing, reporting people, I’ll be the problem. The difficult one. The woman who can’t take a joke. And I hate that.”
Tori’s jaw tightens, but she nods. “I hate that too, but you might be right. What else?”
“I just ignore it? Keep doing my job and hope they get bored eventually?”
“Has that been working?”
“Not even a little,” I admit.
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of limited options pressing down on both of us.
Then Tori says slowly, “There might be one other thing.”
“What?”
“It’s kind of crazy.”
“At this point, I’ll take crazy.”
She shifts on the couch, tucking her feet under her differently. Stalling.
“Tori.”
“Okay, okay.” She takes a breath. “What if… you weren’t available?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if the guys thought you were taken? Like, seriously taken. By someone they wouldn’t dare mess with.”
I stare at her. “You want me to get a boyfriend?”
“Not a real one. A fake one.” One corner of her mouth lifts, like this is an obvious solution.
“A fake boyfriend.”
“Just hear me out.” She’s getting that look—the one she gets when she’s convinced she’s brilliant. “The guys would back off immediately if they thought you were with someone. Someone intimidating. Someone they’re actually scared of.”
“And who exactly would that be?”
Tori doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at me with raised eyebrows, waiting for me to catch up.
It takes me a second.
Then it clicks.
“No.”
“Just think about it—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Banks would be perfect!”
“Banks can barely form complete sentences around me!” I set down my wine before I spill it. “He looks at me like I’m a problem he’s trying to solve!”
“He looks at everyone like that. That’s just his face.” She waves one hand.
“It’s a terrifying face…”
“Exactly!” Tori points at me triumphantly. “That’s the whole point! No one messes with Banks. He’s huge, he’s scary, and he’s got a reputation for being protective. If the guys thought you two were together, they’d back off immediately. They wouldn’t dare mess with you.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
“You wouldn’t have to actually date him. You’d just have to, like, stand near him sometimes. Let him glare at anyone who looks at you wrong. Maybe hold hands in the hallway.”
“Hold hands,” I repeat flatly, my brain spiraling. What would that even be like? To touch a giant beast of a man like Banks… I can’t even really imagine it.
“Or whatever. Put your hand on his arm. Sit next to him at lunch. The point is visibility. Make them think you’re his, and no one will touch you.”
“This is insane.”
“It’s genius.”
“Well, there’s no way he’d agree to it.” I shake my head. “We’re not friends. We’re barely acquaintances. I can’t just walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, I know you don’t like talking to me, but want to pretend to be my boyfriend?’”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s humiliating!” The words come out louder than I intended. “I don’t want to beg some guy I barely know to protect me from his teammates. I came here to do a job, not to become someone’s damsel in distress.”
Tori’s expression softens. “You’re not a damsel. Sorry, I’m just… brainstorming.”
“Can we table this for now?” I ask. “I need to think. And drink more wine.”
“Of course.” She squeezes my hand once more, then releases it.
We finish the wine and move on to safer topics—her clinic, the stress of wedding planning, and a truly unhinged reality TV show we’re both obsessed with. By the time I leave, I’m warm, slightly tipsy, and almost convinced that everything will be fine.
Almost.
The drive home is quiet. I keep the radio off, letting my thoughts unspool in the darkness.
Banks Callahan.
It’s ridiculous. The whole idea is absurd.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
The way he stood in that corner, arms crossed, watching. All six-foot-four of him, built like a brick wall, with that sharp jaw and those intense dark eyes. The way he didn’t hesitate to shut Grayson down. The way he asked if I was okay—gruff and awkward, sure, but genuine.
He’s terrifying. But maybe terrifying is exactly what I need.
No, I tell myself firmly as I pull into my parking spot. You’re not doing this. You’re going to figure out another way.
But as I lie in bed an hour later, staring at the ceiling, the idea keeps circling back.
What if it worked?
What if one simple lie could make all of this go away?
What if Banks Callahan—silent, scowling, impossibly intimidating Banks Callahan—was the answer I didn’t know I was looking for?
I roll over, punching my pillow into submission.
It’s crazy. It would never work. He’d never agree to it.
But I’m still thinking about it when I finally fall asleep.