Chapter Five
The Plan
Banks
I have five alarms. I slept through all of them.
The locker room is already buzzing when I reach my stall. Guys are half-dressed, lacing skates, and talking shit—just the usual pre-practice chaos. I drop my bag and start stripping down, trying to make up for lost time.
“—told you, she’s into me. Did you see the way she looked at me yesterday?”
I don’t have to ask who they’re talking about. There’s only one topic of conversation around here lately.
“She looked at you like she wanted to kill you,” someone else says. Archer, I think. “That’s not interest, Reed. That’s homicidal intent.”
“Same thing.” Grayson’s smirk is audible. “Passion is passion.”
I keep my head down and pull on a pair of shorts. Not my business.
“I’m telling you, she’s playing hard to get. Women like that—they want to be chased. They want you to work for it.”
“Or maybe she just wants to do her job without you drooling all over her,” Logan offers. “Just a thought.”
“Please. You’ve been drooling harder than anyone.”
“I’ve been appreciating. There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not,” Archer says.
I grab my shin guards and strap them into place while the conversation flows around me.
“Did you see what she was wearing yesterday? Those leggings. Her curves.” He makes a chef’s kiss noise.
“Her ass in downward dog is a religious experience.”
“I’d let her stretch me out any day.”
Laughter. More comments. Each one cruder than the last.
My jaw tightens. I don’t say anything.
I should say something.
Instead, I finish dressing, tugging on hockey socks over the shin pads with more force than necessary.
I lace up my skates with numb fingers, then grab my helmet and head for the tunnel before I have to hear any more.
The cold air of the rink hits my face, and I breathe it in, letting it clear my head.
Not my problem. Not my business.
I repeat it like a mantra as I step onto the ice.
Practice is a disaster.
Coach Donovan Reynolds is running line drills—the same ones we’ve done a thousand times.
He played twelve years in the league before his knees gave out, and now he channels all that frustrated energy into making our lives miserable.
Simple stuff, stay in position, move the puck, communicate.
Basic fundamentals that we should be able to do in our sleep.
Instead, we look like a peewee team on their first day.
Passes go wide. Positioning is sloppy. Two guys nearly collide because neither one is paying attention to where they’re supposed to be.
“What the hell is wrong with you today?” Coach’s voice echoes across the rink. “My grandmother could skate better than this, and she’s been dead for fifteen years!”
We line up again, run the drill again, screw it up again.
I’m not immune. My timing is off; my head is somewhere else. I keep thinking about the locker room conversation. About the way they talked about her like she was entertainment instead of a person.
About the way she looked when she asked if I enjoyed the show.
The bitterness in her voice. The crack in her composure.
“Banks! You planning to join us today, or should I just scratch you from the lineup?”
I snap back to attention. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry doesn’t win games.” He blows his whistle. “Again. From the top. And this time, try to remember you’re professional hockey players, not a bunch of ballerinas.”
We run the drill again. It’s marginally better. Not good, but better.
By the time practice ends, everyone is exhausted and irritable. Coach dismisses us with a warning that tomorrow better be different, or we’re running suicides until someone pukes.
I linger on the ice after everyone else heads in, taking slow laps to cool down. My shoulder aches—it always aches these days—and my head is full of noise I can’t quiet.
The team is distracted. That’s the problem. They’re so busy thinking about the yoga instructor that they can’t focus on their actual jobs.
And the yoga instructor is so busy dealing with their bullshit that she can’t focus on hers.
It’s affecting everyone. It’s affecting the team. We have a playoff push coming up, and we’re moving across the ice like we’ve never seen a puck before.
Someone needs to do something.
Not me, obviously. But someone.
I finally head in, strip off my gear, and head to the showers. The hot water helps loosen my shoulder, and I stay under the spray longer than I should, letting the steam clear my head.
By the time I’m dressed and heading for the exit, the facility is quieter. Most of the guys have already left. I’m always thinking about food—and whether I have time to stop somewhere before my afternoon workout—when I see them.
Winnie and Grayson.
She runs yoga sessions four days a week, and we’re all supposed to attend at least one.
Most guys treat it like a joke—an excuse to show up and stare.
Right now she’s in the hallway near the training room, and Grayson’s leaning against the wall, blocking her path, that same smug expression on his face.
She’s got her arms crossed, her bag over her shoulder, clearly trying to leave.
I slow down, stopping near the water fountain, pretending to get a drink.
“Come on, just one drink,” Grayson is saying. “What’s the harm?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Her voice is polite. Professional. But there’s an edge underneath it.
“Why not? We’re both adults. We’re both single. I’m a good time, I promise.”
“I’m sure you are. But I’m not interested.”
“You haven’t even given me a chance.”
“I don’t need to give you a chance.” Still polite, but firmer now. “I’m here to do a job. That’s it.”
“See, that’s your problem.” Grayson pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You’re too focused on work. You need to loosen up. Have some fun.”
“And you think you’re the one to help me with that?”
“I think I could help you with a lot of things.”
My hand tightens on the water fountain. The urge to walk over there and physically remove him is almost overwhelming.
But it’s not my business. She doesn’t need me to save her. She can handle herself.
Can’t she?
“Reed.” Her voice is sharper now. “I’ve tried to be polite about this, but let me be very clear. I’m not interested. I’m not going to be interested. And if you keep pushing, I’m going to have to take this to Dana.”
Grayson’s expression flickers—surprise, maybe, or annoyance. Then he smooths it out into that easy grin.
“Relax. I’m just being friendly.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “No need to get HR involved.”
“Then maybe take the hint.”
He laughs, but it’s not genuine. There’s something ugly underneath it. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
He walks away, brushing past me without a glance. I watch him go, resisting the urge to trip him.
When I turn back, Winnie is still standing there. She’s got her bag clutched tight, her shoulders stiff. And her hands—
Her hands are shaking.
She notices me watching. Our eyes meet across the hallway.
For a second, neither of us moves. Her expression shifts—embarrassment, maybe, or frustration. Like she’s annoyed that I witnessed that. Like she wanted to handle it without an audience.
I don’t say anything. I don’t offer comfort or commentary or any of the things a normal person might say.
I just nod. Once. Acknowledgment without intrusion.
She nods back, a tiny motion, and then turns and walks away.
I watch her go, something uncomfortable settling in my chest.
She handled it. She was polite but firm. She stood her ground. She didn’t need me to step in.
But her hands were shaking.
She’s dealing with this every day. The comments, the staring, the guys who can’t take a hint. She’s doing her job under conditions that would make anyone miserable, and she’s doing it alone.
Someone should do something about that.
I grab my bag and head for the parking lot, the thought following me like a shadow. Someone should step in. Talk to Dana. Talk to the guys. Make it clear that this behavior isn’t acceptable.
Someone. Not me. I don’t get involved in drama. I keep my head down, do my job, and go home. That’s how I’ve survived this long.
But the image of her shaking hands won’t leave my head. I stop at my truck, keys in hand, and stand there for a long moment.
She looked so small in that hallway. Not physically—she’s average height, normal build—but something about the way she held herself. Like she was bracing for impact. Like she’s been bracing for impact since the day she started.
That’s not right.
I think about my foster mom. The good one. Celine. The one who actually cared, even if I was too messed up by then to let her in. She used to say that the measure of a man wasn’t what he did when people were watching; it was what he did when no one was.
No one’s watching now.
No one would know if I just got in my truck and drove away, and let this be someone else’s problem.
I get in the truck. Start the engine. Sit there with my hands on the wheel, not moving.
Not my problem.
The words feel hollow this time.
I think about the locker room. The way they talked about her.
The way no one pushed back except Logan, and even that was half-hearted.
I think about practice. The sloppy passes, the missed cues, the distraction bleeding into everything we do.
I think about her standing in the yoga studio yesterday, trying to put herself back together before anyone could see she’d fallen apart.
I think about Grayson calling her sweetheart like he had any right to.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. Yeah, someone should do something. And maybe—maybe that someone is me.
I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know what I could do. It’s not like I can just tell twenty guys to stop being idiots. It’s not like I can follow her around all day, glaring at anyone who looks at her wrong.
But there has to be something.
I pull out of the parking lot, heading toward my apartment, the thought turning over and over in my head.
By the time I get home, I still don’t have an answer. I eat leftover pasta standing at the kitchen counter, then a protein bar, then half a sleeve of crackers because I’m still hungry. I think about texting Zayden, asking if he’s noticed how bad things have gotten.
But I don’t—not yet, anyway. Instead, I sit on my couch, stare at the wall, and try to figure out why I care so much about a woman I barely know.
She’s pretty. That’s obvious. But I’ve seen pretty before. Pretty doesn’t usually make me want to punch my own teammates.
It’s something else. The way she holds herself. The way she tries so hard to be professional even when they’re making it impossible. The way she asked me if I enjoyed the show, like she expected me to be just as bad as the rest of them.
She expected me to be like them.
And I wasn’t.
I’m not.
I don’t know what I am, but I’m not that.
The thought circles back again, stubborn and insistent. Someone should do something.
I reach for another protein bar, tearing it open.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll figure out what.