Chapter Six
Damn It
Banks
The following day, Zayden corners me after practice with that familiar look on his face. The one that means he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
“Got a minute?”
“No.”
“Great.” He falls into step beside me anyway, because Zayden Bishop has never taken a hint in his life. “We need to talk.”
“We really don’t.”
“It’s about Winnie.”
I keep walking. “Not interested.”
“Banks.”
“I said—”
“The guys are out of control.” He steps in front of me, blocking my path to the locker room. “You’ve seen it. Practice has been a disaster all week. Nobody can focus. Coach is losing his mind. And it’s only getting worse.”
I grunt. He’s not wrong. I noticed the same thing.
“She’s miserable,” Zayden continues. “Tori says she’s ready to quit. Two weeks in, and she’s already looking for other jobs.”
That hits harder than I want it to. I think about her in that hallway yesterday, hands shaking after Grayson finally walked away. The way she squared her shoulders and kept going like nothing happened.
“That’s her business,” I say. “Not mine.”
“It’s everyone’s business when it’s affecting the team.” Zayden crosses his arms. “We have a playoff push coming up. We can’t afford to be this distracted.”
It’s the same thought that kept me awake last night. “Then tell the guys to grow up.”
“You think I haven’t tried? Logan listens for about five minutes, then forgets. Grayson doesn’t listen at all. The rest just laugh it off.” He shakes his head. “They need something bigger. Something that actually makes them back off.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“Tori had this idea,” Zayden says slowly. “It’s kind of crazy, but—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is.” He chuckles, shaking his head at me. “She thought maybe if the guys believed Winnie was with someone—someone they wouldn’t mess with—they’d back off. That’s all.”
I stop walking.
“Someone intimidating,” he continues. “Someone they’re actually scared of. Someone who could make it very clear that she’s off-limits.”
I turn around slowly. “You’re talking about me.”
“I’m not talking about anyone. I’m just saying what Tori said.”
“You want me to pretend to be her boyfriend.”
“I want the team to stop acting like idiots so we can win some hockey games.” He shrugs. “How that happens is up to you.”
I stare at him for a long moment. He stares back, not flinching. That’s one thing about Zayden—he’s not scared of me. Never has been. It’s annoying.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say finally.
“Probably.”
“I don’t do fake anything.”
“I know.”
“I don’t do relationships. Fake or otherwise.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why the hell are you telling me this?” I scowl at him, growing agitated.
He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “Because she’s Tori’s best friend. And she’s a good person who doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her. And because you’re one of the only guys on this team who hasn’t been part of the problem.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to be part of the solution.”
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.”
He claps me on the shoulder—I hate when people do that, I don’t do well with physical touch—and walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway like an idiot.
I don’t think about it.
I shower, change, and grab my bag. I don’t think about Winnie or Zayden’s stupid idea or any of it. I think about food. I’m starving. There’s a sandwich place on the way home that does a meatball sub the size of my forearm, and that’s exactly what I need right now.
I’m almost to the exit when I hear it.
Laughter. The wrong kind.
I slow down, glancing toward the training room.
Winnie is standing near the door, tablet in hand, clearly trying to leave. Two of the younger guys—rookies whose names I can never remember—are blocking her path. They’re not being aggressive, exactly. Just… persistent.
“Come on, one selfie,” one of them says. “For my Instagram. My followers would love you.”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” Winnie replies. Her voice is calm, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“It’s just a picture. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is I’m trying to do my job, and you’re making it difficult.”
The other rookie laughs. “She’s feisty. I like that.”
“I’m not feisty. I’m professional. There’s a difference.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
I watch her try to step around them. One of them shifts, blocking her again. Not menacing—just oblivious. Just two guys who think they’re being charming and have no idea how exhausting they are.
Winnie’s expression flickers. Just for a second. But I catch it.
She’s tired. Not just annoyed—she’s tired of their bullshit.
I know that tired. I’ve felt that tired.
She finally manages to slip past them, walking quickly toward the exit. She doesn’t see me standing here. Doesn’t know anyone witnessed that.
Something in my chest twists in a way I don’t like.
This is stupid.
I push through the exit doors, heading for my truck.
This is not my problem.
I unlock the door and toss my bag in the back.
I don’t even like her.
I sit behind the wheel, hands gripping it tight.
That’s not true. I don’t dislike her. I don’t know her well enough to dislike her. She’s just… there. A person who exists in my orbit, causing chaos without meaning to.
I think about practice. The distraction. The sloppiness. Coach threatening suicides if we don’t get our heads out of our asses.
I think about Zayden’s stupid idea. Fake boyfriend. Pretend relationship. Make them think she’s mine so they’ll finally leave her alone.
It’s ridiculous. It would never work.
Except… it might.
The guys respect me. Or fear me. Same difference. If they thought Winnie was with me, they’d back off. Not because they’re good people, but because they’re not stupid enough to mess with something that’s mine.
Something that’s mine.
The thought does something strange to my brain. I shove it away.
But I keep seeing her face. That flicker of exhaustion. All while showing up day after day and trying to do her job.
That takes guts. More guts than half the guys on this team have.
Someone should help her.
I stare out the windshield at the parking lot.
Damn it.
I pull out my phone and check the time. Dana should still be in her office.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m out of the truck and walking back into the facility.
Dana’s office is on the second floor, tucked away in the administrative wing where players rarely venture. I’ve been here maybe three times in six years. Never by choice.
I knock once and push the door open without waiting for a response.
Dana looks up from her computer, eyebrows rising. “Banks. This is unexpected.”
“Got a minute?”
“For you? Always.” She gestures to the chair across from her desk. “Sit.”
I don’t sit. Sitting makes this feel official. Like a meeting. I don’t do meetings.
“I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.” She leans back in her chair, studying me with that sharp gaze that misses nothing. “What’s on your mind?”
I take a breath. Just say it. Rip off the Band-Aid.
“The new yoga instructor. The guys won’t leave her alone.”
Dana’s expression doesn’t change. “I’ve noticed some… enthusiasm for the flexibility program.”
“It’s not enthusiasm. They’re treating her like she’s the entertainment.”
Dana’s eyebrows draw together. “Has she said something to you?”
“No.” I cross my arms, mostly to keep from fidgeting. “It’s just an observation.” I hold her gaze. “Practice has been a disaster. The guys can’t focus. We have a playoff push in six weeks, and the team is falling apart because nobody can stop thinking about the hot yoga instructor.”
Dana is quiet for a long moment. I can see her processing, weighing options. “What do you suggest?” she asks finally.
“I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
This is the stupid part. The part where I say words out loud and can’t take them back.
“By pretending to be her boyfriend until they back off.”
Silence.
Dana stares at me.
Then she laughs.
It’s not a polite laugh. It’s a genuine, caught-off-guard, did-you-really-just-say-that laugh. She presses a hand to her mouth, but it doesn’t help.
“I’m sorry,” she manages. “I’m sorry, I just—you? A boyfriend?”
“Fake boyfriend.”
“That doesn’t make it less funny.”
I wait. I’m good at waiting.
She finally composes herself, wiping her eyes. “Okay. I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.” She takes a breath. “You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“You never look like you’re joking, Banks. That’s the problem.” She studies me for another long moment. “Explain the logic.”
“The guys back off when something’s claimed. That’s just how it works—someone puts their name on food in the fridge, no one touches it. Same principle. If they think she’s with me, they won’t touch her. They might not even look at her wrong.”
“Because they’re scared of you.”
I lift one shoulder. “Because they’re not stupid.”
Dana drums her fingers on the desk, thinking. “It’s unconventional.”
I lift one shoulder. “It’s practical.”
“It could blow up spectacularly.”
“It’ll work.”
She sighs, rubbing her temples. “Banks, I appreciate you bringing this to me. I do. The situation with Miss Garrett is… concerning. But I can’t officially sanction some kind of fake relationship scheme. If it got out—”
“It won’t get out. The only people who need to know it’s fake are you, me, and her.”
Dana leans back in her chair, staring at the ceiling like she’s asking for divine guidance. “This is insane.”
“Probably.”
“This is the kind of thing that ends up in HR training videos as an example of what not to do.”
“Also probably.”
She looks at me. Really looks, like she’s trying to figure out what my angle is. I don’t have an angle. I don’t do angles. I just want the team to stop being idiots and the yoga instructor to stop looking like she’s about to cry.
“Does she know about this plan?” Dana asks.
“Not yet.”
“Maybe start there.” She waves a hand, dismissing me. “Do what you need to do. Just… don’t make it weird. And—if this blows up, I never heard about it.” She turns back to her computer. “Close the door on your way out.”
I leave before she can change her mind. The hallway is quiet. My footsteps echo against the tile as I head back toward the exit.
I just volunteered to fake-date the yoga instructor. Me, Banks Callahan. The guy who hasn’t had a real relationship in six years. The guy who actively avoids human connection. The guy who can barely manage small talk on a good day.
I’m going to pretend to be someone’s boyfriend.
This is a terrible idea.
Now I just have to convince her.
I push through the exit doors into the parking lot, squinting against the late afternoon sun.
Winnie Garrett. Honey blonde hair. Big blue eyes. A smile that could power a damn city.
I climb into my truck and sit there for a minute, processing.
How do you even start that conversation?
“Hey, I know we’ve barely spoken, but want to pretend to date me so my teammates stop being creeps?”
Smooth. Real smooth.
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot.
I’ll figure it out. I have to figure it out.
Because I already told Dana I’d handle it, and if there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s go back on my word.
Even when my word involves the dumbest idea I’ve ever agreed to.