Chapter Seven
The Proposition
Winnie
The following day, I’m sanitizing the yoga mats when a shadow falls over me.
A very large shadow.
I look up, and up, and up—because apparently that’s what you have to do when Banks Callahan is standing three feet away.
“Um,” I say eloquently. “Hi?”
He doesn’t respond immediately. He just stands there, arms crossed, looking deeply uncomfortable—like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than in this yoga studio talking to me.
That makes two of us.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, setting down the sanitizer. “Did you need… a mat? A foam roller?” Directions to literally anywhere else?
His jaw tightens. “I have a proposition.”
I blink. “Um… okay?”
“Not that kind of proposition.” He says it quickly, like he’s just realized how that sounded. “A… business proposition. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Can we—” He glances toward the hallway, then back at me. “Can we talk? Somewhere private?”
My heart does a weird little stutter. Banks Callahan wants to talk to me. Privately. The same Banks Callahan who has spoken maybe twenty words to me total, most of them variations of “shut up” directed at other people.
This can’t be good.
“We’re alone,” I point out. “Everyone’s gone for the day.”
He nods once, then steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
The studio is dim; I usually like it with the overhead lights off, but now it feels almost too intimate—being alone in here with him.
He looks around as if he’s casing the place for threats, then settles his gaze back on me.
“I talked to Dana,” he says.
“Okay…”
“About you. The situation.”
My stomach drops. “What situation?”
“The guys. The way they’ve been acting.” He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s affecting the team. Practice has been sloppy. Focus is shot. We have playoffs coming up.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I remain silent.
“It’s not your fault,” he adds, like an afterthought. “Just to be clear. None of this is your fault.”
“Thanks?” I’m so confused. “I still don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
He takes a breath. Lets it out. Looks at me with an expression that might be determination or might be constipation—it’s hard to tell with him.
“I have a solution,” he says. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“That’s a great sales pitch. Really compelling.” My mouth lifts into an awkward half-smile.
“Just—hear me out.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that’s annoyingly attractive. “The guys back off when something’s claimed. It’s like calling dibs. You claim a stall, a parking spot, the last slice of pizza—nobody touches it.”
I stare at him. “Are you comparing me to a slice of pizza?”
“I’m comparing you to—” He stops, frustrated. “That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is, if the guys think you’re with someone, they’ll back off. And if that someone is me, they’ll really back off.”
The words hang in the air between us. I wait for the punchline, for him to crack a smile and say “gotcha,” then walk out. He doesn’t.
“You want to pretend to date me,” I say slowly, ensuring I understand this correctly.
“Yes.”
I set down the mat I’m still holding because my hands need something to do. “And this would… make the guys leave me alone?”
“They won’t touch something that’s mine.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s explaining how gravity works. “They’re not that stupid.”
“Something that’s yours,” I repeat.
“Someone,” he corrects, though he doesn’t look happy about it.
It’s the same crazy idea Tori had.
I think about Logan’s constant attention, Grayson’s comments, the endless parade of guys who suddenly have “tight hamstrings” that need personal attention, and how I can’t walk through the facility without feeling watched.
Then I think about Banks. The way the room went silent when he told Grayson to shut up, how nobody argued, and how even the cockiest guys on the team seem to give him a wide berth.
He’s right. They wouldn’t mess with something—someone—they thought was his.
“This is insane,” I say.
“Probably.”
“This is the kind of thing that happens in bad romantic comedies.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch romantic comedies.”
“Of course you don’t.” I press my fingers to my temples, trying to think. “Okay. Walk me through this. What would it actually look like?”
He seems relieved that I’m not immediately saying no. “Public only. We act like we’re together when other people are around. Hold hands. Stand close. Whatever couples do.”
“Whatever couples do,” I echo. “You sound like you’ve never been in a relationship.”
His jaw tightens again. “I haven’t. Not for a while.”
Something in his voice makes me pause. There’s a story there, but now isn’t the time to dig into it.
“What’s in it for you?” I ask instead. “Why do you care if the guys leave me alone?”
“I don’t—” He stops, starts again. “The team needs to focus. I need them to focus. This is a distraction, and distractions cost games. We have a playoff push coming up. I’m not letting a bunch of idiots who can’t keep it in their pants ruin our shot.”
It’s not exactly romantic, but it’s honest. And honestly? I respect it.
“What about your reputation?” I ask. “Won’t people think it’s weird? You and me?”
“People can think whatever they want.”
“But you’d be tied to me. Publicly. If this goes badly—”
“It won’t go badly.”
“How do you know that?”
He holds my gaze, steady and unblinking. “Because I don’t do things badly.”
The confidence is almost annoying. Almost.
“Who would know it’s fake?” I ask.
“Dana already knows. I talked to her before coming here.” He shifts his weight. “I’m assuming you’d want to tell Tori. She’d tell Zayden. Anyone else would be a risk.”
“How long would this last?”
“Until the end of playoffs. A few months, maybe. After that, we ‘break up.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers, which looks ridiculous on someone his size. “Amicable split. No drama. Life goes back to normal.”
I chew on my lip, thinking. A few months of pretending to date Banks Callahan. A few months of holding hands, standing close, and acting like I’m his.
It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
It’s also not not the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
“What about physical contact?” I ask. “Where are the lines?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with. Hand-holding. An arm around you, maybe. I’m not big on PDA, but enough to make it believable.” He pauses. “Nothing you don’t want. That’s not negotiable.”
Something in my chest loosens. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’m… considering it.” I hold up a hand before he can respond. “I’m not saying yes. I’m saying it’s not a horrible idea. Which is more than I expected to say when you walked in here.”
His mouth twitches. It might be the beginning of a smile. It’s hard to tell. “What would make you say yes?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Proof that it would actually work? A guarantee that it won’t blow up in my face?” I sigh. “I just started this job. If people find out it’s fake—”
“They won’t.”
“You keep saying that like you can control everything.”
“I can control enough.”
I study him for a long moment. He’s so sure of himself. So confident that this will work. It’s either inspiring or delusional, and I can’t decide which.
“Why not just tell the guys to back off? You’re obviously intimidating enough.”
“Tried that. Didn’t stick.” He crosses his arms again. “They listen for a day, maybe two. Then they forget. They need a permanent reminder.”
“And I’m the permanent reminder.”
“You’re the reason they need one.”
It’s not quite a compliment, but it’s not an insult either. It’s just… Banks. Blunt, honest, and completely lacking in social grace.
I kind of appreciate it, actually. After weeks of guys trying to charm me with cheesy lines and fake smiles, his total lack of game is refreshing.
“Okay,” I say again.
“Okay yes?”
“Okay yes.” I take a breath, not quite believing I’m doing this. “But we need ground rules.”
“Name them.”
“Public only, like you said. When we’re alone, we’re just… us. No pretending.”
“Fine.”
“Only Tori, Zayden, and Dana know it’s fake. No one else.”
“Agreed.”
“End of playoffs, we’re done. Clean break, no weirdness.”
“Fine.”
“And you have to actually act like you like me.” I poke his chest—solid as a wall, geez— “None of this brooding silence thing. Couples talk to each other. They smile at each other. They act like they want to be in the same room.”
He looks down at where my finger is still pressed against his chest and I quickly pull it back.
“I can do that,” he says.
“Can you? Because so far, you’ve mostly just glared at me.”
“I glare at everyone. It’s not personal.”
“Well, make it personal. In the other direction.”
He nods slowly, like he’s filing this information away. “Anything else?”
“One more thing.” I take a breath. “If at any point this stops working, or it gets too complicated, or either of us wants out—we end it. No questions asked. No hard feelings.”
“Agreed.”
I extend my hand. “Partners?”
He looks at my hand for a moment before taking it.
His grip is warm and firm. His palm is calloused and rough, and his fingers practically swallow mine. Something zings through me—a little spark of curiosity that I definitely should not be feeling for my fake boyfriend.
I ignore it.
“Partners,” he says.
We shake once and then let go. My hand feels weirdly cold without his.
“So,” I say, trying to fill the sudden awkwardness, “what do fake boyfriends call their fake girlfriends?”
He stares at me blankly.
“Nicknames, Banks. Couples have nicknames for each other. Babe. Honey. Sweetheart.” I wave my hand. “Something that doesn’t sound like a business transaction.”
He looks like I’ve just asked him to solve a complex math problem. “I don’t… do nicknames.”
“Well, you’re going to have to learn. You can’t just call me Garrett in public and expect people to believe we’re dating.”
“What do you want me to call you?”
“I don’t know. Something natural. Something that sounds like you actually like me.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he says, “Win.”
“Win?”
“Short for Winnie.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s simple.”
It is simple. It’s also kind of cute coming from him—not that I’d ever tell him that.
“Okay,” I say. “Win. I can work with that.” I tilt my head. “What should I call you?”
“Banks.”
I smirk.
“It’s my name.”
“I know, but couples usually have… softer names for each other. What do the guys call you besides Banks?”
“The Wall.” He pauses. “Brick. Murdery McMurderface. That one’s from Logan.”
I snort. “Okay, none of those are going to work.”
“What’s wrong with Banks?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just very…” I gesture at all of him. “You.”
“I am me.”
“Forget it. Banks is fine.” I wave a hand. “Maybe I’ll come up with something better later—a term of endearment. Something cute.”
He looks vaguely horrified. “Nothing cute.”
“We’ll see.”
He almost smiles again. That’s twice in one conversation.
“We should exchange numbers,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Seems like step one for fake dating.”
He pulls out his phone—an older model, slightly battered—and we swap numbers. I save him as “Fake Boyfriend” with a little ice hockey emoji, then think better of it and change it to just “Banks.”
“How do we spread the word?” I ask. “Do we make an announcement? Post something on social media? Send a company-wide memo?”
“No.”
“Helpful.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll handle it.” He pockets his phone. “The guys will know by tomorrow.”
“How?”
“Trust me.”
I don’t entirely, but I’m in this now, so I might as well commit.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.” He says it simply, like it’s a fact. Like the idea of letting me down hasn’t even occurred to him.
I don’t know why, but I believe him.
“I should go,” he says, glancing toward the door. “Early practice tomorrow.”
“Right. Yeah. Me too.” I gesture vaguely at the mats. “I should finish… sanitizing.”
He nods and takes a step toward the door, then stops. “Winnie.”
“Yeah?”
He turns back, and for a second, his expression is almost soft. Almost human.
“Thanks,” he says. “For saying yes.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone.
I stand there in the empty yoga studio, sanitizer in hand, trying to process what just happened.
I have a fake boyfriend.
The scariest guy on the team, the one who looks like he’s constantly contemplating murder, just asked me to pretend to date him. And I said yes.
My phone buzzes with a text from Tori. Probably checking in after our wine night brainstorm.
Tori: How was today? Any better?
I stare at the screen for a moment, then start typing.
Me: So. Funny story.
Tori: Why do I feel like this isn’t going to be funny?
Me: Remember your crazy idea about the fake boyfriend?
Tori: …yes?
Me: Banks just asked me. Just now. In the yoga studio.
Tori: WHAT
Tori: SHUT UP
Tori: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?
Me: Dead serious. He went to Dana and everything. Said the team needs to focus and this would fix the problem.
Tori: OH MY GOD
Tori: What did you say???
Me: I said yes.
Tori: OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD
Tori: This is the best thing that’s ever happened.
Me: It’s FAKE, Tori.
Tori: I KNOW BUT STILL
Tori: This is going to be so good.
Me: It’s going to be a disaster.
Tori: Same thing *devil horn emoji*
I pocket my phone, shaking my head.
This is insane. But as I finish sanitizing the mats, I realize I’m smiling.
Banks Callahan. My fake boyfriend.
This is going to be interesting.