Chapter Eight
Claimed
Banks
I’m starving. I could eat an entire cow right now. Maybe two. I got caught up watching game tape and forgot to eat, which is basically a crime against my own body.
The cafeteria is crowded when I push through the doors, the usual chaos of guys refueling after morning skate.
I grab a tray and start loading it up. Two chicken breasts, a mountain of rice, broccoli because I’m supposed to eat vegetables, three rolls, and a banana.
I add another chicken breast because why not.
I’m scanning the room for an empty table in the corner—my usual spot, away from everyone—when I see her.
Winnie.
She’s sitting alone at a table near the windows, picking at a salad, looking like she’s trying to be invisible. It’s not working. I can see at least four guys watching her, trying to work up the nerve to approach.
The afternoon light catches her hair, turning it golden. She’s wearing a blue Knights T-shirt that’s slightly too big, and she keeps tucking a strand of hair behind her ear while scrolling through her phone. There’s something about the gesture—absent-minded, soft—that makes my chest feel tight.
I notice things I shouldn’t notice. The curve of her neck, the way she chews her bottom lip when she’s thinking.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Then I see Grayson.
He’s making his way toward her table with that swagger he thinks is charming. He’s carrying a smoothie and wearing the expression of a man who’s never been told no in his life. Dipshit.
My feet move before my brain catches up.
I cross the cafeteria in about five seconds, weaving between tables, and drop into the chair right next to Winnie. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy and bright, like sunshine bottled up.
She looks up, startled. “Banks? What are you—”
“Eating lunch.” I set my overloaded tray down and pick up a fork. “That okay?”
“I… sure?”
Grayson has stopped a few feet away, smoothie in hand, looking confused. Like he can’t quite process what he’s seeing.
“Winnie.” He recovers quickly, flashing that smile. “I was just coming to keep you company.”
“She has company,” I say without looking up from my chicken.
“I was talking to her, not you.”
I meet his eyes with a hard look. “And now you’re not.”
Grayson’s jaw tightens. He looks at Winnie, trying a different approach. “You want me to tell this guy to get lost? We were going to have lunch.”
“We were?” Winnie blinks. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“I was about to ask.”
“Ah.”
There’s an awkward pause. I keep eating. The chicken is good. A little dry, but the rice makes up for it.
Winnie glances at me, and I can see her making a decision. Then she reaches over and places her hand on my arm—casual, easy, like she does it all the time. Her fingers are warm through my sleeve, and I have to force myself not to tense up at the contact.
“Thanks for the offer, Grayson,” she says sweetly, “but I’m good here.”
“With Banks?” He looks between us, disbelief written all over his face. “Since when are you two…?”
I set down my fork and turn to look at him for the first time. “Get lost, Reed. Win’s with me now.”
“Since when?”
“Since none of your business. Now go away.”
Grayson stares at me, then at Winnie, then at her hand on my arm.
I can see him trying to figure out the angle, trying to decide if this is real or some kind of joke. I hold his gaze, steady and unblinking, until he looks away.
“Whatever, man.” He takes a step back, attempting to salvage his dignity. “Didn’t realize she was… yeah. Whatever.” He retreats to a table across the room, smoothie in hand, ego bruised.
Winnie doesn’t remove her hand from my arm. “That was dramatic,” she murmurs.
“That was necessary.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“Didn’t have time. He was circling.” Like a shark scenting blood.
She laughs softly, finally pulling her hand back. I miss the warmth immediately, which is annoying. My arm feels cold where her fingers were, and I have to resist the urge to reach for her hand and put it back.
“So,” she says, “this is happening? Right now? In the cafeteria?”
“You got a better place?”
“I just thought there’d be more… buildup.”
“I don’t do buildup.” I push my tray slightly toward her. “You want some chicken? You’re not going to get full on that salad.”
She looks at my mountain of food, then at her sad little bowl of greens. “Are you always this generous, or is this part of the act?”
“Both.” Except that’s a lie. If one of the guys tried to take my chicken, I’d stab their hand with a fork. I never share food. Not when I’m always hungry.
She takes a piece of chicken, and something about watching her eat off my plate does strange things to my chest. It’s intimate in a way I wasn’t expecting—domestic, like something couples actually do.
Except we’re not a couple. This is obviously fake.
Around us, the cafeteria has grown suspiciously quiet. I can feel eyes on us from every direction. Guys are watching, whispering, trying to figure out what the hell they just witnessed.
Good. Let them watch.
“People are staring,” Winnie says under her breath.
“That’s the point. Now they know.”
“It’s just… a lot.”
“You want me to leave?”
“No.” She says it quickly. “No, this is… this is good. It’s working.”
She steals another piece of chicken, and I slide the tray closer to make it easier for her. She flashes me a small smile—grateful, genuine—and I look away.
“So,” she says quietly, leaning in as if we’re sharing secrets. “If we’re doing this, we should probably know basic things about each other. Couples know things.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” She thinks for a second. “What’s my favorite color?”
I stare at her blankly.
“Exactly.” She points her fork at me. “A boyfriend would know that.”
“Would he?”
“Yes. It’s yellow, by the way. Like sunshine.”
“Of course it is.”
She narrows her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It just fits.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Was that almost a compliment?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It wasn’t.”
She smiles, and I realize I’m losing this battle—whatever battle this is. “Your turn,” she says. “Favorite color.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has a favorite color.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s sad, Banks.”
I shrug.
She shakes her head, still smiling. “Okay, different question. Where did you grow up?”
The question lands heavier than she intended. I can tell by the way her expression shifts—she wasn’t expecting me to go quiet.
“Here and there,” I finally say.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
She watches me for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “I grew up in Connecticut. Small town. My parents still live there. They’ve been married for thirty-two years, and they still hold hands at the grocery store. It’s disgusting.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is. It’s annoyingly nice.” She takes another bite of chicken. “Any siblings?”
“No.”
“Just you?”
“Just me.”
Again, she doesn’t push. But I can see the questions behind her eyes, the curiosity she’s holding back. She’s good at reading people, good at knowing when to stop.
I don’t want to tell her about the foster homes—the different families, the group homes when those didn’t work, each with a new set of rules to learn, a new house to memorize, a new school where I was always the new kid.
I don’t want to tell her about sleeping in a basement that flooded every time it rained, or the group home where I learned to sleep with one eye open, or the caseworker who told me I was “difficult to place,” as if I were a piece of furniture with a scratch no one wanted to look at.
I don’t want to watch her pretty face fall. I don’t want to see pity reflected back at me in those blue eyes. Pity is the worst. It means people look at you differently, treat you like you’re broken, handle you with kid gloves as if you might shatter.
I’m not broken. I’m just… built differently. Built to survive. I’ve endured a lot. Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.
She watches me for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. She doesn’t.
Instead, she offers something of her own. “I have a younger brother. He’s getting his MBA and thinks he knows everything. We text every day, mostly to argue about reality TV.”
“You watch reality TV?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging.”
“Your face is judging.”
“This is just my face.”
She laughs—a real laugh, bright and warm—and I feel it somewhere in my ribs.
“Okay, important question,” she says. “What’s your coffee order? I need to know in case someone asks.”
“Black.”
“Of course it is.” She rolls her eyes. “Most boring answer possible.”
“What’s yours?”
“Oat milk latte with vanilla and cinnamon.”
“That’s not coffee. That’s dessert.” It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s sugar with caffeine.”
“You’re very judgmental for someone who doesn’t have a favorite color.”
I almost smile. Almost. I catch myself just in time.
She notices anyway. Her eyes light up like she’s won something. “Was that a smile? Did I almost make Banks Callahan smile?”
“No.”
“It was. I saw it. The corner of your mouth moved.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“I have perfect vision.”
Before I can respond, a shadow falls over our table.
Archer Lockwood stands there with his tray, looking between us with raised eyebrows. He’s one of the few guys on the team I actually tolerate. Goalie. Steady. Doesn’t talk too much.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, already pulling out a chair across from us.
I shrug. Winnie smiles.
“Hey, Archer,” she says. “How’s the hip flexor?”
“Better since the session last week.” He settles into his seat, arranging his food with the particular fussiness of someone who takes nutrition too seriously. “So. You two, huh?”
“Us two,” Winnie confirms.
Archer looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“Nobody did,” I say.
“How long has this been going on?”
“A while,” Winnie says smoothly, at the same time I say, “Recently.”
We glance at each other. Shit.