Chapter Eight #2
“It’s new,” Winnie recovers. “But we’ve been… circling each other for a while. You know how it is.”
Archer nods slowly. “Sure. The slow burn thing.”
“Exactly.”
“Well.” He picks up his fork. “Good for you, man. Seriously.” He looks at me with something that might be respect. “I was starting to think you were going to die alone with your protein bars and your murder face.”
“Thanks for the support,” I grumble.
“Anytime.”
Winnie kicks me gently under the table—a silent be nice—and I resist the urge to kick her back.
Archer stays for another ten minutes, making easy conversation with Winnie about stretching routines and recovery protocols. I mostly eat and grunt at appropriate intervals. But I notice things.
I notice the way she includes me in the conversation without making it obvious. The way she glances at me after she says something, checking in, making sure I’m okay. The way she laughs at Archer’s terrible jokes even though they’re not funny.
She’s good at this. Good at making people feel comfortable. Good at filling silences and smoothing edges.
I’m not good at any of those things. But sitting here next to her, I almost feel like I could learn.
Eventually, Archer leaves, and it’s just us again.
“He seems nice,” Winnie says.
“He’s alright.”
“High praise from you.”
“I don’t hate him.”
“Also high praise.” She checks her phone and winces. “I should get back. I have a session in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’ll walk you.”
She doesn’t argue.
We stand up together, and I place my hand on her lower back as we walk toward the door. It’s a small gesture, barely anything, but I notice heads turning. I feel her tense slightly under my palm, then relax.
Her shirt is thin. I can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, the gentle curve of her spine. It takes more effort than it should to keep my hand steady, to resist letting my fingers spread wider and pull her closer.
“This okay?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.” She glances up at me. “You’re actually pretty good at this.”
“I’m not, but thanks.”
She laughs—really laughs—and something in my chest loosens.
We’re almost to the door when Logan appears, blocking our path with wide eyes and a huge grin.
“Dude.” He looks at me, then at Winnie, then at my hand on her back. “Dude.”
“Move, Logan.”
“When did this happen? How did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“We’re teammates! We’re supposed to share things!”
“We’re not sharing this.” I steer Winnie around him. “Find someone else to gossip with.”
“This is the best day of my life!” he calls after us. “I’m so happy for you guys! Banks has a girlfriend! Someone alert the media!”
“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter.
“He seems supportive,” Winnie offers.
“He seems like a golden retriever who got into the espresso.”
She laughs again, and I realize I like making her laugh. I like it a lot.
We stop outside the training room. She turns to face me, and we’re standing closer than we probably need to. I can see the gold flecks in her blue eyes and the slight flush on her cheeks from laughing.
“Thank you,” she says. “For the chicken. And the… dramatic rescue.”
“It wasn’t dramatic.”
“You sat down and claimed me like I was the last slice of pizza.”
“You said the pizza comparison was weird.”
“It was weird. It’s still weird.” But she’s smiling. “Same time tomorrow?”
“What?”
“Lunch. I mean, if you’re eating in the cafeteria.”
“Sure,” I say. “Tomorrow.”
“Okay.” She hesitates, then reaches up and touches my jaw briefly, just brushing her fingers against my stubble. “For the people watching,” she whispers.
There are definitely people watching. I can see them through the glass, pretending not to stare.
But here’s the thing—I don’t care about them. All I can focus on is the soft pressure of her fingertips, the way she’s looking at me, the slight catch in her breath, and the way she has to lift up on her toes to reach me.
“Right,” I manage. “For appearances.”
She smiles, soft and quick, then disappears into the training room.
I stand there for a moment, my hand raised to my jaw where she touched me. My skin tingles, and my heart is doing something weird. I feel like I’ve been hit with a puck to the chest, except there’s no pain—just this strange, spreading warmth.
What the hell am I doing?
I turn and head for the weight room, ignoring the looks and the whispers. I have an afternoon workout to get through, and I need to stop thinking about how her fingers felt on my skin.
I’m halfway through my third set of deadlifts when Zayden appears.
He doesn’t say anything at first; he just leans against the squat rack and watches me with that knowing expression I dislike.
“What?” I grunt, racking the weight.
“Nothing.”
“Then stop staring at me.”
“Can’t help it. I’m witnessing history.” He grins. “Banks Callahan, hand on a woman’s back, walking her to work like a gentleman. I should’ve taken a picture.”
“Shut up.”
“The cafeteria is still buzzing, you know. Logan’s told the story about forty-seven times. It gets more dramatic with each retelling. In the latest version, you punched Grayson.”
“I didn’t punch anyone.”
“I know. I’m disappointed, honestly.”
I grab my water bottle and take a long drink, mostly to avoid responding.
Zayden doesn’t take the hint. “So, how’d it go? Besides the obvious.”
“Fine.”
“Fine? That’s all I get?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something about how you looked at her like she was the only person in the room. Or how you actually smiled—don’t argue, Archer told me—which I’m pretty sure is a sign of the apocalypse.”
“I didn’t smile.”
“Multiple witnesses say otherwise.”
I throw my towel at him. He catches it, laughing.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, more serious now, “you looked comfortable with her. Natural. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s fake, Zayden. The whole point is to look natural.”
“Sure.” He tosses the towel back. “I just don’t think you’re that good of an actor.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask.
“Nope. This is way more entertaining.” He pushes off the squat rack. “Tori’s going to want details, by the way. She’s been texting me all afternoon.”
“Tell her there are no details.”
He heads for the door but pauses before leaving. “Hey, Banks?”
“What?”
“For what it’s worth? I think this is good for you. Fake or not.” His expression is genuine for once, no teasing. “You’ve been alone a long time, man. It’s okay to let someone in. Even if it’s just pretend.”
He’s gone before I can respond.
I stand there in the empty weight room, his words echoing in my head.
It’s okay to let someone in.
Easy for him to say. He has Tori. He has Maisie. He has a family, a home, and people who love him.
I have a two-bedroom apartment with bare walls and a fridge full of meal prep containers. I have a career that could end with one bad hit. I have teammates who tolerate me and a reputation for fighting on the ice.
I don’t let people in because people leave. That’s not pessimism—that’s experience.
But when Winnie touched my face and looked up at me, for a second, I forgot it was fake. For a moment, I wanted it to be real.
And that’s the most dangerous thought I’ve had in years.
I grab the barbell and start my next set, pushing the weight until my muscles burn, until I can’t think about anything except the lift.