Chapter Nine
Breathing Room
Winnie
I have eighteen minutes until my afternoon session, and I’m hiding in the bathroom.
Not my proudest moment, but I need a second to breathe, to process, to figure out how to walk into that training room like everything is normal when nothing about today has been normal.
Banks Callahan just claimed me in front of the entire cafeteria. He shared his chicken with me, put his hand on my lower back, and walked me to the door like it was something he does every day.
My skin is still tingling where he touched me.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and head for the studio.
Then I round the corner and nearly collide with two of the younger players—the same rookies who cornered me yesterday asking for a selfie.
I brace myself. Here it comes.
But they just step aside, giving me plenty of room to pass.
“Hey, Winnie,” one of them says. Polite. Distant. Almost nervous.
“Hey,” I manage.
They don’t follow me. Don’t try to make conversation. Don’t look at me like I’m a piece of meat they’re considering ordering.
They just… let me walk by.
I keep my pace steady until I’m around the next corner, then I stop and press my hand to my chest.
Holy shit.
It’s working.
The studio is already filling up when I arrive—guys filtering in, grabbing mats, finding their spots. I scan the room automatically, counting heads, noting who’s here.
No Grayson.
The knot in my stomach loosens slightly.
“Winnie!”
Logan bounds over like an overgrown puppy, all floppy hair and eager energy. But he stops about three feet away, maintaining a respectful distance he’s never maintained before.
“Hey, Logan.”
“So…” He rocks back on his heels, clearly bursting with questions. “You and Banks, huh?”
“Me and Banks.”
“How did that even happen?” He looks genuinely baffled. “He doesn’t talk to anyone. Like, ever. I’ve been on this team for two years, and I think the longest conversation we’ve had was about protein powder. And even that was mostly grunting.”
I can’t help but smile. “He talks to me.”
“He does?”
“Yeah.”
“In, like… words? And sentences?”
“Sometimes.”
Logan shakes his head, amazed. “Wild. That’s wild.” He glances toward the door like he’s expecting Banks to materialize and glare at him. “He’s like… intense. You know? I can never tell if he likes me or wants to murder me.”
“I think that’s just his face.”
“It’s a scary face.”
“You get used to it.”
Logan studies me for a second, the teasing gone from his face. “You really like him, don’t you?”
The question catches me off guard. I wasn’t prepared for sincerity. “I… yeah. I do.”
I think about him walking me to the studio—the big, scary enforcer, nervous about holding hands. There’s something underneath all that armor—a softness he doesn’t let people see.
It comes out more convincing than I expected. Maybe because part of it isn’t entirely a lie.
“Cool.” Logan nods slowly. “That’s cool. He deserves someone nice. He’s been alone for, like… forever.” He pauses, then adds quickly, “Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll actually murder me.”
“Your secret’s safe.”
“Thanks.” He grins and backs toward his mat. “Good luck with the session. I’ll actually try to pay attention today.”
“That would be a refreshing change.”
He laughs and jogs off, and I’m left standing there, processing.
Logan was nice. Genuinely nice. No weird comments, no lingering looks, no attempts to stand too close. He treated me like a person. A colleague. Maybe even a friend.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?
I shake off the emotion and head to the front of the room, setting up my tablet and pulling up today’s routine. More players file in, grabbing mats and settling into rows. They’re chatty with each other but give me space. Respectful space.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to make a comment, push a boundary, ruin the illusion.
It doesn’t happen.
By 3:00, the room is mostly full. I do a quick count—fourteen players. A reasonable number. An appropriate number. No random extras who “just wanted to check it out.”
And still no Grayson.
I’m not sure if he’s staying away because of Banks or because his ego is too bruised to show his face. Either way, I’ll take it.
“Alright, everyone.” I clap my hands, and the room actually quiets down. That’s new. “Let’s get started. Find a comfortable position on your mat, and we’ll begin with some breathing exercises.”
The session flows smoother than any I’ve taught since I started.
The guys follow instructions. They attempt the poses. They ask legitimate questions about form and technique—not thinly veiled excuses to get me closer to them. When I walk through the rows making adjustments, no one tries anything. No comments. No whispers.
It’s just… yoga. The way it’s supposed to be.
Halfway through, I guide them into a warrior sequence, and I realize I’m actually enjoying myself. Teaching. Connecting. Doing the job I was hired to do.
“Warrior two,” I call out. “Front knee bent, arms extended. Feel the strength in your legs.”
Archer, in the back row, is surprisingly flexible. Though he is a goalie. Logan is trying his best, even though his form is a disaster. A few of the bigger guys are struggling, but that’s to be expected.
“Hold for five breaths. Four. Three. Two. One. And release.”
A collective groan goes through the room. I smile.
“That’s it for today. Nice work, everyone. Same time on Thursday.”
Guys start rolling up their mats, chatting with each other, filtering toward the door. A few actually thank me on their way out.
“Good session, Winnie.”
“Thanks, that hip stretch really helped.”
“See you Thursday.”
I stand there, slightly stunned, as the room empties. This is what I wanted. This is why I took this job. To help athletes, to make a difference, to be respected for my skills.
And all it took was one grumpy fake boyfriend.
I’m packing up my tablet when a shadow falls across the doorway.
Banks.
He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression. He’s still in his workout clothes—gym shorts, a faded T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way I’m definitely not noticing. His hair is damp, like he just showered.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
Silence stretches between us. He doesn’t move from the doorway. I don’t move from where I’m standing. We just… look at each other.
“The session went well,” I offer.
“Yeah?”
“Really well. Like, shockingly well.” I can’t keep the relief out of my voice. “No one was weird. No one made comments. Grayson didn’t even show up.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. “Good.”
Another silence. But this one is different—charged, expectant. We’re supposed to be a couple. We’re supposed to act like it. And right now, we’re standing ten feet apart like strangers at a bus stop.
“You should probably come in,” I say. “Or I should go out. We should… be closer. In general.”
He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, his movements stiff and deliberate. Like he’s thinking about every step. Like proximity is a math problem he’s trying to solve.
He stops about two feet away. Still too far for a couple.
“Closer than that,” I say gently.
He takes another step. Now we’re about a foot apart. I can smell his soap—something clean and woodsy. I can see the rise and fall of his chest.
“Hi,” I say stupidly.
“Hi.”
“This is weird.”
“Yeah.”
I reach out and take his hand. His whole body goes rigid, like I’ve touched him with a live wire. His fingers are stiff against mine, his palm slightly clammy.
“Relax,” I murmur. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”
“I don’t…” He swallows. “I’m not good at this.”
“At holding hands?”
“At—” He stops. Starts again. “People don’t touch me. Not like this.”
The words land heavier than I expected. I think about my own life—hugging my parents goodbye, linking arms with Tori, casually touching people’s shoulders when I talk to them. Physical affection has always been easy for me. Natural. I never thought about it as something that could be hard.
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
His jaw works. He’s still staring at our hands, not at me. “On the ice, yeah. Hits, checks, fights. But off the ice…” He shakes his head slightly. “It’s been a long time since anyone just… touched me. To be nice.”
My chest aches. I think about what that means—years without a hug, without a hand on his shoulder, without any of the casual intimacy most people take for granted.
I squeeze his hand gently, and this time, I feel his fingers loosen slightly. Not relaxed, but less rigid. Less afraid.
“It’s just me,” I say softly. “It’s just holding hands. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Doubt, maybe.
“I know what couples do,” he says quietly. “I just don’t know how to do it. Not anymore.”
“It’s okay. Just do what comes naturally.”
He exhales slowly, and then after a second, his fingers start to relax against mine. His thumb shifts, brushing against my knuckle, and I feel the contact all the way up my arm.
“That’s better,” I manage.
We stand there, hand in hand, neither of us moving. His palm is warm and huge against mine, and his grip is firm but careful, like he’s afraid of holding on too tight.
I look up at him and find him watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Concentration? Confusion? Something else?
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
The word hangs between us. My heart does something complicated.
“We should go,” I say, breaking the spell. “Walk out together. Let people see.”
He nods, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. I wasn’t expecting him to let go, but I also wasn’t expecting him to hold on. It’s confusing. This whole thing is confusing.
We walk toward the door, our fingers still intertwined. His hand dwarfs mine—I knew it would, he’s huge—but there’s something strangely nice about the way our palms fit together. Like puzzle pieces that weren’t meant to match but somehow do.
We emerge into the hallway, and I immediately feel eyes on us. Staff members, a few players lingering by the water fountain, someone from the front office walking past. Everyone notices. Everyone looks.
But instead of feeling exposed, I feel… protected. Banks is a wall beside me—literally and figuratively. No one’s going to mess with me while I’m holding his hand. My own personal bodyguard.
I keep thinking about the way he looked at our fingers intertwined—like it was something fragile he might accidentally break. The way he admitted it’s been a while since he’s been touched…
It’s been a long time since anyone just… touched me. To be nice.
What happened to him? What kind of life leaves someone so starved for basic human contact that holding hands feels foreign?
I don’t have answers. But I want them.
Maybe more than I should.