Chapter Eleven
Out of My Depth
Banks
I hate team dinners.
The noise, the small talk, the expectation that I’ll sit there for two hours making conversation like a normal human being when I could be home, alone, eating leftovers in silence.
Usually, I have a system. Arrive late. Sit at the end of the table—preferably near an exit—eat fast, and leave before dessert. Minimal interaction, maximum efficiency.
Tonight, that’s not an option.
Tonight, I have a fake girlfriend to parade around.
The steakhouse is one of those upscale places with dim lighting, leather booths, and prices that would make my teenage self pass out.
The team has a private room in the back, reserved for post-win celebrations.
We beat Boston 4-2, and apparently that warrants a hundred-dollar steak and mediocre conversation.
For once, I’m early—fifteen minutes early, which might be a personal record. I wanted to get here before Winnie to scope out the seating situation and figure out the best strategic position.
Instead, I’m standing near the entrance like an idiot, nursing a beer I don’t really want, watching the door.
Waiting for her.
The guys filter in gradually. Zayden and Tori arrive first, followed by Archer, then a cluster of younger players who immediately start arguing about something on their phones. Logan bounces in with his usual golden retriever energy, spots me, and makes a beeline in my direction.
“Banks! What’s up, dude?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Is Winnie coming? She’s coming, right?”
“Logan.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
“Right. Yeah. Shutting up.” He mimes zipping his lips but immediately unzips them. “But seriously, are you—”
The door opens, and I forget Logan exists.
Because Winnie’s here.
She’s wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater that looks softer than anything I’ve probably ever felt. Her hair falls around her shoulders in loose waves, catching the warm light of the restaurant. She’s got minimal makeup on—just enough to make her eyes look bigger and her lips pinker.
She looks soft, small, beautiful.
I forget how to breathe for a second.
She spots me across the room, and her face breaks into a nervous but genuine smile. She makes her way over, weaving between tables, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m just standing here, staring like some kind of creep.
“Hey,” she says when she reaches me.
“Hey.”
Brilliant. Truly eloquent.
“You look nice,” she offers.
I glance down at myself. Dark jeans, button-down shirt.
“You too,” I manage.
She smiles as if I’ve said something charming instead of something barely functional. “Ready for this?”
No. Absolutely not.
“Sure.”
We make our way to the private room, and I put my hand on her lower back to guide her through the crowd. This small gesture has become automatic now; I’m not sure when that happened.
The team has already taken their places at the long table in the center of the room. The only open seats are in the middle—of course—sandwiched between Logan and one of the rookies whose name I can never remember.
So much for strategic positioning.
We slide into our seats, and immediately her thigh presses against mine. There’s not enough room.
I try to shift to give her more space, but there’s nowhere to go. Logan is practically sitting in my lap on the other side.
“Cozy,” Winnie murmurs, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m always cold, so this is kinda nice.”
The server comes by, and everyone orders. I get a steak, medium rare, a lobster tail, a side of mac and cheese, a baked potato, extra bread, no vegetables, because I’m an adult and I can make my own choices. Winnie orders salmon and a salad, which seems inadequate, but I don’t comment.
The conversation flows around me. I contribute nothing, which is normal. What’s not normal is how aware I am of every point of contact between us. Her thigh against mine, her elbow brushing my arm when she reaches for her water, the warmth radiating off her body seeping through my clothes.
I feel like I’m running a fever.
She’s good at this—laughing at jokes, asking questions, making everyone feel included.
She remembers details—asks Archer about his twins, congratulates one of the rookies on a good game, teases Logan about something that happened at practice.
She fits seamlessly into the group, like she’s been here for years instead of weeks.
I’m terrible at this. Stiff. Monosyllabic. Every time someone addresses me directly, I give the shortest possible answer and hope they’ll move on.
“Banks, you want another beer?”
“No.”
“Did you see that hit Reed laid out in the second period?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you think of the new defensive scheme Coach is trying?”
“It’s fine.”
Winnie shoots me a look—half amused, half exasperated—and puts her hand on my arm. Casual. Easy. Like she does it all the time.
My skin burns where she touches me.
“He’s chatty tonight,” she says to the table, and everyone laughs. Even I almost do. She’s covering for me, making my silence seem like a funny personality quirk instead of a social deficiency.
I should thank her. Instead, I take a long drink of water and try to remember how normal people act at dinner parties.
The food arrives, and I focus on eating. This, at least, I’m good at. I demolish my steak in record time, then eye Winnie’s salmon, wondering if she’s going to finish it.
“You want some?” she asks, catching me looking.
“No.”
She raises an eyebrow—she’s heard this before—and pushes her plate slightly toward me. “Have some. It’s good, and I’m full.”
“You barely ate anything.”
“I ate plenty. You’re just a human garbage disposal.”
Someone across the table snorts—Logan, probably—but I’m too focused on the salmon to care. I spear a piece with my fork and eat it. It’s good. She was right.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome.”
Her hand is still on my arm. Has it been there this whole time? I can’t remember. I can’t think about anything except the warmth I can feel through my sleeve.
“So,” Logan says, leaning across me to address Winnie. “I’ve been dying to know. How did you two actually get together? What’s the story?”
The question lands like a bomb.
We haven’t discussed this. We’ve talked about rules, boundaries, and how to act in public—but we never came up with an origin story. An explanation for how the grumpiest guy on the team ended up with the gorgeous yoga instructor everyone’s been pining for.
I freeze. My brain goes completely blank.
Winnie doesn’t miss a beat. “Honestly? It was the protein bars.” She laughs, shaking her head as if she’s remembering something fond.
“I was in the break room one day, starving, and Banks had this whole stash in his bag. I asked if I could have one, and he just… handed me three. Didn’t say a word. Just gave me three protein bars.”
Logan’s jaw drops. “Hold on. He gave you his protein bars? Banks doesn’t share food. Ever. I’ve literally begged him for a protein bar when I was about to pass out, and he told me to—what was it?—’plan better.’”
“Suffer through it,” Archer corrects from down the table. “He told me to ‘suffer through it’ once. I was hypoglycemic.”
“I asked him if he was going to finish the other half of his sandwich last week,” one of the rookies chimes in. “He just stared at me until I walked away.”
Everyone’s looking at me now. I focus intently on my water glass.
“Well,” Winnie says, clearly enjoying this, “he gave me three. Without me even asking twice.”
“That’s basically a marriage proposal from Banks,” Logan comments.
“It gets better.” Winnie leans into me slightly, and I feel the warmth of her shoulder against my arm. “He didn’t actually walk away. He just stood there, eating his own protein bar, like he was waiting for something. So I stayed too. And we just… stood there, eating protein bars in silence.”
“Romantic,” someone says dryly.
“It was, actually. Because then I noticed he was watching something on his phone—he had one earbud in—and I asked what it was.” She pauses for effect. “It was The Great British Bake Off.”
The table erupts.
“No way.”
“Banksy watches Bake Off?”
“The show with the cakes? And the tent?”
“I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it.”
“It’s a good show,” I mutter, and that only makes everyone laugh harder.
“So there we were,” Winnie continues, “eating protein bars and talking about Paul Hollywood’s bread critiques. And I just thought… huh. There’s more to this guy than everyone thinks.”
She looks at me, her expression soft. “He asked me to coffee a few days later. The rest is history.”
I stare at her.
That actually happened.
Not all of it—I never asked her to coffee—but the protein bars, the break room, the show. She’d caught me watching it, and instead of mocking me like anyone else would have, she’d said, “Oh, I love this one. Is this the episode with the showstopper?”
We’d stood there for a few minutes, eating protein bars and discussing whether the technical challenges were too hard and why Bread Week was superior to Pastry Week.
I’d walked away feeling strangely… light.
I never thought about it again until right now.
She remembered that?
“Aw,” someone says. One of the girlfriends, I think. “That’s adorable.”
“Banks? Adorable?” Logan looks skeptical. “Are we talking about the same guy? The one who looks like he’s plotting murder 90% of the time?”
“He’s different when it’s just us,” Winnie says, and there’s something in her voice that sounds almost genuine.
Everyone’s looking at me now, expecting me to say something, to confirm the story, to be a normal human being who participates in conversations about his own relationship.
I manage a grunt that could be interpreted as agreement.
Winnie’s hand squeezes my arm again—reassurance this time—and the conversation mercifully moves on.
I spend the rest of meal in a daze.
She remembered the protein bars. She turned a random act of basic decency into a love story. And somehow, sitting here with her hand on my arm and her thigh pressed against mine, it doesn’t feel entirely fake.
That’s dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
When the check comes, I throw down enough cash to cover both our meals before anyone can argue. Winnie opens her mouth to protest, but I shake my head slightly. Boyfriends pay. That’s what boyfriends do, right? That’s one thing I can do right.
We stand up from the table, and I realize my leg has fallen asleep from being pressed against hers for two hours. I discreetly shake it out while everyone says their goodbyes.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I tell Winnie.
“Such a gentleman,” Logan calls out, grinning.
I ignore him.
The night air is cold after the warmth of the restaurant. Winnie shivers, and before I can think about it, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She looks up at me, surprised. “Thanks.”
“You’re cold.”
“I’m always cold.”
“I know.”
We walk in silence toward her car, parked in the far corner of the lot. The sounds of the restaurant fade behind us, replaced by the quiet hum of the city at night.
“Protein bars,” I say finally.
She glances at me. “What?”
“That story. The protein bars. That actually happened.”
“I know.” She smiles, a little sheepish. “I didn’t plan it. It just came out. But it was true, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t think you’d remember that.” The whole encounter lasted under a minute.
“I remember a lot of things.” She pulls my jacket tighter around her shoulders. “You’re more memorable than you think, Banks.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I remain silent.
We reach her car—a practical sedan, nothing flashy—and she stops, turning to face me. The parking lot lights cast shadows across her face, making her eyes look darker.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says. “You did good.”
“I barely talked.”
“You did fine.” She smiles up at me.
“You saved my ass. With the story.”
She laughs—a bright, warm sound that does something uncomfortable to my chest. “Okay, maybe a little. But you recovered.”
We’re standing close now, closer than we need to be. The parking lot is quiet, her breath fogging in the cold air between us. She’s looking at me like she’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.
Couples kiss goodnight. That’s what couples do. We should probably kiss, for appearances, in case anyone’s watching.
But no one’s watching. The parking lot is empty.
So why am I still thinking about it?
Her lips part slightly, and I wonder if she’s thinking about it too.
Neither of us moves.
The moment stretches, elastic and fragile. One of us should do something—say something, close the gap, or step back.
She breaks first. “Goodnight, Banks.” Her voice is softer than usual, a little breathless.
“Goodnight, Win.”
She slips my jacket off her shoulders and hands it back to me. Our fingers brush during the transfer—a whisper of contact that I feel all the way up my arm.
Then she’s in her car, the engine starting, pulling out of the space.
I stand there like an idiot, watching her taillights disappear into the night. Something tight in my chest that I can’t name.
The walk back to my truck feels longer than it should. I climb in, start the engine, and sit there in the dark for a minute, trying to process everything that just happened.
She remembered the protein bars.
She made me sound like a good person.
She looked at me like I was worth looking at.
And I almost kissed her. In an empty parking lot, with no one around to see, I almost kissed her anyway.
This isn’t real, I remind myself.