Chapter Fifteen
Confessions
Winnie
“Okay. Spill.”
Tori settles into the massage chair beside me, her feet already submerged in the bubbling water. The nail salon is quiet for a Tuesday evening—just us and two other women at the far end, scrolling through their phones.
“Spill what?” I ask innocently.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Winifred.”
“Don’t call me Winifred.”
“Then don’t deflect.” She points a finger at me. “I’ve been patient. I’ve given you space. The last time I saw you, you sat in Banks Callahan’s lap for two hours while he looked at you like you hung the moon, and I need details. Now.”
I sink deeper into my chair, letting the massage rollers work on my lower back. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Lies. Blatant lies.” Tori grabs a magazine from the rack beside her and fans herself dramatically. “The sexual tension was so thick I could’ve cut it with a knife. Zayden noticed. Archer noticed. Even Logan noticed, and that boy is oblivious to everything.”
“There was no sexual tension.”
“Winnie. His hand was on your stomach. His nose was in your hair. At one point, I’m pretty sure he growled at a guy who looked at you too long.”
“He didn’t growl.”
“It was growl-adjacent.”
The nail technician approaches, and we pause our conversation long enough to pick colors. Tori goes for a bold red. I choose a soft pink that I immediately second-guess.
“Too boring?” I ask.
“It’s pretty. Classic.” Tori wiggles her toes in the water. “Stop deflecting.”
“I’m not deflecting. I’m… processing.”
“Processing what?”
I stare at my feet, watching the bubbles swirl around my ankles. How do I even begin to explain what’s happening in my head? I don’t understand it myself.
“Things are confusing,” I finally admit.
Tori’s expression shifts from teasing to genuine concern. “Confusing how?”
“He’s not what I expected.” The words come out slowly, as if I’m figuring them out as I say them. “He’s awkward. Grumpy. He barely talks, and when he does, it’s like pulling teeth. Half the time, I can’t tell if he likes me or tolerates me.”
“But?”
“But then he does these little things.” I shake my head, frustrated by my own inability to articulate it. “Like checking in with me, making sure I’m okay, asking if I’ve eaten, walking me to my car.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It’s confusing. Because he acts like he doesn’t care about anything, but then he notices everything.” I pick at the armrest of my chair. “He called me last night. After the game.”
Tori’s eyebrows shoot up. “To talk about what?”
“To check on me, I think. We only talked for a few minutes, but before he hung up, he said goodnight.”
“That’s adorable.”
“It’s not adorable. It’s—” I stop myself. “It’s just a word. People say goodnight all the time.”
“Not Banks Callahan. That man doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean.” Tori studies me with an intensity that makes me squirm. “You like him.”
“I don’t—”
“Your face is doing a thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re trying not to smile and failing miserably.”
I force my expression into neutral, which only makes Tori laugh.
“Win. Honey. It’s okay to like him.”
“I don’t like him. I’m playing a role.” I say it firmly, as if I can make it true through sheer force of will. “This whole thing is fake, remember? We agreed to terms. We have an end date. It’s a business arrangement.”
“Business arrangements don’t involve sitting on someone’s lap and melting into their chest like butter on a warm biscuit.”
The memory surfaces before I can stop it.
The solid wall of his thighs beneath me.
The heat radiating through his shirt, seeping into my back.
The way his arm felt wrapped around my waist—heavy and sure, like an anchor holding me in place.
All that hard muscle, everywhere, surrounding me.
And when I shifted, trying to get comfortable, I felt…
something. Something that made my breath catch and my cheeks flush and my brain short-circuit entirely.
“That’s a terrible metaphor.”
“It’s an accurate metaphor.” She grins.
The nail technician starts working on Tori’s feet, and she sighs contentedly, sinking back into her chair. I think maybe she’s going to drop it, let me off the hook.
I should know better.
“What do you actually know about him?” she asks. “Like, his background. Family. Past relationships.”
“Not much.” I’ve been thinking about this since my late-night Google deep dive. “He grew up in the Midwest somewhere, but I couldn’t find any details. No mention of parents or siblings. No hometown features or family stories. It’s like he appeared out of thin air when he got drafted.”
“That’s… weird.”
“Right? Everyone has a past. Everyone has something. But Banks is just… blank.”
Tori is quiet for a moment. “Zay doesn’t know much either. They’ve been teammates for three years, and Banks has never mentioned family. Never talked about holidays or going home for the off-season. Zay invited him to Thanksgiving last year, and Banks just said he had other plans.”
“Did he?”
“Zay doesn’t think so.” She picks at the edge of her magazine. “He’s always been closed off. Keeps everyone at arm’s length. The guys respect him, but no one really knows him.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is.” Tori looks at me. “Maybe that’s why this is good for him. You, I mean. Whatever this is.”
“Can we talk about something else? Please?”
Tori holds up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Subject change. How’s the yoga program going? Any more issues with the guys?”
“Actually, no.” This, at least, is safe territory. “It’s been great. The sessions are focused now. The guys are actually trying. Even my metrics are improving—Dana showed me the injury reports, and soft tissue strains are down fifteen percent since I started.”
“That’s amazing!”
“It feels good. Like I’m actually making a difference instead of just… existing in their space.”
“Because they respect you now. Because Banks made them respect you.”
And we’re back to Banks. Of course we are.
“He didn’t make them do anything,” I argue. “He just… shifted the dynamic.”
“By claiming you in front of everyone.”
“It’s not as medieval as you’re making it sound.”
“It’s a little medieval. In a hot way.” Tori grins. “Come on, admit it. There’s something satisfying about having a six-foot-four wall of muscle glaring at anyone who looks at you wrong.”
She’s not wrong.
“What if I’m just confused?” I ask quietly. “What if I’m projecting? He’s being nice to me, and I’m starved for niceness after Derek, and my brain is just… misinterpreting signals?”
Tori considers this. “Is that what you think is happening?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” I stare at my half-painted toenails. “Derek was charming too, in the beginning. He made me feel special. And look how that turned out.”
“Banks is nothing like Derek.”
“You don’t know that. I don’t know that. I barely know him at all.”
“You know enough.” Tori reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You know he gave you his protein bars when you were hungry. You know he fought a guy for hitting Zayden. You know he calls to check on you and says goodnight like it matters. Those aren’t charm tactics, Win. Those are just… him.”
My phone buzzes in my bag. I reach in and grab it.
“Is it him?” Tori asks, grinning.
Banks: You busy?
That’s it. Two words. No context. Classic Banks.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Tori is practically vibrating with glee.
“Shut up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I’m busy.”
I look around the nail salon, at Tori’s expectant expression, at my half-finished pedicure.
“I’m getting my nails done.”
“Tell him that. See what he says.”
I shouldn’t engage. This is how it starts—the texting, the checking in, the slow erosion of boundaries until you can’t remember where the act ends and the real begins.
But my fingers are already typing.
Me: Getting a pedicure with Tori. Why?
The response comes faster than I expected.
Banks: Charity gala coming up. Need a date.
My heart does something complicated.
Me: Are you asking me to a gala via text?
Banks: Would you prefer a formal invitation?
Me: I would prefer more than six words, yes.
A pause. Then:
Banks: There’s a charity gala next Saturday night. The team is expected to attend. I need a date. Will you come with me? Please.
I stare at the screen. He said please. Banks Callahan, who speaks in grunts and monosyllables, typed out the word “please.”
“What’s happening?” Tori demands. “Your face is doing seventeen different things right now.”
“He asked me to the gala.”
“Yay!” Tori whoops. I’ve known about the gala for a couple of weeks. Tori and Zay are attending, and I even helped her pick her dress.
“Please come,” she begs. “It’ll be so much better if you’re there.”
I type back before I can overthink it:
Me: Yes. I’ll come.
Banks: Good. I’ll pick you up at 6.
Me: Okay.
Banks: Okay.
I wait for more. There is no more. That’s the whole conversation.
“Well?” Tori asks.
“Looks like I’m going to the gala.”
She grins so wide I’m afraid her face might split. “We need to go shopping. Immediately. Right after this pedicure.”
She’s right; I don’t have anything I could wear to a fancy gala.
“This is so exciting.” She grins.
“Calm down, babe. He only asked me because it’d be weird if I wasn’t there. His teammates would ask where I was, that’s all.”
She considers this while digging her wallet from her purse. “Yeah, maybe.”
But later, as we’re walking out of the salon with fresh pedicures and a shopping mission ahead of us, I’m more excited than I should be.