Chapter Sixteen
Room Service
Banks
Five days. Three cities. One plane. One bus. And Winnie.
I should be focused on hockey. We have games against Boston, Philly, and Washington—three divisional rivals in five days. It’s a grueling stretch, the kind that can make or break a playoff push. I should be thinking about defensive matchups, penalty kill strategies, and getting enough sleep.
Instead, I’m preoccupied with the fact that Winnie is traveling with us.
Dana arranged it. “Flexibility sessions on the road,” she’d said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “The guys are seeing real improvement. No reason to interrupt the momentum just because we’re traveling.”
The team plane is nice, with leather seats and just enough legroom. I take my usual spot near the back, window seat, headphones in, hoping to sleep through the flight.
Winnie sits with the staff at the front.
Which is fine. That’s where she should sit. She’s an employee traveling for work, and it makes sense for her to be with the trainers and medical team.
It’s fine.
I glance toward the front of the plane. She’s laughing at something the head trainer said, her whole face lit up. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized Knights sweatshirt. Damn, she looks good.
“Subtle.” Zayden drops into the seat beside me, smirking like he’s just caught me doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.
“Shut up.”
He stretches out, crossing his ankles in the aisle. “You’ve looked up at her six times since we took off. I counted.”
“I was stretching my neck.”
“Six times. In the same direction. Must be a very specific neck issue.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I shove my headphones on and crank the volume, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t.
“You know,” he says, loud enough to be heard over my music, “you could just go sit with her. There’s an empty seat.”
“I’m fine here.”
“You’re miserable here.”
“I’m always miserable. It’s my personality.”
Zayden laughs and finally—finally—leaves me alone. I turn toward the window and close my eyes, willing myself to sleep.
I don’t sleep.
Every few minutes, my eyes drift open. My head turns. I look toward the front of the plane, find her blond hair, her profile, the curve of her smile.
She doesn’t look back. Not once.
Which is fine. That’s how it should be. We’re not actually together. She doesn’t need to check on me.
But some stupid, needy part of me wishes she would.
The hotel in Boston is nice. It has a fancy lobby, big rooms, and provides robes and slippers in the closet. The team occupies most of the fourth floor, while the staff is scattered throughout the building.
Winnie is on the sixth floor.
I know this because I overheard her room assignment at check-in—not because I was listening, but because I happened to be standing nearby.
I drop my bag in my room, shower, and change into sweats. Team meeting, dinner, the usual pregame routine. I’m back in my room by eight-thirty, lights off, staring at the ceiling, doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing the night before a game.
I last about twelve minutes.
Then I’m in the elevator, pressing the button for the sixth floor, telling myself I’m just going for a walk. Getting my steps in. Exploring the building.
At nine PM. In a hotel I’ve stayed at a dozen times before.
I’m an idiot.
The sixth floor is quiet. Soft carpet, dim lighting, doors stretching in both directions. I don’t know which room is hers. I didn’t hear that part.
I should go back downstairs. This is stupid.
I’m turning around when a door opens behind me.
“Banks?”
I freeze.
Winnie is standing in her doorway, ice bucket in hand, wearing pajama shorts and a sweatshirt. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’s wearing those little hotel slippers.
She looks soft. Rumpled. Like she was getting ready for bed.
“Are you lost?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then what are you doing on my floor?”
Good question. I wish I had a good answer.
“I was just…” I trail off. There’s no excuse. Nothing that doesn’t make me sound pathetic or creepy or both. “I don’t know.”
Her expression shifts. Softens. “Were you checking on me?”
“Something like that.” Because the real answer—I wanted to see you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, I’m losing my mind—but none of those are things I can say out loud. So I just stand there. Like an idiot.
She leans against the doorframe, a small smile playing at her lips.
“You want to come in?” She pushes the door open wider. “I was going to order room service. Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.”
She laughs. “Fair point.”
I follow her inside.
The room is smaller than mine—single king bed, desk, armchair, the standard hotel setup. Her suitcase is open on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out. There’s a yoga mat rolled up in the corner and a book on the nightstand.
She grabs the room service menu and flops onto the bed, patting the space beside her.
I hesitate.
“I don’t bite,” she says. “Sit.”
I sit on the very edge of the bed, as far from her as physically possible while still technically being on the same piece of furniture.
She notices. Of course she notices.
“Relax. We’re just two colleagues sharing a meal.” She scans the menu. “What are you in the mood for? They’ve got burgers, pasta, some kind of fancy sea bass…”
“Burger.”
“Burger it is.” She picks up the phone and orders two bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and a slice of chocolate cake. When she hangs up, she grabs the TV remote and starts flipping through channels.
“What do you want to watch?”
“I don’t care.”
“You have to have an opinion.”
“I really don’t.”
She settles on a home renovation show where people yell about open-concept living and shiplap. I’ve never understood the appeal, but she seems into it, so I don’t complain.
We sit in silence for a while. Not awkward silence—just quiet. Comfortable.
When was the last time I felt comfortable with another person?
“This couple is making a huge mistake,” Winnie says, pointing at the screen. “They’re taking out that load-bearing wall, and their contractor clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“You know about load-bearing walls?”
“My dad’s a contractor. I grew up on job sites.” She tucks her feet under her. “I know way too much about structural support and building codes. It’s a very specific skill set.”
“That’s actually useful.”
“Right? Except no one ever asks for construction advice at parties.” She grins. “What about you? Any weird hidden skills?”
I think about it. “I can cook.”
“Really?”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“No, it’s just—you don’t seem like the cooking type. You seem like the ‘protein bars and takeout’ type.”
“I eat a lot of protein bars because they’re convenient. But I can actually cook. I taught myself in college.” I shrug. “Had to. Couldn’t afford to eat out all the time, and meal plans are a scam.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“Pasta, mostly. Some stir-fry. I make a decent breakfast.”
“Banks Callahan, making breakfast.” She shakes her head, smiling. “The layers keep revealing themselves.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.
The food arrives, and we eat on the bed like teenagers at a sleepover. She abandons her food and moves on to the chocolate cake—she eats half of it before I even finish my burger.
“Don’t judge me,” she says around a mouthful of frosting. “I stress-eat chocolate. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“I’m not judging.”
She licks chocolate off her thumb. “I just—I don’t want to screw this up. This job is a big deal to me.”
“You’re doing great. You shouldn’t stress. Everyone loves you.”
She gives me a warm smile, and something loosens in my chest. This is easy. Being with her. I don’t have to perform or pretend or be anything other than what I am. She doesn’t expect more.
“Bathroom?” I ask, because the two large bottles of water are catching up with me.
“Through there.” She points without looking away from the screen, where a couple is arguing about countertop materials.
The bathroom is small—standard hotel setup. Toilet, sink, shower with a glass door. I do what I came to do, wash my hands, and I’m reaching for the towel when I see it.
Sitting on the counter, next to her makeup bag, casual as anything.
A vibrator.
My brain goes offline.
It’s purple. Sleek. The kind of thing you’d see advertised on Instagram with words like “whisper quiet” and “ten settings.” She must have left it out by accident, not expecting company, not expecting me to show up at her door like a lovesick idiot and end up in her bathroom.
I should look away. I should dry my hands, walk out, and pretend I never saw it.
I don’t look away.
My mind is already filling in the blanks. Winnie, alone in bed, sliding that toy between her thighs. Her head tipped back against the pillow, her lips parted, breath coming faster. Those blue eyes fluttering closed as she works herself higher, chasing the release, soft sounds escaping her throat—
My dick hardens so fast I get lightheaded.
I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white, and force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Think about hockey. Think about ice. Think about literally anything except Winnie spread out on that king-sized bed, legs open, that purple toy buzzing against her—
Fuck.
I’m fully hard now, straining against my sweatpants in a way that’s going to be impossible to hide. I stare at my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, dark eyes, the look of a man who’s completely lost control of his body.
Get it together.
I turn on the cold water and splash my face. Once. Twice. Three times. I think about the defensive scheme for tomorrow’s game. I think about the Bruins’ power play. I think about Coach Reynolds yelling at us during practice.
It helps. Barely.
The vibrator is still sitting there, mocking me.
Does she use it every night? Does she think about anyone when she does? Does she ever think about—
No. Stop. Don’t go there.
I dry my face with the towel, adjust myself as discreetly as possible, and take one more deep breath. I can do this. I can walk out there, sit on her bed, and act like I didn’t just discover something that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my natural life.
I’m a professional athlete. I have discipline. I have control.
I open the bathroom door.
Winnie glances over at me before she turns back to the TV, oblivious.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed—carefully, very carefully—and fix my eyes on the screen without truly seeing anything.
Shiplap. They’re talking about shiplap. I will think about shiplap. I will think about nothing except shiplap for the rest of the night.
But the image is seared into my brain now. The purple toy. The rumpled hotel bed. Winnie’s hand sliding down her stomach, disappearing between her legs—
I grab a throw pillow and put it in my lap.
“Cold?” she asks.
“Something like that.”
We watch another episode of the renovation show. She explains why the kitchen layout is inefficient and which design choices will age poorly. I finish the fries she left behind. Neither of us mentions that it’s getting late or that we both have early mornings.
Somewhere around the second episode, she starts to fade. Her blinks grow longer, and her commentary becomes quieter. She tips sideways until her head rests on the pillow, eyes half-closed, still facing the TV.
“Win.”
“Mm.”
“You’re falling asleep.”
“‘M watching.”
“You’re not. You’ve missed the last ten minutes.”
She doesn’t argue, just curls tighter into herself, a small smile on her lips.
I should leave. I should have left an hour ago. But she looks so peaceful, so soft, and I can’t bring myself to move.
Her hair is loose, strands falling across her face. Without thinking, I reach out—
And stop.
My hand hovers inches from her cheek. I want to brush those strands away, tuck them behind her ear, let my fingers linger on the curve of her face. But that’s not part of the arrangement. That’s not what she signed up for.
I pull my hand back.
“I should go,” I say quietly.
“Mmkay.” Her eyes flutter open briefly. “Thanks for the company.”
“Thanks for the burger.”
She laughs sleepily. “Goodnight, tough guy.”
The nickname hits me the same way it did on the phone—right in the chest, right where it matters.
“Goodnight, Win.”
I stand up carefully, trying not to jostle the bed. She’s already drifting off again, her breathing evening out, one hand tucked under her cheek.
She’s beautiful like this—unguarded, real. All the walls she puts up during the day have crumbled away in sleep.
I want to crawl into that bed beside her, wrap myself around her, and fall asleep with her warmth surrounding me.
I don’t. Obviously I don’t. Can’t.
I turn off the TV, pull the blanket up over her shoulders, and let myself out as quietly as I can.
The hallway is cold after the warmth of her room. I stand there for a moment, hand still on her door, trying to remember how to breathe.
This is a problem.
This is a very big problem.
But as I head back to the elevator, I can’t stop thinking about the way she said “tough guy,” the way she smiled when I admitted I could cook, and the way she looked at me like I was someone worth knowing.
Five days. Three cities. One impossible woman.