Chapter Seventeen
Hands On
Winnie
The arena in Boston is older than the Knights’ home rink—all exposed brick and industrial lighting, with that particular smell of cold air and old sweat that seems baked into the walls.
The visiting team’s practice facility is tucked in the basement, a utilitarian space with rubber flooring and fluorescent lights.
It’s not glamorous. But it works.
I set up in the corner they’ve designated for my session, rolling out mats and arranging foam rollers while the guys trickle in. It’s early—nine AM, before morning skate—and I expect the usual grumbling.
What I don’t expect is the turnout.
Six players. That’s it. But I’ll take six guys who actually need flexibility work, who actually want to improve, who show up with water bottles and focused expressions instead of smirks and wandering eyes.
Three weeks ago, I had twenty-three players packed into a room meant for fifteen, none of them paying attention to anything except my body. Now I have six who are here to work.
The change is remarkable.
“Alright,” I say, clapping my hands. “Let’s start with hip openers. Everyone grab a strap.”
The session flows smoothly. I guide them through a series of stretches designed for hockey players—hip flexors, hamstrings, lower back, all the areas that get tight from skating and checking and the general violence of the sport.
The guys follow instructions. They ask questions about form. They actually try.
This is what I wanted. This is why I took this job.
An hour later, we finish up and they filter out, heading to the locker room to gear up for morning skate. I start collecting equipment, rolling up mats, stacking blocks.
“Need some help?”
I look up. Banks is standing there.
I wasn’t sure if he’d even arrived at the facility yet. Now he’s standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his athletic shorts, looking like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself.
“I’m almost done,” I say. “But thanks.”
He doesn’t leave.
I raise an eyebrow. “Something else you need?”
He shifts his weight. Opens his mouth. Closes it. For a man of few words, he’s using even fewer than usual.
“Spit it out, Banks.”
“My hip flexors,” he says finally. “They’re tight.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Your hip flexors.”
“Yeah.”
“Is this just a ploy to get close to me?”
A faint flush creeps up his neck. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“Convenient.”
“It’s not—” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “They’re actually tight. The flight. The hotel bed. I can feel it when I skate.”
He’s not wrong. Long travel days wreak havoc on hip flexors, especially for bigger guys. And Banks is definitely a bigger guy.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice professional. “Grab a mat. I’ll walk you through some stretches.”
He actually sits. Right there on the mat, folding his massive frame into a cross-legged position that looks almost comically uncomfortable. His knees stick up because his hips are that tight.
“Wow,” I say. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Told you.”
I kneel beside him, assessing. “Okay, let’s start with a basic lunge stretch. Right leg forward, left leg back. Sink into it slowly.”
He moves into position, and I guide him with my hands—one on his hip, one on his lower back, adjusting his alignment. His body is warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. Solid. Unyielding.
“Deeper,” I say. “Let your hips drop toward the floor.”
He sinks lower, and I feel the muscles under my palm resist, then slowly release. He exhales, a controlled breath that sounds almost pained.
“Good. Hold that.”
I should step back. Give him space. Let him do the stretch on his own while I observe from a safe distance.
Instead, I stay close. My hand lingers on his hip, feeling the movement of his body as he breathes. He’s so big. So solid. All that hard muscle contained in one overwhelming package.
My mind starts to wander.
I try to stop it. I really do. But I’m kneeling next to him, my hands on his body, and suddenly all I can think about is what it would be like to be with a man like Banks. Physically.
Not the fake hand-holding. Not the performative touches for the team’s benefit. But actually be with him.
What would it feel like to straddle those thick thighs? To sink down onto him while his hands grip my hips, lifting me up and down like I weigh nothing? He’s so strong—he could probably hold me in the air indefinitely, use me however he wanted—
I feel my cheeks flush.
Stop it. Stop it right now.
But my brain won’t cooperate. It’s already moved on to other images. Banks flipping me over, pressing me into the mattress, his huge body covering mine. Taking me from behind with one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise—
“Winnie?”
I blink. Banks is looking at me, a question in his eyes.
“Sorry. What?”
“You went quiet.”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out higher than normal. “Just—thinking about the stretch. Switch legs.”
He switches. I move with him, repositioning my hands, trying desperately to focus on the task and not on the fantasies playing out in my head like an X-rated movie. I imagine running my hands over the muscles in his chest. His abs… lower.
What is wrong with me? I’ve done this stretch with dozens of athletes. Hundreds, probably. I’m a professional. I don’t get distracted by clients.
But Banks isn’t just a client. Banks is… something else. Something I haven’t let myself name yet.
“You’re tighter on this side,” I observe, pressing my thumb into the crease of his hip. “Have you injured this leg before?”
“Groin strain. Two seasons ago.”
Groin strain. Kill me.
“That explains it. Scar tissue can limit mobility.” Thankfully my voice sounds steady.
I work my thumb in deeper, finding the knots, applying pressure. His thigh tenses under my hand, rock-hard, and I have a sudden, vivid image of those thighs flexing as he thrusts into me—
Oh God.
I’m definitely pink now. I can feel the heat in my cheeks, spreading down my neck. Banks is watching me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“It feels like it’s sixty degrees.”
“I run hot.”
“You told me you run cold.”
Damn it. I did tell him that. And it’s true, just not right now.
“Sometimes I run hot,” I amend weakly. “It depends.”
He doesn’t push it. But there’s something in his expression—awareness, maybe—that tells me he knows exactly what’s happening in my head.
“Let’s work on your shoulders,” I say, desperate to change positions, to put some distance between my hands and his hip flexors. “Sit up straight.”
He complies. I move behind him, grateful to be out of his direct line of sight. My face is probably the color of a tomato.
I place my hands on his shoulders and immediately understand why he carries tension. The muscles are like rocks—knotted, rigid, locked in a permanent state of defense.
“Geez, Banks.” I dig my thumbs into the trapezius. “When’s the last time you got a massage?”
“I don’t like people touching me.”
The words land heavy. I think about what he told me in the training room—how it’s been years since anyone touched him gently. How physical contact is either violent or nonexistent in his world.
“Well, you need one.” I work my fingers into the knots, applying steady pressure. “This is ridiculous. You must be in constant pain.”
“I’m used to it.”
“That’s not the same as being okay.”
He doesn’t respond. But he tips his head forward slightly, giving me better access, and I take that as permission to continue.
I work on him for several minutes. Kneading the muscles, finding the trigger points, coaxing his body to release tension it’s been holding for years. His shoulders are broad—impossibly broad—and my hands look small against the expanse of his back.
He groans.
The sound is low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. It reverberates through his body and into my hands, and something clenches low in my belly.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “That felt…”
“Good?”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. Deeper than usual. The sound of a man who’s not entirely in control of himself.
I should stop. This has crossed some invisible line from professional to personal, and we’re both pretending not to notice. But I can’t make myself lift my hands.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” I say softly, working my thumbs along his spine. “Carrying this much tension isn’t sustainable.”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says softly, “I don’t know how to let go.”
The admission hangs in the air between us.
I keep working. My fingers trace the line of his shoulders, the column of his neck, the tight muscles at the base of his skull. He’s so big, and yet right now he feels almost fragile. Like he might shatter if I push too hard.
I’m hyper-aware of everything. The rise and fall of his breath. The heat radiating off his skin. The way he’s holding himself perfectly still, like he’s afraid any movement might break whatever spell we’re under.
He’s being gentle. That’s what gets me. This massive man, capable of so much violence, is holding himself in check so he doesn’t accidentally hurt me. The restraint is almost unbearable.
I want to break it.
The thought startles me. I want to push him, to see what happens when he lets go. I want to feel all that contained power unleashed—on me.
My nipples harden against my sports bra. The fabric suddenly feels too thin, too revealing. I’m grateful he can’t see me.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice comes out breathier than intended. “I think that’s good for now.”
I pull my hands away and step back.
Banks doesn’t move immediately. He sits there, head still bowed, breathing slow and measured. When he finally turns to look at me, his eyes are dark. Heavy-lidded. The look of a man who’s barely holding on.
His gaze drops.
To my chest.
To my very obviously peaked nipples straining against the fabric of my sports bra.
He looks away quickly, but not quickly enough. I saw it. He saw it. We both know what this is now.
The air is thick enough to choke on.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice like gravel.
“Anytime.”
He stands slowly, unfolding his massive frame. I step back, giving him room, but the space between us still feels too small. Too charged.
“I should get to morning skate,” he says.
“Yeah. You should.”
Neither of us moves.
“Win—”
“You should go.” I cut him off before he can say whatever he’s about to say. Whatever it is, I’m not ready for it. “Coach will be looking for you.”
He nods. Hesitates. For a moment, I think he’s going to reach for me—cup my face, pull me close, do something to acknowledge the electricity crackling between us.
He doesn’t.
He just turns and walks away, disappearing through the door to the locker room.
I stand there, alone in the empty practice space, my hands tingling and my heart pounding and my body aching for something I can’t have.
This is getting out of control. This is getting so far out of control, and I don’t know how to stop it. I’m not even sure I want to.
I press my palms to my flushed cheeks and take a deep breath.
Five days. Three cities. And a man who’s slowly dismantling every wall I’ve built.
I am in so much trouble.