Chapter Nineteen
All In
Banks
I didn’t want to come to poker night.
But Zayden is impossible to say no to.
“You’re coming,” he’d said after practice, not as a question. “Archer’s hosting. It’s been planned for weeks. You’re not wiggling out of this one.”
“I don’t wiggle.”
“You absolutely wiggle. You’re the wiggliest person I know when it comes to social obligations.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“You’re coming. End of discussion.” His voice was firm, and the vein in his forehead told me this was non-negotiable.
So here I am, at Archer’s house. Surrounded by my teammates. Holding cards I don’t care about.
Archer’s place is nice—a brownstone in a quiet neighborhood, tastefully decorated in a way that screams “my wife picked everything.” There are framed family photos on the walls, toys tucked into baskets in the corners, evidence of a life that’s full, messy, and real.
I try not to stare at them for too long. It’s a far cry from my apartment, which has an almost sterile perfection, as if no one lives there at all.
The poker table is set up in the finished basement, away from the kids’ bedrooms. There’s beer, chips, and a spread of food that someone’s wife or girlfriend probably ordered. The usual suspects are here—Zayden, Logan, Archer, and a couple of the older guys I don’t talk to much.
I take a seat in the corner, grab a beer, and hope everyone leaves me alone.
They don’t.
“Banks!” Logan slides into the chair next to me, already two beers deep and grinning like an idiot. “You came! This is historic. Someone mark the calendar.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Too late. It’s already a big deal.” He leans in conspiratorially. “So. Winnie. Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“There’s so much to tell. You. Dating. A human woman. With feelings and everything.”
“She has feelings. I’m not sure about me.”
Logan laughs like I’ve made a joke. I wasn’t joking. “Seriously though,” he presses, “how’s it going? You like… in love with her or what?”
The question lands harder than it should.
“We’re not talking about this.”
“Come on, man. I’m just asking.”
“And I’m just not answering.”
He studies me for a second, then grins. “Holy shit. You are.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face went all soft for like half a second. I saw it.” He leans back in his chair, looking way too pleased with himself. “Banks Callahan. Completely gone for the yoga instructor. Who would’ve thought.”
I am not completely gone for her. I’m just… aware of her. Constantly. In a way that’s becoming highly inconvenient.
“You’re whipped,” Logan says. “Fully, completely whipped.”
“I will end you.”
“See, three months ago that threat would’ve made me nervous.” He takes a swig of his beer. “Now I know you’re just deflecting because you don’t want to talk about your feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings.”
Lie. I have too many feelings. That’s the problem.
“Whatever you say, man.” He claps me on the shoulder. “For the record, I think it’s cool. She’s good for you.”
I take a long drink of my beer and contemplate murder.
The game starts, and mercifully, the conversation shifts to cards. I’m not good at poker—too many variables, too much reading people—but I’m not terrible either. I fold when I should fold, bet when I should bet, and keep my face neutral no matter what I’m holding.
It’s really not that different from life.
The night wears on. More beer. Another plate of food. More of Logan running his mouth about everything and nothing. I find myself relaxing despite my best efforts. The basement is warm, the company isn’t terrible, and no one is asking me to be anything other than what I am.
It’s… nice. In a weird way.
Around the third hand, Zayden catches my eye across the table and smirks. I know that look. It’s the look that precedes something I don’t want to hear.
“So, Banks,” he says casually, rearranging his cards. “Tori says Winnie’s been glowing lately. Any idea why that might be?”
“No.”
“Really? No theories?”
“None.”
“Interesting. Because Tori has theories. Lots of them.”
“Tori should mind her own business.”
“Tori’s never minded her own business a day in her life. It’s part of her charm.” He lays down a card. “She thinks you two are good together. Like, really good.”
I don’t respond. I stare at my cards like they hold the secrets of the universe.
“I agree, for the record,” Zayden adds. “You seem… different since you started seeing her.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Lighter, maybe? Less like you’re constantly bracing for impact.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You always have been.” He says it matter-of-factly, without judgment. “But lately, it’s like you’ve eased up a little. Like maybe you’re starting to believe good things can happen.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I say nothing.
The hand plays out. I lose. I don’t care.
Later, when the game has devolved into casual conversation and most of the guys are arguing about some sports commentator I’ve never heard of, Archer slides into the seat next to me.
He’s quieter than the others. More observant. The kind of guy who sees things without making a big deal about it.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Having fun?”
“Define fun.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Fair enough.” He takes a sip of his beer, staring at the table. “She seems good for you. Winnie.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true.” He glances at me. “You’re less clenched.”
“I’m not clenched.”
“Banks. You’re the most clenched person I’ve ever met.” He says it without malice. Just observation. “You walk around like you’re waiting for something bad to happen. Like if you relax for even a second, everything will fall apart.”
I want to argue. I can’t.
“But lately,” Archer continues, “you seem almost… calm. Like maybe you’re starting to trust that things might be okay.”
I think about it. Really think about it.
Am I less clenched? I don’t know. I still feel like I’m bracing for impact most of the time. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Still convinced that anything good is just temporary, a brief reprieve before the universe remembers I don’t deserve nice things.
But when I’m with Winnie…
When I’m with her, I forget to brace. I forget to wait. I just exist in the moment without the constant background hum of anxiety that’s been my companion for as long as I can remember.
Is that what unclenched feels like?
“I don’t know what I feel,” I admit. “I’ve never been good at identifying emotions.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to have it all figured out.” Archer finishes his beer. “Just don’t push her away. Whatever this is, whatever you’re building—it’s worth protecting.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
Something flickers across his face. Something tired and sad. “Maybe.”
Before I can ask what that means, Logan is yelling something about a rematch, and the moment passes. Archer gets up to deal another hand, and I’m left sitting there, turning his words over in my mind.
Whatever you’re building—it’s worth protecting.
Am I building something? It started as an arrangement, a solution to a problem. Fake dating to keep the guys away from her, to help the team focus, to fix something that was broken.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling fake.
The night winds down around midnight. Guys start peeling off, heading home to wives, girlfriends, and empty apartments. I should leave too. I should go back to my place, get some sleep, and stop thinking about things I can’t have.
Instead, I sit on Archer’s back porch with a final beer, staring at my phone.
I’m slightly drunk. Just buzzed enough to make bad decisions seem like good ideas.
I pull up Winnie’s contact.
We haven’t texted much—just a few logistics here and there. Nothing personal. Nothing that crosses the careful lines we’ve drawn.
But right now, sitting in the dark with Archer’s words echoing in my head, I want to cross a line. Just a small one. Just enough to feel connected to her.
I type out a text before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Thinking about you.
Send.
Immediately, I regret it.
What the hell am I doing? “Thinking about you”? What is this, a romantic comedy? She’s going to think I’ve lost my mind. She’s going to laugh at me. She’s going to—
My phone buzzes.
Winnie: Yeah?
One word. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just curious.
I stare at the screen, my heart doing something complicated.
Me: Yeah.
Winnie: What are you thinking?
The truth is too big. Too complicated. I’m thinking about the way you smell like citrus.
The sound you make when you laugh. I’m thinking about your hands on my shoulders and the way you looked at me like I was worth something.
I’m thinking about how terrified I am that this is real and how I’m even more terrified that it’s not.
I can’t say any of that.
I type something simpler instead.
Me: That you make things easier.
Winnie: Things?
Me: Everything.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. I watch them like my life depends on it.
Then her reply comes through.
Winnie: You make everything easier too.
I read the words again; they settle somewhere warm under my ribs.
My phone buzzes again.
Winnie: Where are you?
Me: Poker night. Archer’s place.
Winnie: You went to poker night?? Who are you and what have you done with Banks?
I almost smile. Almost.
Me: Zayden made me.
Winnie: Sure he did. Did you have fun?
I think about it—the ribbing from Logan, the quiet conversation with Archer, the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being surrounded by people who seem genuinely happy for me.
Me: Maybe.
Winnie: Look at you, growing as a person.
Me: Don’t get used to it.
Winnie: Too late. I have expectations now.
I do smile this time. Alone on Archer’s porch, in the dark, smiling at my phone like an idiot.
Winnie: Get home safe, okay?
Me: Okay.
Winnie: Goodnight, tough guy.
Me: Goodnight, Win.
I sit there for a long time after, phone in hand, rereading the conversation.
You make everything easier too.
Maybe Archer’s right. Maybe I am less clenched. Maybe this thing with Winnie—whatever it is—is worth protecting.
Maybe, for once, I should stop bracing for impact and just let myself fall.
The thought is terrifying.
But as I finally head inside to say my goodbyes, I realize something else.
It’s also kind of exciting.