Chapter Twenty-Six
The Distance
Winnie
Something is wrong with Banks. I noticed it three days ago—a shift so subtle I almost missed it.
He was quieter than usual during our phone call, which is saying something for a man who treats words like a finite resource.
I chalked it up to exhaustion. They’d had a brutal game, an overtime loss, and he sounded tired.
But then it kept happening.
Short texts instead of conversations. Canceled plans with vague excuses. That wall I’d spent weeks dismantling was suddenly rebuilt, brick by brick, until I couldn’t see him behind it anymore.
“Hey, want to grab dinner tonight?”
“Can’t. Early practice tomorrow.”
“What about Thursday? That new Thai place opened near my apartment.”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”
He didn’t let me know. Thursday came and went with no mention of dinner, no follow-up, nothing but a “Goodnight” text that felt more like a period than a comma.
I try not to spiral. I remind myself that he’s a professional athlete with a demanding schedule, that he’s never been good at communication, that not everything is about me.
But it feels like it’s about me.
It feels like something changed after his birthday, after that night in his truck when we fogged up the windows and almost—
Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe the physical stuff freaked him out. Maybe he realized this was getting too real and decided to pull back before things got complicated.
Maybe he’s done, and he just doesn’t know how to tell me.
The thought makes my chest ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
After all, he’s the one who’s held up his end of the bargain—one fake boyfriend supplied in exchange for keeping his teammates away. Check. I’m the one who complicated it by wanting more.
I see him at the facility on Friday. I’m finishing up a session with some of the younger players when he walks past the training room door. Our eyes meet for half a second—long enough for me to catch the way his jaw tightens—and then he looks away.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t do any of the things a man who’s been texting you goodnight for weeks should do.
He just keeps walking.
I finish the session on autopilot, correcting form and offering encouragement while my brain screams What did I do wrong?
After the players leave, I find myself wandering toward the weight room. I tell myself I’m just taking a walk. Clearing my head. It has nothing to do with the fact that Banks usually lifts around this time.
He’s there. Alone. Headphones in, attacking the weights like a man on a mission. I hover in the doorway, watching. He looks tired—more than tired. Worn down. The kind of exhausted that even sleep doesn’t fix.
He glances up and sees me. For a moment, something raw crosses his face. Then it’s gone, replaced by that neutral mask he wears for everyone else. When did I become everyone else?
I walk over and wait until he removes his headphones. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Silence. Thick and uncomfortable. I hate it. This new distance between us that didn’t exist before.
“You’ve been busy,” I try.
“Yeah.” He reaches for a towel, wiping his face. Not meeting my eyes. “Lot going on.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not really.”
The words sting more than they should. I take a breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He finally looks at me. Something flashes in his eyes—guilt? Regret?—before he shuts it down. “No. You didn’t do anything.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re avoiding me?”
“I’m not avoiding you. I’m just—” He stops. Runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I’ve got stuff going on. It’s not about you.”
“Then tell me what it’s about.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw tight, radiating tension.
“Okay.” I take a step back. “I get it. You need space. I can give you space.”
“Win—”
“No, it’s fine.” It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine. “Just… let me know when you’re ready to talk. Or don’t. Whatever.”
I turn and walk away before he can see my eyes stinging.
He doesn’t follow.
“I think he’s done.”
Tori looks up from her wine glass, concern creasing her forehead. We’re at her place again—our default crisis location—with Maisie already in bed and Zayden conveniently at an away game.
“Done with what?” she asks carefully.
“With me. With whatever this is.” I take a long drink of my own wine. “Maybe the whole fake thing just ran its course, and he doesn’t know how to end it.”
“Winnie—”
“It makes sense, right? We had an arrangement. The arrangement served its purpose. The guys leave me alone now, my metrics are great. I got what I needed out of it, and he sees that as time to move on.”
“That’s not—”
“And the other stuff—maybe that was just… convenience. Proximity. We spent a lot of time together, things got physical, but that doesn’t mean he actually wants—” Me. Ouch.
“Winnie.” Tori’s voice is firm enough to stop my spiral. “Have you actually talked to him about this?”
“I’ve tried. He won’t talk to me.” I set down my glass and press my palms against my eyes. “Every time I ask what’s going on, he shuts down. Says it’s not about me. But if it’s not about me, why won’t he tell me what it is about?”
Tori is quiet for a moment. When I look up, she’s got that expression—the one that says she knows something she’s not sure she should share.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Tori. What?”
She sighs. Tops off both our glasses, then takes a long sip before speaking. “Zayden mentioned something the other day. About Banks.”
My stomach tightens. “What about him?”
“I don’t know all the details—Zay was pretty vague about it—but apparently there’s some contract stuff going on.” She meets my eyes. “There might be trade talks.”
The words don’t register at first. Trade talks. Like he might be—
“As in, he might be leaving?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, Zayden was vague. He wasn’t even sure if he should tell me.” Tori reaches over and squeezes my hand. “But if there’s a chance Banks could be traded, that might explain why he’s pulling away. It might not be about you at all.”
I’m cold suddenly. Freezing. Like someone dumped ice water down my spine.
He might be leaving.
And he didn’t tell me.
“How long has he known?” My voice sounds strange. Distant.
“I don’t know, Win.”
“How long has Zay known?”
“A few days, maybe? He only mentioned it because I asked if he knew why Banks was acting weird.”
A few days. Banks has known for at least a few days that he might be traded—that he might be moving, starting over somewhere new—and he didn’t say a word.
Not one word.
All those texts. All those “I’m fine” and “just work stuff” and “nothing to talk about.” All lies.
“He didn’t tell me.” The hurt in my voice surprises me. “I asked him directly what was wrong, and he lied to my face.”
“He probably didn’t want to worry you until he knew something for sure.”
“That’s bull.” I pull my hand back, anger rising in my chest. “We’re supposed to be—I don’t even know what we are, but we’re something. And he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me his life might be imploding? That he might be leaving New York?”
“He’s not good at this stuff, Win. You know that.”
“Being bad at communication is one thing. Actively hiding something this big is another.” I stand up, suddenly unable to sit still. “What am I supposed to do with this? Pretend I don’t know? Wait for him to tell me himself?”
“Maybe give him a chance to explain—”
“A chance?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I gave him chances. Multiple chances. He looked me in the eye and said ‘it’s not about you.’ Meanwhile, he’s been carrying this around for days, shutting me out, making me think I did something wrong.”
“You’re hurt. I get it.”
“I’m more than hurt.” I’m pacing now, arms crossed, trying to process. “I’m angry. I trusted him. I let him in. And this whole time, he’s been holding back, keeping secrets, deciding what I’m allowed to know about our relationship.”
Tori is quiet, letting me rant.
“That’s messed up,” I continue. “That’s not what I signed up for. I told him about Derek, about how he made me feel small and like my feelings didn’t matter. And Banks is doing the same thing—just in a different way.”
“I don’t think he means to—”
“I know he doesn’t mean to. That almost makes it worse.” I stop pacing and sink back onto the couch. “He’s so convinced that he has to handle everything alone. That letting someone help is weakness. And I can’t—I can’t with someone who won’t let me in.”
Tori scoots closer and puts an arm around me. I let my head drop onto her shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” The anger is already fading, leaving something heavier in its place. Sadness. Disappointment. Fear. “Part of me wants to confront him. Demand answers. But another part…”
“Another part?”
“Another part is tired.” I close my eyes. “I’ve done this before. Chasing someone who won’t meet me halfway. Trying to prove I’m worth trusting. It’s exhausting. And I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again.”
“Yeah. But Banks isn’t Derek.”
“No. But he’s still keeping me at arm’s length.” I sit up and wipe my eyes—when did I start crying? “I can’t make him open up. I can’t force him to let me in. If he wanted to tell me about this, he would have. The fact that he didn’t…” I trail off.
“The fact that he didn’t what?”
“Maybe it means I’m not as important to him as I thought.”
Tori doesn’t argue. Doesn’t offer false reassurance. Just pulls me into a hug and lets me sit with the weight of it.
Banks might be leaving. He didn’t tell me.
And I don’t know what hurts more—the possibility of losing him, or the realization that maybe I never really had him at all.