Chapter Three
THE EX FILES
Tori
One week into Zayden Bishop’s rehab protocol, and I’ve learned three things.
One: he’s not an easy patient. He pushes back on everything—rest days, ice baths, the number of reps I assign. He argues like it’s a sport, negotiating his way through every session like he’s trying to find the loophole that lets him skip ahead to being healed.
Two: he’s not the arrogant ass I expected. There’s no entitlement in the way he pushes. No do you know who I am energy.
Three: I look forward to our sessions more than I should.
“You skipped your cooldown again.”
It’s 3 PM on a Thursday, and Zayden is on my treatment table, his shoulder already showing signs of the inflammation I specifically told him to manage.
He’s got dark circles under his eyes that he’s doing a bad job of hiding, and his jaw is tight in that way I’m starting to recognize as his default setting.
“I had somewhere to be,” he says.
“Your daughter’s recital isn’t for another two hours.”
His head snaps toward me. “How do you know about the recital?”
“I know everything, Bishop. It’s my job.”
He stares at me for a beat, and I watch the corner of his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. “You’re kind of scary, you know that?”
“I prefer ‘thorough.’”
“Sure.” He leans back on the table, letting me work on his shoulder. “We’ll go with thorough. If it helps you sleep at night.”
I press into a knot near his scapula, maybe a little harder than necessary. He hisses.
“Damn, Tori. At least buy me dinner first before the kinks come out.”
I freeze for a second, then roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “That’s what you get for skipping cooldowns.”
“Noted. Seriously though, you’re supposed to wine and dine a guy before you torture him.”
“Sorry to disappoint. I don’t date players.”
He glances back at me, eyebrow raised. “No?”
“Never.”
“Probably a good rule.” He settles back onto the table, and I get an eyeful of his back—and I work to maintain clinical detachment while staring at a body that should come with a warning label.
His eyes flick to mine—warm and brown—and I can tell he’s not done. “So who do you date?”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m injured and bored. Humor me.”
I dig my thumb into another knot, and he grunts. “Lately? No one. My track record is... not great.”
“How not great are we talking?”
I shouldn’t answer. This is personal territory, the kind of conversation that blurs lines I need to keep sharp.
But something about the way he asked—curious, not flirty—makes me say, “My last date spent forty minutes talking about CrossFit and then tried to explain why I should let him manage my crypto portfolio.”
Zayden snorts. “On a first date?”
“He had a pie chart. On his phone. Ready to go.”
“Please tell me you walked out.”
“I finished my drink first. I was raised with manners.” I move to his rotator cuff, working through the tension there. “Before that, there was a guy who showed up twenty minutes late, complained about the restaurant I picked, and then asked me to Venmo him for my half of the appetizer we shared.”
“The appetizer.”
“Spinach dip. It was like eight dollars.”
He’s quiet for a second, and when I glance at his face, he looks genuinely offended on my behalf. “What’s wrong with people?”
“If I knew that, I’d be a lot richer and a lot less single.”
“So CrossFit guy and Venmo guy. Anyone else in the lineup?”
“There was a radiologist who talked about himself in the third person. And a financial advisor who told me I had ‘good birthing hips.’”
Zayden chokes. “He said what?” He turns to look at me fully now, disbelief written all over his face. “You’re making this up.”
“I wish I was.”
He shakes his head slowly. “How is that possible? You’re—” He stops. Clears his throat. “I mean, those guys sound like idiots.”
I catch the stumble. File it away. Pretend I didn’t notice.
“Yeah, well.” I gesture for him to lie back down. “That’s dating in New York. It’s a wasteland out there.”
“What about before? College, whatever?”
My hands still on his shoulder for just a second. “That’s a story for another session. Maybe after you actually complete a full cooldown.”
“Bribery. Nice.” He settles back onto the table with a half-smile.
“What about you?” I ask, moving to his lower traps. “Since we’re sharing.”
“What about me?”
“Dating. Relationships. Any Venmo-requesting nightmares in your past?”
He’s quiet for a second. “No.”
“No nightmares, or no dating?”
“Both.” He shifts slightly under my hands. “Haven’t really... there hasn’t been anyone. Since Maisie’s mom.”
My hands slow. “Maisie’s your daughter?”
“Yeah. Maze is six now.” Something in his voice changes when he says her name. Softer. Like the word itself is precious. “She’s, uh... she’s my whole world, basically.”
I process this information while working a knot out of his trapezius. My hands slow. “Wait. You said she’s six?”
“Yeah.”
“So you haven’t dated anyone in six years?” My eyebrows shoot up.
“Haven’t had time. Between hockey and Maze, there’s not a lot left over.” He says it like it’s nothing. Like six years of being alone is just a scheduling issue.
I try to do the math. Six years of no—
Okay, no. He’s a professional athlete, not a monk. He probably just handles things casually, scratches the itch when he needs to. No strings, no complications, no one who sticks around long enough to meet his kid.
Not that I should be thinking about Zayden Bishop scratching any itches.
But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. My brain unhelpfully supplies images of what that might look like—those broad shoulders over me, those big hands pinning my wrists, all that controlled intensity unleashed on someone who—
My face goes hot, and my heart kicks up, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I’m suddenly very aware of the warmth of his skin under my palms. The way his muscles flex when he breathes. The sheer size of him on my table, how he makes the room feel smaller just by existing in it.
Stop. Stop it right now.
I clear my throat and focus on a knot near his spine, pressing harder than necessary.
“Calice,” he mutters under his breath, then catches himself. “Sorry. That one’s deep.”
“Was that French?”
“Quebecois. It’s... not polite.”
I smile. “I figured from the tone.” I continue pressing, working up my courage. “So, six years is a long time,” I say, and thank God my voice comes out steady.
“Tell me about it.”
“But you’re—” I stop myself, but not fast enough.
“I’m what?”
Ugh. Fine. “A hot single dad, and an NHL star. You must have women lining up.”
He’s quiet for a beat, and I keep my eyes fixed on his shoulder blade so I don’t have to see his reaction to me calling him hot.
“Sure. They line up.” His voice is flatter now. “Then they hear I have a kid, and realize I’m not interested in anyone who sees her as an obstacle. That weeds out most of them pretty quick.”
We fall into a rhythm—me working through the tension in his muscles, him pretending it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. It’s become our thing over the past week, this back-and-forth. I push, he resists, I push harder, he eventually gives in. Rinse and repeat.
I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.
“How’s the pain been?” I ask, moving to his rotator cuff. “Scale of one to ten. Real answer.”
“Four.”
“Zayden.”
He sighs. “Five. Maybe six in the mornings.”
“That’s almost honest. I’m impressed.”
His lips twitch. “I’m a work in progress.”
I snort before I can stop myself, and he glances back at me with something that looks dangerously close to satisfaction. Like making me laugh was the goal.
Stop it, I tell myself. He’s a patient. This is professional.
But it doesn’t feel professional. It feels like something else, something I don’t have a name for yet, and that’s exactly the problem.
Halfway through the session, his phone starts buzzing.
It’s on the bench near his gear bag, screen lighting up every thirty seconds with texts and calls he’s very deliberately not answering. I watch his jaw tighten each time it goes off, his focus fracturing even as he tries to hold it together.
“You need to take that?”
“It’s handled.”
It’s clearly not handled. The phone buzzes again—a call this time—and I see the name flash on the screen before he reaches over and flips it face-down.
Mrs. Hendricks.
The nanny. I remember her name from his file, from the emergency contacts section I reviewed when I took over his case.
“Bishop.”
“I said it’s handled.”
His voice is sharper than I’ve heard it, edged with something that sounds like barely controlled panic. I hold up my hands, backing off.
“Okay. Just checking.”
He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulder, and the tension in the room shifts. He’s somewhere else now, his head clearly not in the session, and I make a note to cut things short if he can’t focus.
“Sorry,” he mutters after a minute. “Didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not, but thanks for pretending.”
I don’t push. Whatever’s going on with him, it’s not my business. I’m his physical therapist, not his counselor, and the line between those two things is one I need to keep very, very clear.
But I notice things. It’s my job to notice things.
I notice the way he checks his phone the second I turn my back, thumbs flying over the screen before he shoves it in his pocket. The way he looks like he’s running on fumes, held together by caffeine and sheer stubborn will.
By the time we wrap up, he’s distracted enough that he doesn’t even argue when I tell him to ice for twenty minutes before he leaves.
· · ·
Friday afternoon, Coach Reynolds corners me in the hallway.
Donovan Reynolds is old-school hockey—salt-and-pepper hair, a permanent scowl, the kind of guy who’s seen everything and is impressed by nothing. He’s been coaching for twenty years and probably hasn’t smiled since the Obama administration.
“Wells.”
“Coach.”
He falls into step beside me, which is never a good sign. “Whatever you’re doing with Bishop, keep doing it.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“He showed up to cooldown yesterday. First time in months.” Reynolds shakes his head, almost disbelieving. “I’ve been on his ass about it all season. Nothing. You’ve had him for a week and suddenly he’s following protocol like a goddamn choirboy.”
I don’t know what to say to that. “I just... told him to do it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s working. Don’t screw it up.”
He walks off before I can respond, leaving me standing in the hallway trying to figure out if that was a compliment or a threat.
Probably both.
I head back to my office, turning his words over in my head. Whatever you’re doing with Bishop, keep doing it.
The problem is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m treating him like I treat any patient—firm boundaries, clear expectations, no tolerance for bullshit. That’s it. That’s the whole strategy.
But somewhere along the way, it became something else. The banter. The discussions when he’s on my table. The way he looks at me sometimes, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
The way I catch myself looking forward to his sessions.
I sink into my desk chair and stare at the ceiling.
Coach is right. Whatever I’m doing, it’s working. Zayden is showing up. He’s following protocol, and making progress.
I should feel proud.
Instead, I just feel worried.
Because I’m starting to care about whether he’s okay. Not his shoulder—him. The guy who shows up on four hours of sleep because he doesn’t know how to let people down. The guy who teases me about my spotty dating history.
The guy I absolutely cannot afford to care about.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and remind myself of the rules.