Chapter Five
TURBULENCE
Tori
The team charter is already buzzing by the time I board. Someone’s playlist is competing with a poker argument in the back, and there’s a catering spread that could feed a small army.
It’s... a lot.
The plane is sleek and spacious, leather seats arranged in clusters of four with tables between them. I grab a window seat near the front and try to look like I belong here.
“First time on the bird?”
I look up. Logan Palmer is grinning down at me, all golden retriever energy and floppy hair.
He’s twenty-three, a rookie forward, and possibly the most cheerful person I’ve ever met.
The guys call him “Cupcake” because he’s too pretty for hockey—all blue eyes, dimples, and a jawline that belongs in a skincare commercial.
“That obvious?”
“You’re sitting up straight, and you haven’t touched the snacks.” He drops into the seat across from me. “Rookie mistake. Always hit the snacks before Woody gets here. Guy’s a bottomless pit.”
“Woody?”
“Archer Lockwood. Aka Woody.” He shrugs. “We’re not that creative with nicknames.”
I smile. “Yours is Cupcake, right?”
He grins. “Yeah. I’ve embraced it. Gotta lean into your brand, you know?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Also, the puck bunnies love it.”
I snort. “Of course they do.”
He leans back, propping his feet on the seat next to me. “So you’re Bish’s shadow now, huh? How’s that going?”
“Bish?”
“Bishop. Bish. Zay. Daddy. Daddy Z.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “The man has endless nicknames because he’s too easy to mess with.”
My face goes hot at Daddy, and my brain takes a sharp left turn into territory it has no business visiting.
“You okay?” Logan’s watching me with a curious expression. “You look kind of flushed.”
“Fine. Just, um, it’s warm on the plane.” I fan myself like an idiot. “So. You were saying. About Bishop.”
“Right. He giving you trouble?” Logan grins. “He gives everyone trouble.”
“He’s... a work in progress.”
Logan laughs, the dimple in his left cheek appearing. “That’s diplomatic. Banks just calls him a stubborn asshole.”
“Banks isn’t wrong.”
The voice comes from behind me, deep and dry.
I turn to find Banks Callahan settling into the seat behind Logan.
He’s huge—six-four, built like a brick wall, with a permanent scowl that makes him look like he’s contemplating murder at all times.
Defenseman. Twenty-nine. The guys call him “The Wall” for obvious reasons.
“Don’t scare the new girl, Walls,” Logan says.
“I’m not new,” I point out. “I’ve been here two months.”
“You’re new until you’ve survived a road trip.” Banks pulls out a book and doesn’t look up again. “Good luck.”
More players file on. Archer Lockwood—Woody—drops into a seat near the back and immediately passes out, hat pulled low over his eyes. I remember he’s got two-year-old twins at home. The man probably hasn’t slept in two years.
Grayson Reed swaggers past with two other guys I don’t know well, laughing too loud at something on his phone. He catches my eye and winks.
I don’t wink back.
“Reed’s a tool,” Logan says, following my gaze. “Ignore him.”
“Noted.”
“I mean it. He’s got a thing for—” Logan stops abruptly, looking past me. “Hey, Bish.”
I turn. Zayden is standing in the aisle, duffel over his shoulder, looking at Logan’s feet propped on the seat next to me.
“Palmer,” he greets Logan with a cool tone.
“What’s up?”
“You’re in my seat.”
Logan blinks. “Since when do you sit in the front?”
“Since now.”
There’s a beat of silence. Something passes between them—some kind of guy telepathy I’m not fluent in—and then Logan grins, pulling his feet down.
“All yours, man.” He stands, shooting me a look I can’t quite read. “Catch you later, Tori.”
He ambles toward the back of the plane, leaving me alone with Zayden, who slides into the seat Logan just vacated.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Kick him out.”
“I didn’t kick him out.” Zayden stows his bag under the seat. “I just wanted this seat.”
“You said yourself you don’t usually sit up front.”
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Maybe I like the view.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I do what I always do when Zayden throws me off-balance—I deflect.
“How’s the shoulder?”
Dark eyes assess me. “We’re not working right now.”
“I’m always working. Scale of one to ten.”
He finally lets his guard drop, and there’s something tired in his expression. More than tired. Heavy.
“Four,” he says.
“Zayden.”
“Fine. Five.” He leans his head back against the seat. “Can we not do this right now? I just need to...”
He trails off. Closes his eyes.
I should push. It’s my job to push. But something about the way he looks—worn thin, like he’s holding himself together through sheer stubbornness—makes me say, “Okay.”
He opens one eye. “Okay?”
“We can do it later. Get some sleep.”
He stares at me for a long moment, like he’s waiting for the catch. Then he closes his eyes again, and something in his posture loosens. Just a fraction.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
I pull out my tablet and pretend to review his file while he rests. But I’m not really reading. I’m too aware of him—the warmth of his body in the confined space, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his face looks softer when he’s not bracing for a fight.
Stop it, I tell myself. He’s a patient.
I’m getting really tired of that reminder.
· · ·
An hour into the flight, I get up to use the restroom.
The back of the plane is a whole different world.
Banks is still reading, somehow making a paperback look intimidating.
Archer hasn’t moved, dead to the world. A group of guys is playing cards at one of the tables—I recognize the backup goalie, Martinez, and a couple of defensemen whose names I haven’t learned yet.
“Hey, Doc!” one of them calls. “You play poker?”
“She’s not a doctor, dumbass,” another one says. “She’s a PT.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s literally not.”
“I’m good,” I say, sidestepping toward the bathroom. “Thanks, though.”
“Come on, we need a fourth. Arch’s useless, and Banks won’t play.”
“Because you cheat,” Banks says without looking up from his book.
“I don’t cheat, I strategize—”
I slip into the bathroom before I get pulled into whatever that argument is becoming.
When I come out, I take my time getting back to my seat, stretching my legs. That’s when I see Zayden.
He’s not sleeping anymore. He has his phone in his hand, and he’s FaceTiming someone. A small face fills the screen—dark hair, dark eyes, the same stubborn set to her jaw that I recognize from her father.
This must be his daughter.
I slow down without meaning to.
“I’ll be back Wednesday night, Maze,” Zayden is saying, his voice so soft I barely hear it over the plane noise. “That’s only three sleeps.”
“I know.” Her voice is small, tiny through the phone speaker. “But that’s a lot of sleeps.”
“I know it is. But Lily and Luke’s mom is taking good care of you, right?”
“I guess.” A pause. “She makes weird mac and cheese. It has green stuff in it.”
Zayden’s mouth twitches. “Green stuff?”
“I think it’s broccoli? I didn’t eat it.”
“Maze, you have to eat what she makes.”
“But it was green, Daddy.”
“I hear you. But you still have to be polite, okay? She’s doing us a big favor.”
Maisie’s quiet for a second. Then, softer, “I don’t want Lily and Luke’s mom. I want you.”
My chest tightens. I should keep walking. This is private—a moment I have no business witnessing. But my feet won’t move.
Zayden’s whole face changes. The exhaustion is still there, but underneath it is something raw. Tender. The kind of love that doesn’t need words.
“I know, shadow,” he says. “I want to be there too. But I have to work, and—”
“I know.” She sounds resigned. Six years old and already resigned. “It’s okay, Daddy. I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Can you bring me something? From the trip?”
“What do you want?”
“Something good. You pick.”
“Deal.” He presses his hand against the screen, and she does the same on her end—their version of a goodbye hug, I realize. “I love you, Maze. Be good.”
“Love you too. Bye, Daddy.”
The screen goes dark.
Zayden sits there for a second, staring at his phone, and I see him take a slow breath. Composing himself. Putting the armor back on.
I slide back into my seat and stare out the window at the clouds below, trying to get my heart rate under control.
I don’t want Lily and Luke’s mom. I want you.
That was sweet.
I think about what Zayden told me in our session—six years of single parenting, no help, no partner, just him and a little girl who’s learned too young that people leave. I think about the way his voice went soft when he talked to her, the way his expression softened for her.
He’s not what I expected.
When I first saw his file, I thought I knew the type. Pro athlete, famous, probably the kind of guy who thinks the rules don’t apply to him, who’s never heard “no” from a woman and wouldn’t know what to do with it if he did.
But that’s not Zayden. Not even close.
He’s stubborn, sure. He pushes back on everything I tell him. But it’s not entitlement—it’s desperation. He can’t afford to be injured because he can’t afford to stop. There’s no safety net. No backup plan. Just him, holding everything together through sheer force of will.
And I’m starting to—
“Deep thoughts?”
I jump. Zayden tucked his phone back into his pocket and is looking at me.
“Just reviewing files.”
“Liar. The screen’s been dark for ten minutes.”
Damn. He caught me.
“Fine. I was thinking about... work stuff.”
“Work stuff.” He raises an eyebrow. “Compelling.”
“It’s very compelling. Lots of spreadsheets.”
“Uh huh.” He doesn’t look convinced. “You always this bad at lying?”
“I’m an excellent liar.”
“You’re really not.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How would you know? Maybe I’ve been lying to you this whole time. Maybe your shoulder is fine, and I just like torturing you.”
“I knew it.” His mouth quirks. “So it is a BDSM thing, this kink of yours.”