Chapter Five #2
“Oh my God, are you ever going to let that go?”
“Probably not.”
I shake my head, but I’m fighting a smile. This is dangerous—the banter, the ease of it. Every time I’m with him, my walls get a little lower. My rules get a little blurrier.
“How’s Maisie?” I ask, and immediately regret it.
His expression flickers. “You saw that?”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just—I walked past.”
“It’s fine.” He runs a hand through his hair. “She’s... she’s having a hard time. New place, new people. She doesn’t do well with change.”
“Most kids don’t.”
“Most kids don’t have a revolving door of caregivers.” He says it flatly, like it’s just a fact. “Mrs. Hendricks was with us for two years. That’s the longest anyone’s lasted besides me.”
“What about her mom?”
The question slips out before I can stop it. I know she’s not really in the picture, but I don’t know the details.
Zayden’s jaw tightens. “What about her?”
“Sorry. That’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s—” He stops. Starts again. “Sienna left when Maze was six months old. Decided motherhood wasn’t for her. She shows up maybe twice a year, makes a big fuss that she’s back, takes some photos for Instagram, and disappears again.”
“That’s...” I don’t have words for what that is. Shitty.
“It is what it is. We’re fine.” He doesn’t sound fine. “Maisie’s better off without someone who doesn’t want to be there. I just wish—”
He stops himself.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Forget it.”
I should let it go. This is way past professional territory. But something about the way he’s looking at me—tired and unguarded in a way I’ve never seen him—makes me push.
“You can tell me. If you want.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
“I just wish she didn’t have to learn these hard life lessons so young.
That people can hurt you, that people leave.
She’s six. She should believe in... I don’t know.
Happy endings. Instead, she looks at me like she’s waiting for me to disappear too. ”
The ache in his voice hits me somewhere deep. His accent is thicker when he’s tired, I’ve noticed. The hard consonants soften, certain words tilting toward French—which shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
“You’re not going to disappear,” I say softly.
“I know that. But she doesn’t. Not really.” He looks at me, and there’s something raw in his eyes. “How do you teach a kid to trust when the world keeps proving to her that people don’t stay even when they say they’re going to?”
I wish I could fix it, but I can’t. So I just sit with him in the silence, thirty thousand feet above the ground, and let him not be okay for a minute.
It feels like the least I can do.
· · ·
The hotel in Chicago is nice—team money nice, which means I have a room bigger than my apartment with a view of the lake that probably goes for five hundred a night.
I should sleep. It’s almost ten, and Zayden has an early morning session before the game. But my brain won’t shut off, so I end up in the hotel bar, nursing a glass of wine and staring at nothing.
“Can’t sleep either?”
I look up. It’s Zayden.
He slides onto the stool next to me, signaling the bartender. “Sparkling water. Lime.”
“Sparkling water?” I raise an eyebrow. “Wild night.”
“Game day tomorrow.” He shrugs. “Gotta stay sharp.”
“And yet you’re in a bar at ten instead of resting.”
“Could say the same about you.” He nods at my wine glass. “What’s your excuse?”
“Brain won’t shut off.”
“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I know that feeling.”
The bartender sets down his water, and he takes a long sip, staring at nothing. Up close, under the low bar lighting, I take him in. The defined jaw, the dark stubble, lips that I’m absolutely not staring at. The way his throat moves when he swallows.
I take a sip of wine and look away before I do something stupid, like keep looking. “Rough night?” I ask.
“Rough week. Rough month.” He rolls the glass between his palms. “Rough year, if I’m being honest.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” He glances at me sideways. “But I probably will anyway because apparently I have no filter around you.”
“Must be my trustworthy face.”
“Must be.” He’s quiet for a second, staring into his glass. “The agency called today. Still no candidates who meet my ‘scheduling requirements.’” He makes air quotes. “Which is code for ‘you’re a single dad with a hockey schedule, and no one wants to deal with that.’”
“What about family?”
“My mom’s in Quebec. She offered to come down for a few weeks, but she’s got her own life. I can’t ask her to put everything on hold.” He takes another sip. “And Sienna’s family...”
“Not an option?”
“Her parents think I ruined her life by getting her pregnant. So no, not an option. Plus they also work full-time.”
“That’s...” I search for the right word. “Unfair.”
“Life usually is.” He says it without self-pity, just stating a fact. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
“You will,” I say, taking a sip of my wine.
He glances my way with an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry for venting about my mess.”
“Maybe I don’t mind your mess.”
The words hang between us. I didn’t mean them to sound like... that. But now they’re out there, and Zayden is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “That almost sounded like you care.”
“I’m your physical therapist. Caring about my patients is literally my job.”
“Is that what this is? Professional concern?”
No. It’s not. And we both know it.
“I should go,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “Early morning.”
“Tori.”
I stop.
“Thank you,” he says. “For listening. For... I don’t know. Being here.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know. That’s why I’m doing it.” He holds my gaze for a beat too long. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Bishop.”
I walk away before I can do something stupid, like stay.
· · ·
In my hotel room, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
I keep thinking about him taking that seat across from me on the plane. I keep thinking about the bar. The way he said apparently I have no filter around you like it surprised him as much as it surprised me.
I keep thinking about the way he looked at me when I said maybe I don’t mind your mess.
Like he wanted to believe me but couldn’t let himself.
This is a problem. A big, complicated, career-ending problem. Because somewhere between the easy banter and the late-night confessions, I’m starting to see him as more than a patient.
I see a man I want to do deeply unprofessional things to. A six-foot-two French-Canadian snack I’d like to ride into the sunset, and wow, okay, I really need to get laid if this is where my brain goes after one late-night conversation.
...which is a thought I’m going to blame on the wine and never revisit again.
The problem is, I want to help him. Not because it’s my job, but because it’s him.
That’s terrifying.
I roll over, punch my pillow into shape, and try to sleep.
It doesn’t work.