Chapter Six
TOUCH-STARVED
Zayden
Iwake up thinking about her.
Not in a dirty way—although, let’s be honest, my brain went there around midnight and I had to take a cold shower like some kind of horny teenager.
No, this is worse. I’m lying in a hotel bed in Chicago, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way she said maybe I don’t mind your mess like it meant something.
It didn’t mean anything. She’s my PT. She’s paid to care about my well-being. That’s literally her job description.
I scrub a hand over my face and try to get my head on straight.
Here’s the thing, it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone.
And I don’t mean dating—I already told Tori about that wasteland.
I mean with someone. Physically. The last time was.
.. I don’t even want to do the math. Let’s just say Maisie was a lot younger and I was a lot more willing to make questionable decisions.
So maybe that’s the problem. I’m touch-starved and projecting. Tori puts her hands on me every single day, works out the knots in my shoulders, presses her fingers into my muscles, and my body is confusing clinical contact for something else.
I just need to get laid. That’s all this is. Find someone fun, blow off some steam, and stop obsessing over a woman who calls me “Mr. Bishop” when she’s annoyed and looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s not sure she wants to solve.
Simple.
Except even as I think it, I know it’s bullshit. Because it’s not just the physical stuff. It’s the way she laughs, unguarded and real. The way she calls me out. The way she sat with me at that bar last night and just... listened. Like what I had to say actually mattered.
When’s the last time someone did that?
I roll out of bed and hit the shower, turning the water as cold as I can stand. Game day. I need to focus. Chicago’s been playing well this season, and my shoulder needs to hold up for three periods of hockey.
Everything else can wait.
· · ·
My pre-game session with Tori is at ten.
She’s already set up in the training room they’ve given us at the arena—portable table, her kit laid out with military precision, tablet open to what I assume is my file.
She’s wearing team athletic wear today, a Knights T-shirt that stretches across her chest and a pair of black leggings.
Her hair is pulled back, and she looks up when I walk in with an expression that’s pure business.
“Bishop. On the table.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“It’ll be a good morning when I confirm your shoulder isn’t going to fall apart during the game.” She pats the table. “Shirt off. You know the drill.”
I do know the drill. That’s the problem.
I pull my shirt over my head and settle onto the table, trying to think about literally anything other than the fact that her hands are about to be on me. Hockey. I’ll think about hockey. Defensive strategies. Forechecking patterns. The way Chicago’s goalie tends to cheat left on breakaways.
Tori’s hands press into my shoulder, and my brain goes blank.
“How’d you sleep?” she asks, working along my trapezius.
“Fine.”
“Liar. You’ve got tension knots that say otherwise.”
I smirk. “Maybe I just have a stressful job.”
“Mm-hmm.” She digs into a particularly tight spot, and I bite back a groan. “What were you stressed about?”
You. At the bar last night. The way you looked at me like I was more than a shoulder to fix.
“Just game stuff,” I say. “Chicago’s been hot lately.”
“Their offense is ranked third in the league right now.” She moves to my rotator cuff. “But their defense has been shaky. If you can get pucks on net, you’ll have chances.”
I twist to look at her. “You’ve been studying their stats?”
“I study everyone’s stats.” She pushes me back down. “Stay still. And don’t look so surprised. I’m good at my job.”
“Never said you weren’t.”
“You were thinking it. That face you made—” She mimics an expression of exaggerated shock. “Very flattering.”
“I was not making that face.”
“You absolutely were.”
I’m smiling now, and I don’t even know when that happened. She has this way of pulling it out of me, even when I’m trying to be serious.
Her hands move lower, working along my spine, and I have to close my eyes. Focus. Hockey. Chicago’s penalty kill. Their power play setup. Anything except the warmth of her palms and the way her fingers find every spot that needs attention like she’s got a map of my body memorized.
“You’re distracted today,” she says.
Understatement. “I’m fine.”
“You keep tensing up. More than usual.” She pauses. “Is this about last night? The bar?”
Yes. “No.”
“Because if I said something that made things weird—”
“You didn’t.” I open my eyes and meet hers. “It wasn’t weird. It was... nice. Talking to you.”
Something shifts in her expression. Just for a second. Then she looks away, clearing her throat.
“Well. Good.” She steps back. “You’re cleared. Shoulder’s holding up. Don’t do anything stupid out there, and ice between periods.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I mean it, Bishop. I’ll be watching.”
“I know you will.”
Our eyes meet again, and there’s a moment—just a beat—where neither of us looks away. The air feels heavier. Charged.
She breaks first, turning to her tablet, and I grab my shirt and get the hell out of there before I say something I can’t take back.
· · ·
Game time.
There’s nothing like it. The roar of the crowd, the cold bite of the ice, the way everything else just... stops. When I’m on the ice, I’m not a single dad with a failing childcare situation and a woman I can’t stop thinking about. I’m just a hockey player. Pure instinct. Pure focus.
The first period is a grind. Chicago comes out hard, testing our defense, and I spend most of my shifts battling along the boards. My shoulder holds—it’s tight, but functional. Tori’s protocol is working.
In the second period, we start finding our rhythm. Banks breaks up a two-on-one and sends the puck up the ice to Logan, who dekes past a defender before feeding it to Archer at the point. Archer one-times it, and I’m already moving toward the net, stick ready.
The rebound comes right to me.
I don’t think. I just shoot.
Top corner. Glove side.
The goal light goes red, and the guys swarm me, knocking their helmets into mine, gloves pounding my back. Logan’s yelling something I can’t hear over the crowd, and Banks gives me a nod—which, from him, is basically a standing ovation.
And then, without meaning to, I look toward the bench.
She’s there. Standing behind the medical staff area, tablet in hand, and she’s—
Smiling. Actually smiling. At me.
My chest does something stupid, and I have to force myself to focus on the faceoff.
Get your head in the game, Bishop. She’s just doing her job.
In the third period, I get an assist on Logan’s game-winner. We take it 3-2, and the locker room after is loud and chaotic, the way it always is after a road win. Coach gives us a brief speech—“Good start, don’t get comfortable, Detroit’s next”—and then it’s showers and postgame routines.
I take my time, letting the hot water work out the soreness in my muscles. By the time I’m dressed, most of the guys are lounging around, half in their suits, riding the high of the win.
“Hell of a shot, Bish.” Logan drops onto the bench next to me, hair still wet. “That release was filthy.”
“Got lucky.”
“Lucky my ass. That was pure skill, and you know it.”
Grayson Reed wanders over, towel around his waist, smirking at something on his phone. I tense automatically. Reed’s got this way of making everything feel like a transaction—like he’s always calculating what he can get out of any situation.
“Did you see that hot PT during warm-ups? Standing by the boards?” Grayson grins. “I’m telling you, she was into it. Couldn’t take her eyes off the ice.”
“She’s paid to watch us,” Banks says flatly, not looking up from his book. “It’s her job.”
“Nah, man, this was different. She was watching.” Grayson makes a crude gesture that makes my jaw clench. “I’m gonna shoot my shot. Girl like that, legs for days, ass that won’t quit—”
“Reed.” My voice comes out harder than I intended.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “What?”
“She’s staff. Show some respect.”
“Whoa, easy, Daddy Z.” He holds up his hands, grinning. “Didn’t realize you’d already called dibs.”
“I didn’t call—” I stop myself. Take a breath. “Just keep it professional. She doesn’t need that crap from us.”
Logan shoots me a look I can’t read. Banks definitely notices—I see his eyes flick up for a half-second before going back down. Archer’s inhaling a protein bar in the corner, headphones in, checked out from the conversation entirely.
Grayson shrugs, unbothered. “Whatever, man. Your loss.”
He saunters off toward the showers, and I have to physically unclench my fists.
“You good?” Logan asks quietly.
“Fine.”
“Because that seemed like—”
“I said I’m fine.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Chill, Zay. Just asking.”
I finish getting dressed in silence, trying to shake off the anger coiling in my chest. It’s not even about Grayson.
Not really. It’s about the fact that he said out loud what I’ve been trying not to think, and hearing someone else talk about Tori like that made me want to put my fist through his face.
That’s not a normal reaction to have about your physical therapist.
That’s a problem.
· · ·
I find her in the training room for my post-game check.
She’s got resistance bands laid out, her tablet open, all business as usual. But when I walk in, she looks up, and there’s something warmer in her expression than I’m used to seeing.
“Nice game,” she says. “That goal was impressive.”
“You saw it?”
“I told you I’d be watching.” She gestures to the table. “Let’s see how the shoulder held up.”
I settle onto the table, still in my suit pants and white undershirt. She moves closer, and I catch a whiff of her shampoo—something floral, subtle—and then her hands are on my shoulder, and I’m right back where I started this morning.
Except now she’s close enough that I can see the small freckle on her jaw. The way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks when she looks down.
“Movement looks good,” she murmurs, rotating my arm slowly. “Any pain during the game?”
“Nothing major. Tightness in the third, but it loosened up.”
“That’s normal. We’ll ice tonight and reassess in the morning before Detroit.”
She leans in to check my range of motion, and I notice her pause. Just for a second. Her eyes flick to my neck, then away.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. You just—” She steps back, cheeks going pink. “You smell good. Whatever that body wash is.”
I chuckle softly while Tori turns pink.
“Ignore me. Sorry. That was weird.” She steps back, suddenly very interested in her tablet. “I mean—compared to some of the guys who come in here post-game, you’re practically a breath of fresh air. Martinez nearly knocked me out last week.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
But I’m grinning now, and she’s fighting a smile. This is what I like about being around her, the ease of it, the way she makes me feel like I can just... be.
“You’re all set,” she says, still not quite meeting my eyes. “Ice for twenty, then get some sleep. We travel early tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hop off the table, and our hands brush as I reach for my jacket on the chair behind her. Just the barest contact—her fingers against mine—and it shouldn’t mean anything.
But we both freeze.
She looks up at me. I look down at her. And for a second, neither of us moves.
“Tori...”
“You should go,” she says quietly. “Get some rest.”
She’s right. I know she’s right.
I nod once and depart.
· · ·
Back in my hotel room, I ice my shoulder and stare at the ceiling.
I keep replaying it flashes from tonight. The way she smiled when I scored, the way she said you smell good like it slipped out before she could stop it, the way her breath caught when our hands touched.
That wasn’t nothing. I don’t care what my rational brain says—that wasn’t nothing.
And here’s the thing I keep coming back to—this isn’t about being touch-starved. It’s not about needing to blow off steam or find someone to scratch an itch.
It’s about her.
I think about Grayson’s comment, and my hands curl into fists again.
Legs for days. Ass that won’t quit.
He’s not wrong. She’s gorgeous. But that’s not what this is about, and the fact that he reduced her to body parts makes me want to break something—preferably his face.
Tori Wells is smart and sharp and funny as hell. She’s the first person in years who’s made me feel like maybe I don’t have to carry everything alone. And I’m lying in this hotel room at midnight, icing my shoulder, coming to terms with a realization I’ve been dodging for days.
I’m falling for her.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.