Chapter Seven
WHAT HAPPENS IN DETROIT
Tori
We win in Detroit.
I watched from my spot near the bench, tracking Zayden’s shoulder mechanics every shift, telling myself that’s the only reason I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
It wasn’t. But it’s the lie I’m going with.
By the time I’m halfway back to the hotel, my phone buzzes.
Logan: Team drinks. Hotel bar then somewhere else. You’re coming.
Me: I don’t remember agreeing to that.
Logan: You just did. Be in the lobby in 20. It’s for MORALE, Tori. PLAYER WELLNESS.
Me: That’s not how player wellness works.
Logan: ??????
I stare at my phone and smirk. He sent me cupcake emojis.
Cute. Logan’s cute. But he’s not the hockey player who’s been occupying my thoughts lately.
That would be a different one entirely—one with a trim waist and broad shoulders I want to climb.
I reapply my mascara and add lip gloss. Just because.
One drink. That’s all.
· · ·
The bar is loud and crowded, a local spot the guys found that has good reviews and an impressive beer selection. We commandeer a back corner—Logan, Archer, Banks, a couple of the younger guys whose names I keep mixing up, Zayden, and me.
I’m on my second vodka soda, which is already one more than I planned, and I’m feeling... good. Loose. The tension I’ve been carrying for days is finally starting to ease, helped by Logan’s ridiculous play-by-play commentary and Archer’s dry observations.
“—and then Grayson just stood there,” Logan says, gesturing wildly. “Like a statue. I’m screaming at him to move, and he’s just—”
“I was screening the goalie,” Grayson protests. “It’s called strategy.”
“It’s called being in my way.”
“Your shot went in!”
“Because I’m talented. Not because of your so-called strategy.”
I laugh, and Zayden catches my eye from across the table. He’s nursing a beer—just one, I’ve noticed—and there’s a softness to his expression I don’t usually see. Relaxed. Happy. It’s nice to see this side of him.
“Having fun?” he asks, leaning closer so I can hear him over the noise.
“Maybe.”
“That’s practically a ringing endorsement coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re usually so...” He searches for the word. “Controlled. It’s nice to see you let loose.”
“I’m always loose.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. I’m occasionally loose. In specific circumstances. With adequate preparation.”
He laughs—actually laughs, head tipped back, throat exposed—and the sound makes my stomach flip. “There she is. The woman who needs a flowchart to have fun.”
“I don’t need a flowchart. I just like to be prepared.”
“For fun?”
“For everything.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “You’re something else, Tori Wells.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I take another sip of my drink and try to ignore the warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with vodka.
An hour later, I’m exiting the restroom when someone stops right in front of me, blocking my path.
“Hey there.”
I glance up at a guy in his thirties, decent-looking, wearing a button-down that’s trying too hard. He’s got that confident smile that suggests he’s used to women responding well to him.
“Hi,” I say, trying to edge around him.
“I’m Ryan.”
“Okay.”
He laughs like I’ve said something charming instead of dismissive. “Feisty. I like it. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Come on. One drink. You look like you could use some company.”
“I have company.” I nod toward the table where the guys are still deep in conversation. “I’m with them.”
Ryan follows my gaze, then turns back with a knowing smirk. “The hockey players? What are you, a puck bunny?”
I bristle. “I’m a physical therapist.”
“Even better.” He leans closer, and I catch a whiff of cologne that’s way too strong. “So you’re good with your hands?”
Oh, for the love of—
“Look, Ryan, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested.”
“You don’t even know me yet.”
“I know enough.”
His smile falters, then hardens. “What, you think you’re too good for me? I’m just trying to be nice.”
“And I’m just trying to get back to my table. Alone.”
He doesn’t move. If anything, he shifts closer, leaning into my space. “You know, most women would be grateful for the attention.”
His hand lands on my waist, and I go rigid, anger and discomfort warring in my chest.
“Touch her again.” Zayden’s voice dropped to something low and lethal. He didn’t raise it—didn’t need to. He just moved into Ryan’s space, all six-foot-two of barely leashed violence, and the temperature in the hallway plummeted. “And we’re going to have a problem you won’t walk away from.”
Ryan goes still, then drops his hand.
I turn and see Zayden. His eyes are fixed on Ryan with an expression I’ve never seen before—cold, focused, deadly.
“We’re just talking, man,” Ryan says, but he pulls back.
“No. You were leaving.”
“Excuse me?”
“She told you she wasn’t interested. Twice.” Zayden’s hand comes to rest on my lower back—warm, steady, grounding. “So now you’re going to walk away, find someone else to bother, and forget this conversation happened.”
Ryan looks between us, calculation flickering behind his eyes. He’s sizing Zayden up—the height, the build, the fact that he’s clearly not someone to mess with—and whatever math he’s doing, the answer comes up in our favor.
“Relax, dude.” He moves away, straightening his shirt.
Zayden takes a step forward, and Ryan practically trips over himself backing away, disappearing into the crowd.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Zayden’s hand is still on my lower back, and I can feel every point of contact like a brand.
“You okay?” His voice is softer now.
“I’m fine. I had it handled.”
“I know you did.” He doesn’t move his hand. “But I wanted to help anyway.”
I turn to face him, and he’s closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he’s looking at me like he’s barely holding himself back from something.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Anytime.”
I push the strap of my purse onto my shoulder with hands that aren’t quite steady. “I think I’m done for the night,” I manage.
“Yeah.” He’s still watching me with that intense expression. “I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know. I want to.”
The night air hits me as we step outside, cold and sharp. January in Detroit isn’t any friendlier than January in New York—the wind cuts through my jacket, and I shiver before I can stop myself.
Without a word, Zayden shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
“I’m fine,” I protest, even as I pull it tighter. It smells like him—that body wash, plus something warm and distinctly Zayden.
“You were shivering.”
“It’s cold.”
“Hence the jacket.”
I don’t argue. Partly because I’m tired, partly because wearing his jacket feels good in a way I refuse to examine.
We walk in silence, footsteps echoing on the empty sidewalk. The hotel isn’t far—maybe ten minutes—but the distance feels both endless and not nearly long enough.
“That guy was an asshole,” Zayden says.
“Yeah.”
“Does that happen a lot? Guys not taking no for an answer?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. It’s an occupational hazard of existing while female.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not okay.”
“No. But it’s reality.”
We walk another half block in silence. I’m hyperaware of everything—the brush of his sleeve against mine, the fog of our breath in the cold air, and the electricity humming between us.
“Tori.”
There’s something about the way he says my name. The slight softening of the ‘T’, the way it sounds almost like “Toh-ree” when he’s not paying attention. Quebec bleeding through the edges of his accent.
I look up. He’s stopped walking, and we’re almost at the hotel—the entrance maybe fifty feet away, light spilling from the lobby onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read—intense and searching, like he’s working something out.
“What?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
“Nothing. I just...” He takes a breath. “I should get you back.”
“Okay,” I breathe.
Neither of us moves.
The moment stretches, thick with something unspoken. He’s looking at my mouth—I know because I’m looking at his, cataloging the shape of his lips, wondering what they’d feel like against mine.
I should step back. Say goodnight. Walk inside and put distance between us before I do something I can’t undo.
I don’t move.
He lifts his hand slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingers graze my cheek, feather-light, and I forget how to breathe.
“Tori,” he says again, and my name sounds like a confession.
“Yeah?”
His thumb traces along my jaw, tilting my face up. We’re inches apart. I can feel the warmth of his breath, see the way his pupils have gone dark.
This is a bad idea. I have rules. I have—
His eyes search mine, asking a question I don’t know how to answer.
Then he steps back.
Cold rushes in where his warmth used to be, and I have to stop myself from swaying toward him.
“I should let you get some sleep.” His voice is rough, strained. “Early flight.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He gestures toward the entrance. “After you.”
We walk the last fifty feet in charged silence.
The elevator ride is worse—we stand on opposite sides of the small space like we’re afraid of what might happen if we get too close.
The air feels thick, electric, and I can barely breathe around the tension.
I have never in my life wanted to kiss someone this badly.
Every nerve in my body is tuned to him, cataloging the rise and fall of his chest, the clench of his jaw, the way his hands are shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them to behave.
I dig my nails into my palms and watch the floor numbers climb.
My floor comes first. I step out and turn.
“Goodnight, Zayden.”
“Goodnight, Tori.” His eyes hold mine as the doors slide closed. “Sleep well.”
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, hand pressed to my chest, heart hammering against my ribs.
Then I walk to my room on unsteady legs, let myself in, and lean back against the door.
I can still feel his fingers on my jaw, the warmth of his jacket around my shoulders, the way he looked at me like I was something precious he wanted but wouldn’t let himself take.
I need a cold shower to wash away the feeling of almost—almost kissing him, almost giving in to something I know I shouldn’t want but absolutely do.
Zayden Bishop almost kissed me tonight.
And I would have let him.