Chapter Eleven
IN THE QUIET
Tori
The training facility is quiet at five o’clock on a Monday.
Most of the guys cleared out after practice, heading home, to dinner, or wherever hockey players go when they’re not practicing or being poked and prodded by medical staff. The hallways have an empty echo, with lights dimmed in the sections no one is using.
I should’ve gone home too. But Zayden texted, asking if we could push his session to late afternoon—something about Maisie’s school pickup—and I said yes without thinking.
I’m trying not to think about what that means. The fact that I rearranged my entire schedule for him. The fact that I’m still here, alone, waiting.
He walks in at 5:07, and I immediately know something’s wrong.
It’s not obvious. He’s dressed for a session—athletic shorts and a fitted black T-shirt that does things I’m not going to acknowledge—and he nods at me like everything’s normal. But there’s a tension radiating from him.
“Hey,” I say. “How’s the shoulder feeling?”
“Fine.”
One word. Clipped. No banter, no jokes, no almost-smile.
Okay then.
“Let’s start with mobility work,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Then we’ll move to the resistance exercises.”
He nods and gets on the table without argument, which somehow feels more alarming than if he’d pushed back. Zayden Bishop always pushes back. It’s our thing.
I work through his shoulder in silence, feeling the knots beneath my fingers. He’s tight everywhere—traps, deltoids, the muscles along his spine. Like he’s been clenching his entire body for hours.
“You’re holding a lot of tension,” I say.
“I’m aware.”
Still nothing. No smartass comment about my hands, no raised eyebrow, no heat simmering beneath the surface. Just... flatness.
We move to the weights. I hand him a resistance band and talk him through the first set of exercises, watching his form. It’s good—it’s always good—but he’s rushing. Pushing through the reps like he’s trying to outrun something.
“Slow down,” I tell him. “You’re going to strain something.”
He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he goes faster, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on a point somewhere over my shoulder.
“Zayden.”
Nothing.
“Zayden, stop.”
He finishes the rep and reaches for a heavier band. I step forward and put my hand on his arm.
“Hey.” I wait until he looks at me. His eyes are dark, distant, like he’s here but not really here at all. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m here.”
“Your body’s here. Your head’s in another zip code.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he sets down the band and runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard.
“Maze had a rough night.”
The visit. Sienna. I don’t say it out loud, but I don’t have to.
“Yeah,” he says, reading my face. “It was... well, it wasn’t great.”
I wait but don’t push. I just stand there with my hand still on his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tension humming beneath the surface.
“She didn’t cry when Sienna left.” His voice is rough. “That’s the thing. She didn’t cry, she didn’t throw a fit, she just... went quiet. Like she was expecting it. Like she’s learned not to hope for anything.”
My chest aches.
“She’s six years old, Tori. She shouldn’t know how to protect herself like that. She shouldn’t have to.”
“No,” I agree softly. “She shouldn’t.”
He’s looking at the floor now, shoulders hunched, and I’ve never seen him like this. Cracked open. Vulnerable. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him and not let go.
I don’t do that. But I want to.
“I couldn’t fix it,” he says. “I just had to lie there while she fell asleep holding onto my shirt like she was afraid I’d disappear too. And I couldn’t do anything.”
“You were there. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s everything.” I step closer, close enough that he has to look at me. “You’re a great dad, Zayden.”
He goes still and gazes up at me with a soft expression.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with something I can’t name.
“How do you do that?” he asks quietly.
“Do what?”
“Say exactly what I need to hear.”
I don’t have an answer for that. Or maybe I do, but it’s not one I’m ready to give.
The training room feels smaller suddenly. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sound of someone vacuuming in another part of the building—it all fades to background noise. There’s just him, and me, and the three feet of charged air between us.
“Take a breath,” I say, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. “We can finish the session, or we can call it for today. Your choice.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, looking at me with those dark eyes, and I feel the weight of his attention like something physical. Like a touch.
“Tori...”
The way he says my name—low, rough—makes my heart stutter.
“Yeah?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. And I watch him make a decision, pulling back from whatever edge he was about to step over.
“Let’s finish,” he says. “I’ll slow down.”
I nod, ignoring the strange twist of disappointment in my chest. “Okay. From the top. And this time, actually listen to me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Yes, ma’am.”
We get back to work.
But something has shifted between us.
I hand him the resistance band and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.