Chapter Thirteen
SPIRALING
Tori
Idon’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that training room—his hand on the back of my neck, the warmth of his mouth, the way he looked at me before he leaned in. I kissed him back like my life depended on it.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling.
And God, can he kiss. That’s what I can’t stop thinking about. I’ve kissed my share of guys. Some were fine, some forgettable, and some made me wonder if they’d ever actually kissed a woman before.
Zayden Bishop kissed like he was an expert on the subject. The way his mouth moved against mine showed he knew exactly what he was doing—confident, patient, completely in control ... until he wasn’t.
My phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent. He hasn’t texted. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
I’d consider calling Winnie—spilling everything, letting her talk me down, talk me up, or just talk until I’m too exhausted to feel anything. But I already know what she’d say.
I told you so.
She’d be right.
I press my palms against my eyes and try to think. I’m good at thinking, at making plans and protocols, at keeping my head when everything else is chaos. That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been.
So why did I let him kiss me?
Why did I kiss him back?
Why am I lying here at three in the morning, replaying the sound he made when I put my hands on his chest—that low groan that vibrated through my entire body—instead of figuring out how to fix this?
Because you wanted it, a voice whispers. You’ve wanted it for weeks.
I roll over again, burying my face in my pillow.
This is fine. I can fix this. One kiss doesn’t have to mean anything. People make mistakes all the time. They acknowledge them, move on, and pretend they never happened.
That’s what I’ll do—acknowledge it and move on.
Simple.
I don’t fall asleep until after four, and when I do, I dream about his hands.
· · ·
I get to the facility an hour early.
Partly because I couldn’t stand lying in bed anymore, and partly because I needed time to prepare myself—to build the walls back up, brick by brick, before he walks through that door and I have to look him in the eye.
I set up the training room with mechanical precision. Resistance bands, ice packs. I arrange everything twice, then rearrange it again, because my hands need something to do that isn’t shaking.
7:52 AM. Eight minutes until his session.
I can do this. I’m a professional. I’ve handled difficult situations before. One ill-advised kiss with a patient doesn’t have to derail my entire career.
It was just a kiss.
A really, really good kiss.
No. Stop it. I’m reviewing his file on my tablet—staring at it without actually reading anything—when the door opens.
Zayden walks in, and the air immediately changes.
He looks like he didn’t sleep either. Dark shadows under his eyes, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and gray joggers, his hair still damp from a shower, and I hate that I notice. I hate that I’m cataloging every detail like my brain is trying to memorize him.
Our eyes meet.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The silence is suffocating—thick with everything we’re not saying, everything that happened yesterday, everything that can never happen again.
“We should talk about last night,” he says.
My stomach drops even as I lift my chin. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Tori—”
“It was a mistake.” I keep my voice clinical. Professional. The tone I use with difficult patients, the one that leaves no room for argument. “We were tired. Boundaries got blurred. It happens.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking near his temple.
“Right,” he says slowly. “A mistake.”
“It won’t happen again.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying me with those dark eyes. I can’t read his expression—it’s shuttered now, closed off—nothing like last night. Last night, he looked at me like I was something precious. Now he looks at me like I’m a stranger.
Good. That’s what I want. That’s what I need.
“If that’s what you want,” he finally says.
It’s not. That’s the problem. What I want is to cross the room and kiss him again, to feel his hands in my hair and his mouth on my neck, and forget about every rule I’ve ever made for myself.
But wanting something doesn’t make it right.
“It is,” I lie. “Now get on the table. We have work to do.”
He holds my gaze for one more second. Then he nods, pulls off his shirt, and settles onto the treatment table without another word.
I put my hands on his shoulder and pretend I don’t feel him flinch.
· · ·
The week that follows is brutal.
Gone is the easy banter, the teasing, the way he’d catch my eye across the room and smile.
In its place? Clinical instructions. Minimal eye contact. A careful, calculated distance that feels like a chasm.
“Fifteen reps,” I tell him on Tuesday. “Slow and controlled.”
“Got it.”
No pushback. No smartass comment about my bossy streak. Just compliance.
I hate it.
“Your mobility is improving,” I say on Wednesday, not looking at him as I write notes on my tablet. “Another two weeks and we can increase resistance.”
“Sounds good.”
That’s all I get. Two words and a nod, and the specific kind of politeness that’s worse than rudeness because at least rudeness would be honest.
· · ·
My mom calls Wednesday night, right when I’m stress-eating leftover pad Thai and watching a home renovation show I’m not really seeing.
“Hi, honey! How’s my favorite daughter?”
“I’m your only daughter, Mom.”
“Which makes you my favorite by default.” I can hear her smile through the phone. “How’s work? How’s the shoulder guy? The grumpy one?”
I close my eyes. Of course she remembers me mentioning him. I made the mistake of calling her after that first session, back when he was just an annoying patient and not... whatever he is now.
“He’s fine. Recovery’s on track.”
“Mm-hmm.” She’s using her I-know-you’re-not-telling-me-something voice. “And how are you?”
“Fine.”
“Victoria.”
“Mom.”
She sighs, the kind of sigh that says she knows I’m full of it. “You sound tired,” she says, gentler now. “Are you sleeping?”
“Enough.”
“Are you eating?”
“I’m literally eating right now.”
“Real food or takeout?”
I look at the pad Thai container. “...Real-adjacent.”
“Tori.”
“It has vegetables in it!”
She laughs, and something in my chest loosens.
My mom has a way of making everything feel manageable, even when it’s not.
She did it when I was nineteen, lying in a hospital bed, realizing I’d never play competitive soccer again.
She did it when I called her sobbing about my hardest breakup.
She’s doing it now, even though she doesn’t know what’s wrong.
“Your father wants to know if you’re coming for Easter,” she says. “Danny’s bringing his girlfriend. We’re all very curious about her.”
“Danny has a girlfriend?”
“Apparently. He’s been very secretive about it, which means she’s either wonderful or has a criminal record.”
“Knowing Danny, it could be both.”
She laughs again. “So? Easter?”
“I’ll try, Mom. The season’s crazy right now.”
“I know, honey. I just miss you.” A pause. “You know, your father and I were talking the other day about when you used to play. Remember that game against Duke? When you scored in the last thirty seconds?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah. I remember.”
“You were so happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that happy.” Another pause, more careful this time. “I want you to be that happy again, Tori. Not about soccer—I know that door closed. But about something. Someone.”
“Mom...”
“I’m not pushing. I’m just saying.” Her voice is soft. “You deserve good things. Don’t forget that.”
I think about Zayden. About the kiss. About the way he looked at me this morning when I called it a mistake—like I’d ripped something out of his chest.
“I won’t forget,” I lie.
We talk for another ten minutes about nothing important—Danny’s new apartment, Dad’s golf game, the neighbor’s dog who keeps digging up Mom’s garden. Normal stuff.
When we hang up, I sit in the silence of my apartment and think about what she said.
You were so happy.
I was. Soccer was everything to me—the team, the competition, the feeling of my body doing exactly what I asked it to do.
Then one bad tackle, one torn ligament, and it was over.
Four surgeries. Eighteen months of rehab.
I pursued a career in sports therapy because if I couldn’t play, at least I could help those who still could.
I’m good at my job. I know I’m good at my job. But Mom’s right—I haven’t been happy in a long time.
Not until recently.
Not until a grumpy French-Canadian hockey player burst into my life. I shove the thought away and turn up the volume on my renovation show.
· · ·
By Thursday, I want to scream.
He shows up exactly on time, does exactly what I tell him, and leaves exactly when we’re done. No lingering, no banter, no heat simmering beneath the surface. He treats me like I’m furniture—necessary but unremarkable. A tool to fix his shoulder and nothing more.
It’s exactly what I asked for.
I hate it.
The only crack in his armor comes a few hours after our session, when he appears in the doorway of my office and sets a takeout bag on the edge of my desk.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Tacos. From Tito’s.” He still won’t meet my eyes. “You mentioned once that you skip lunch when you’re stressed.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. I’m left with a bag of tacos from the place he mentioned liking weeks ago, trying not to cry in the middle of my office.
He’s giving me space. He’s respecting my boundaries. And he’s still showing up for me in the only way I’m letting him.
I eat the tacos alone at my desk, hating myself a little more with every bite. And he wasn’t wrong, it’s delicious.
After I finish the tacos, I do something stupid.