Chapter Thirteen #2
I pull up the employee handbook on my laptop—the same PDF I downloaded during orientation, the same one I’ve specifically avoided looking at again. Like maybe if I don’t acknowledge the rules, they don’t exist. Idiotic, I know.
I scroll to Section 7.3: Employee Conduct and Professional Relationships.
Romantic or sexual relationships between players and staff members are prohibited due to potential conflicts of interest, favoritism concerns, and the maintenance of professional standards.
Violations may result in reassignment, termination, or other disciplinary action at the organization’s discretion.
I read it three times, letting the words sink in like stones.
Conflicts of interest. Like wanting his recovery to succeed, not because it’s my job, but because watching him hurt makes me physically ache.
Favoritism concerns. Like the way I rearranged my entire schedule last week just to ensure that I was the one treating him instead of James.
Maintenance of professional standards. Like professionalism means anything when I can still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine every time I close my eyes.
I shut the laptop harder than necessary and push it away from me like the policy itself is contagious.
I worked too hard to get here. One man is not worth blowing up my entire career. I don’t care how unfairly attractive he is or how great that kiss was.
On Friday afternoon, I’m in my office pretending to review patient files when Dana appears in my doorway.
“You okay?”
I look up, schooling my expression into something neutral. “Fine. Why?”
“You seem... off this week. Distracted.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Everything good with Bishop?”
My heart stutters at his name. “His recovery is progressing well. Ahead of schedule, actually.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I meet her eyes and lie through my teeth. “Everything’s fine.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push either. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
She leaves, and I slump back in my chair, pressing my fingers against my temples.
Everything is not fine. Everything is the opposite of fine. I kissed my patient and then told him it was a mistake, and now I have to see him every day and pretend I don’t want him.
My phone buzzes with a text from Winnie.
Winnie: How’s Operation Pretend Nothing Happened going?
I stare at the screen for a long moment before typing back.
Me: Terrible. I hate everything.
Winnie: Want to talk about it?
Me: No.
Winnie: Want wine?
Me: Yes.
Winnie: My place. 7 PM. Bring your feelings.
I almost smile. Almost.
Then I think about Zayden’s face this morning—blank, polite, distant—and the almost-smile dies a fiery death.
I made the right call. I know I made the right call. Kissing him was reckless. Getting involved with him would be career suicide. Every rational part of my brain knows this.
But there’s another part. A smaller, quieter part that whispers, What if you’re wrong? What if this is the one thing you’re not supposed to walk away from?
I tell that part to shut up.
· · ·
Winnie’s apartment smells like lavender when I enter.
There’s no sign of Derek, thank God. Winnie’s boyfriend has the emotional depth of a puddle, and tonight I don’t have the bandwidth to pretend otherwise.
He wasn’t always this annoying—when they first started dating, he was actually kind of sweet.
Attentive. The type who remembered her coffee order and texted good morning every day.
But somewhere along the way, he turned into the kind of guy who talks over women at dinner parties and thinks his fantasy football opinions count as conversation.
Winnie swears the old Derek is still in there somewhere. I’m less convinced.
She already has two glasses of wine poured when I walk in, and she takes one look at my face before pushing the fuller glass toward me.
“That bad?” she asks, curling up on the opposite end of the couch.
She tucks her legs beneath her, looking like a golden retriever in human form—all warmth and good intentions and the kind of effortless beauty that makes men walk into lampposts.
She’s beautiful in a way that makes other women want to hate her, except she’s so genuinely nice that you can’t.
She also teaches yoga for a living and radiates the sort of calm energy I’ve never once possessed.
“Worse.” I drop onto her couch and take a long sip. Then another. “I kissed him.”
“You—” Winnie’s eyes go wide. “Wait. You kissed him? Like, you initiated?”
“Well, technically he kissed me. But I didn’t stop him. And then I...” I close my eyes, remembering. “I pulled him closer. By his shoulders. Because he wasn’t wearing a shirt.”
“I’m sorry, he was shirtless?”
“It was a PT session. He’s always shirtless.”
“Right, right.” She waves her hand, as if fanning herself. “Continue. Shirtless hockey player, you pulled him closer—”
“And then we made out. In the training room. And it was...” I trail off, searching for words that don’t exist.
“Good?”
“The best kiss of my life.” I take another gulp of wine. “And I’ve been kissed before. A lot. But this was... he kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. Like I was something he wanted to take his time with.”
Winnie fans herself again. “Okay, I need details. Tongue? Hands? Where were his hands?”
“My hip. The back of my neck.” I can still feel the ghost of his fingers threading through my hair. “Affirmative on the tongue. And then my phone buzzed, and we broke apart, and I panicked and ran away.”
“You ran away.”
“I literally grabbed my bag and left. Didn’t even say goodbye properly.”
Winnie stares at me. “Tori.”
“I know.”
“That poor man.”
“I know.”
She refills my glass even though it’s not empty. “Okay. So what happened after? Today?”
“I told him it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again.” The words taste bitter even now. “He just... accepted it. Didn’t argue, didn’t push back. And now he’s being perfectly professional and polite, and I hate it.”
“You hate that he’s respecting your boundaries?” Her eyes widen.
“I hate that I set boundaries I don’t actually want.” I lean my head back against the couch cushions. “What is wrong with me?”
Winnie is quiet for a moment, tucking her legs underneath her. “Can I say something? And you promise not to bite my head off?”
“No promises.”
“Fair.” She takes a breath. “Last week, I warned you about him. His reputation, the tabloid stuff, all of it. And I stand by that—you should be careful.”
“But?”
“But.” She swirls her wine. “The way you’re talking about this kiss? That’s not how you talk about a mistake. That’s how you talk about something that matters.”
My chest tightens. “It can’t matter. I won’t let it.”
She sets down her glass and turns to face me fully. “Look, I’m not saying to throw caution to the wind and ride off into the sunset with him. I’m just saying maybe don’t slam the door completely shut just because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
She simply looks at me.
“Okay, fine. I’m terrified.” I take another gulp of wine and stare at the ceiling. “I re-read the employee handbook today, like a crazy person. And it was pretty dang clear.”
“Okay, but—”
“And he’s got a kid.” The words tumble out before she can finish. “A six-year-old who’s already been abandoned by her mom. If I start something with him and it falls apart, it’s not just me who gets hurt.”
“That’s actually a really good point.”
“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Somewhere in the apartment, Winnie’s cat knocks something over. Neither of us moves to check.
“What does your gut say?” Winnie finally asks.
I think about Zayden in the hallway, wrecked after a phone call with his ex.
“My gut says he’s different,” I admit quietly. “My gut says this could be real.”
“And your head?”
“My head says I’m an idiot who’s about to ruin everything.”
Winnie reaches over and squeezes my hand. “For what it’s worth, I think your gut might be onto something. But you’re the only one who can decide if it’s worth the risk.”
“That’s very wise and unhelpful.”
“I know. It’s my specialty.” She grabs the wine bottle. “More?”
“Please.”
We drink until the bottle is empty, and I’m tipsy enough to almost forget the look on Zayden’s face when I called it a mistake.
Almost.
· · ·
Saturday morning, I go for a run.
It’s freezing—late January in New York, the kind of cold that burns your lungs—but I need it. I need the physical exhaustion, the clarity that comes from pushing my body until my brain finally shuts up.
It doesn’t work.
I run four miles and think about him the entire time.
His hands. His mouth. The way he said, tell me to back off, like he would have walked away if I’d asked, even though it would have killed him.
The way he looked at me after I called it a mistake—like I had taken something fragile and crushed it.
I stop at a crosswalk, breathing hard, as a family passes in front of me. Dad, mom, and a little girl in a pink coat. The dad is carrying the girl on his shoulders, and she’s laughing, tugging at his ears.
I think about Maisie. About Zayden lying next to his daughter at bedtime, letting her hold onto his shirt so she knows he won’t disappear.
And I pushed him away.
The light changes. I start running again.
Maybe I made a mistake.
Not the kiss—the kiss was inevitable, a collision we had been hurtling toward since the first taco debate.
The mistake was pretending it didn’t mean anything.
Because it did. It does.
And I have no idea what to do about it.