Chapter Sixteen
EARLY BIRD GETS THE GIRL
Zayden
The facility’s quiet this early. Most of the guys won’t roll in for another twenty minutes, which is exactly why I like getting here first. Fewer people. Less noise. More time to get my head right before practice.
“Morning, Mr. Bishop.” Eddie, the security guard who’s been here longer than most of the roster, looks up from his crossword puzzle.
“Eddie. How’s the knee?”
“Better since I started those exercises you told me about.” He grins. “Physical therapy works. Who knew?”
“Crazy concept.” I tap the desk twice as I pass. “Take it easy.”
I’m halfway down the hall toward the locker room when I see them.
Grayson Reed, leaning against the wall outside the training room, arms crossed, that smug smile on his face.
He’s talking to Tori—or rather, talking at her while she tries to organize equipment.
His body language is all wrong. Too close.
Too confident. Like he’s already decided how this is going to end.
Tori’s expression is polite but closed off. Professional. The same face she gives difficult patients, the one that says I’m tolerating you because it’s my job.
I know that face. I used to get that face.
Now I get something different. Softer. Warmer. A look I’m trying very hard not to think about.
Grayson says something, and Tori shakes her head, stepping back to create distance. He follows. Of course he follows. Guys like Grayson don’t understand the word no—they hear it as try harder.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Easy.” Banks appears next to me, gear bag over his shoulder. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re about to bore holes through Reed’s skull with your eyes.”
I force myself to look away. To breathe. To remember that I have no claim on Tori Wells, no right to act like a jealous boyfriend when we’re not even—
What are we?
Two kisses. One night in my kitchen where she met my daughter and didn’t run screaming. A thousand moments that felt like something but might be nothing.
I don’t know what we are. But I know what we’re not: public. Official.
So I can’t do anything about Grayson Reed except watch and hate every second of it.
Practice is brutal, as usual.
Coach has us running drills until my legs burn, then run them again because Woody missed a pass and someone has to suffer. By the time we hit the locker room, I’m exhausted, but it has nothing to do with hockey.
I shower fast, wanting to get out of here before I have to make small talk with anyone.
My shoulder aches—not bad, just enough to remind me it’s there—and I’m thinking about Tori.
About last night. About the way she looked in my kitchen, holding a glass of wine like she belonged there, all cozy and domestic.
I’m mid-thought when I hear Grayson’s voice.
“—been working on her for weeks, man. She’s playing hard to get, but they all give in eventually.”
I freeze, shirt half-over my head.
“The PT?” someone asks. I think it’s one of the rookies. “That Tori chick?”
“Who else?” Grayson laughs. “Ten bucks says I get her number by the end of the road trip. Maybe more than her number, if you know what I mean.”
The rookie snickers. “She doesn’t seem interested, dude.”
“That’s the game. They act like they’re not interested, you push a little harder, and eventually…” He makes a sound that turns my vision red. “Trust me. I’ve got a system.”
My feet are moving before my brain catches up.
Banks intercepts me three steps from Grayson’s locker, hand clamping down on my arm hard enough to bruise.
“Don’t.”
“He’s talking about her like she’s—” I can’t even finish the sentence. Like she’s a conquest. A game. A thing to be won instead of a person who deserves respect.
“I know.” Banks’ voice is low, steady. “But you throw a punch, you prove every headline they’ve ever written about you. The temper. The instability. All of it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should. You’ve got a kid, Zay. You’ve got a career. You really want to blow that up because Reed’s a piece of shit?” He tightens his grip. “Everyone already knows he’s trash. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
I’m shaking. Actually shaking, with the effort of not crossing this room and putting my fist through Grayson Reed’s perfect teeth.
Calice.
The Quebecois curse words pop into my head when I’m too angry for English. My mother would still smack me for them, even now. But it gives the rage somewhere to go that isn’t my fists.
“Let it go,” Banks says again.
I breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way Tori taught me when my shoulder pain was at its worst and I wanted to punch a wall instead of doing my stretches.
Tori. Who doesn’t deserve to be talked about like that. Who’s probably dealt with guys like Grayson her entire career—guys who see a woman in sports medicine and assume she’s there for their entertainment. It pisses me off.
She’s been so careful. So protective of herself. And assholes like Grayson are exactly why.
“Zay.” Banks again, quieter now. “You good?”
I unclench my fists. Roll my shoulders. Force my face into something neutral.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m good.”
He doesn’t believe me—I can tell by the way he’s watching me—but he lets go of my arm anyway.
I finish getting dressed without looking in Grayson’s direction. Without acknowledging the conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear. Without giving any indication that I’m two seconds away from committing aggravated assault.
But I’m filing it away. Every word, every laugh, every casual assumption that Tori is something to be won.
Grayson Reed is going to learn otherwise.
I’ll make sure of it.
· · ·
I find Tori in the training room after everyone else has cleared out.
She’s wiping down one of the tables, hair pulled back, clearly lost in thought. When she sees me in the doorway, her expression shifts—guarded at first, then softer when she realizes it’s me.
“Hey. I thought you’d left.”
“I wanted to check in about my shoulder.” It’s not entirely a lie. “It’s a little tight.”
“Come here. Let me look.”
I cross the room and sit on the table, letting her prod at the joint with those competent hands. She’s close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy—and see the faint freckles across her nose that you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.
I’m always paying attention.
“It feels okay,” she says. “Maybe ice tonight, just to be safe. Are you sleeping on it weird?”
“Probably.”
“Try to stay on your back. I know it’s not comfortable, but—”
“Has Grayson been bothering you?”
She goes still. “What?”
“I saw him earlier. Outside the training room. He was…” I search for a word that isn’t going to make me sound as angry as I feel. “Persistent.”
“He’s harmless.” She says it too quickly, the way you do when you’ve been telling yourself something long enough that you almost believe it.
“Is he?”
“Zayden—”
“Because if he’s making you uncomfortable, you should tell Dana. Or Coach. Or—”
“I can handle Grayson Reed.” Her voice is firm now, a little sharp. “I’ve been handling guys like him my entire career. I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
“I know you don’t.” I catch her hand, stopping her from prodding at my shoulder. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
She looks at me, and something in her expression cracks. Just for a second. Just enough for me to see the exhaustion underneath.
“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “Really. He’s annoying, but he’s not… he’s not a threat.”
Ten bucks says I get her number by the end of the road trip.
I don’t tell her what I heard. It would only make her feel worse—like she’s being talked about, evaluated, reduced to a bet between bored athletes. She already knows how this industry works. She doesn’t need the specifics.
“If that changes,” I say instead, “you tell me. Yeah?”
Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Are you going to beat him up?”
With pleasure. “Do you want me to?”
“No.” But she doesn’t pull her hand away from mine. “Violence isn’t the answer.”
“What if it’s a really satisfying answer?”
Now she does smile, small and reluctant. “Still no.”
“Fine.” I squeeze her fingers gently before letting go. “But the offer stands.”
She shakes her head, but the tension in her shoulders has eased slightly. That’s something.
“Ice your shoulder,” she says, stepping back into professional mode. “And try not to start any fights on the road trip.”
“No promises.”
“Zayden.”
“Fine. I promise to try.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling when I leave.
I meant what I said. I won’t throw a punch—not unless Grayson gives me a reason that even Banks can’t argue with.
But I’ll be watching.
And if he so much as looks at her wrong, all bets are off.