Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Maisie was an inconvenience, a complication in the brand. We broke up by the time Maisie was six months old.” My voice grows rough.
“I was terrified, I’d never spent any time around babies, but I figured it out.
Sienna would show up twice a year with expensive gifts, make promises she never kept, then disappear again.
Every time, Maze would wait by the window for days, thinking maybe this time Mom would come back. ”
“Zayden...”
“I got full custody when Maze was thirteen months old. Sienna didn’t even fight it.
She just signed the papers and posted a photo from Bali the next day.
” I finally look at Tori. “So that’s my thing—I don’t trust easily.
I don’t let people close because the last person I let in used me for my name and treated my daughter like she was disposable. ”
The room is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of the city below.
Tori shifts, propping herself up on one elbow so she can look down at me. Her hand comes up to rest on my jaw, warm and steady.
“We’re a mess,” she says softly.
I turn my head and press a kiss to her palm. “We’re healing.”
She looks at me like no one has ever said that to her before. Like the word is foreign, like maybe she’d forgotten it was even an option.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
“Yeah.” I pull her back down, tucking her against my chest, and she comes willingly, her body fitting into mine like she was made for this exact spot.
She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing absent patterns on my chest. “Five minutes are up, lover boy,” she teases.
I tighten my arms around her. “Five more.”
She tilts her face up, and I meet her halfway for a kiss that’s softer than the others. Slower. “It’s already been twenty.”
I smile into her hair. “I’m bad at math.”
She laughs quietly, and I pull her closer.
I’ll leave soon. I will. Just... not yet.
· · ·
The treatment room with the door closed is our other refuge.
Legitimate sessions—my shoulder still needs work, and she’s nothing if not thorough—that turn into something else when the last of the tension releases and her hands slow on my skin.
“You’re healing well,” she says, her voice pitched low even though we’re alone. Professional words, but her fingers trace a path along my shoulder blade that has nothing to do with physical therapy.
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” She leans closer, her lips brushing my ear. “Another few weeks, and you’ll be back to full strength.”
“And then what?”
“Then I won’t have an excuse to touch you every day.”
I turn my head and catch her mouth with mine. She makes a soft sound of surprise that melts into something warmer, and for a moment, we just stay there—her hands on my bare shoulders, my palm curved around her hip, stealing time we don’t really have.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say when we break apart.
“Will we?”
“I’m not letting you go that easily, Wells.”
She searches my face as if looking for the catch.
After a moment, something in her expression shifts. It softens.
“Okay,” she whispers.
· · ·
We’re in Minneapolis for a two-game series against the Wild, and the arena is packed—twenty thousand fans, most of them here to watch us lose.
My shoulder feels solid. Not perfect—I don’t know if it’ll ever be perfect again—but stable. Strong enough to do what I need to do.
Tori caught me before warmups, her hands cool and professional on my skin as she ran through our pre-game routine. Stretches. Range of motion, the same thing she does with every player.
But when she finished, her fingers lingered on my shoulder just a second longer than necessary.
“You’ve got this,” she said quietly. “Go show them.”
Now I’m on the ice in the second period, and we’re tied 2-2 with the Wild pressing hard. My line’s been solid—good possession and a few quality chances—but nothing’s fallen in yet.
Coach calls a timeout, and I skate to the bench, breathing hard.
“Bishop.” He catches my eye. “Next shift, I want you crashing the net. None of this perimeter bullshit. Get in there and make something happen.”
“Got it.”
The timeout ends. I take a long drink of water and scan the crowd while I wait for my next shift.
I don’t mean to look for her. I’ve trained myself not to—too risky, too obvious, too easy for someone to notice where my attention goes.
But my eyes find her anyway.
She’s in the section reserved for team staff, a few rows up from the glass. Black sweater, hair pulled back, tablet in her lap as if she’s tracking something official.
Her face is carefully neutral. Professional. The same expression she wears in the training room when others are watching.
But her eyes are bright. Focused. And fixed on the ice.
On me.
“Bishop! You’re up!”
I hop the boards and hit the ice, legs fresh, lungs clear. Logan’s on my wing, Banks anchoring the defense behind us.
The play develops fast. Logan wins the faceoff, kicks it back to Banks, who finds me with a stretch pass at center ice. I take it in stride, crossing the blue line with speed.
The Wild’s D-man steps up to meet me. I fake left, cut right, and he bites it hard, his momentum carrying him past me. Suddenly, I’ve got a lane—not much, but enough.
I drive to the net. Their goalie squares up, tracking the puck. I wind up as if I’m going high glove—my bread and butter—and he commits, getting into position.
At the last second, I change the angle. Quick release. Five-hole.
The crowd explodes. Logan crashes into me, whooping, and then Banks is there, slapping my helmet, grinning that rare Banks grin.
But I’m already looking for her.
I find Tori in the stands. She’s on her feet with everyone else, tablet forgotten, both hands pressed to her mouth.
Her eyes meet mine.
She’s not cheering. She’s not even smiling, not really. But the look on her face—
Pride. Joy.
That’s for you, I think. All of it.
I give her nothing. No nod, no wave, no acknowledgment that could be caught on camera or noticed by anyone watching. Just a half-second of eye contact before I skate back to the bench.
But she knows.
I can tell by the way she sits back down, pressing a hand to her chest as if trying to steady her heartbeat.
Yeah. She knows.
We win 4-3 in overtime.
I don’t score the winner—that’s Logan—but I do get the assist, a sweet cross-ice pass that he buries top shelf.
The locker room is chaos afterward. Music blasting, guys yelling, the usual post-win energy that never gets old, no matter how many times you’ve felt it.
I shower, change, and answer the required questions from the media with my standard non-answers. Yes, shoulder felt good. Yes, the team played well. No, I’m not thinking about playoffs yet, just taking it one game at a time.
Finally, I escape.
The hallway outside the visitor’s locker room is mostly empty. A few equipment managers are packing up, and some arena staff are starting the cleanup.
And there’s Tori.
She’s leaning against the wall near the exit, arms crossed, pretending to look at her phone. When she sees me, she straightens.
“Good game,” she says. Casual. Professional.
“Thanks.” I stop in front of her, close enough to smell her shampoo. “Shoulder held up.”
“I noticed.” A smile tugs at her mouth. “That second goal was nice.”
“Just nice?”
“I’m not going to inflate your ego, Bishop. It’s big enough.”
I step closer and lower my voice. “I was looking for you. After the goal.”
Her breath catches. “I know.”
“Did you like it?”
“Zayden—” Her cheeks flush. “We’re in public.”
“So?”
“So anyone could see—”
“I don’t care.” The words come out rougher than I intended.
She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide.
Then the locker room door bangs open.
I step back so quickly that I nearly trip over my own feet. Tori is already moving, putting professional distance between us as her expression smooths into something neutral.
Logan bounds in, bag slung over his shoulder, still riding the high from his goal. “Bish! You coming out with us? Found this sick rooftop bar—” He pauses, glancing between us. “Oh, hey Tori. You coming too?”
“I can’t,” she replies, her voice so steady it’s almost impressive. “Game reports.”
“Lame.” Logan grins, utterly oblivious. “Zay?”
“Gotta FaceTime Maze before bedtime.”
“Double lame. You guys are no fun.” He starts walking backward toward the exit. “Banks! Wait up!”
And then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving us alone again.
Except we’re not really alone. Anyone could walk out at any moment. This whole building is crawling with people.
Tori exhales slowly. “That was—”
“Close,” I finish.
She nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “I should go.”
“Yeah.” I shove my hands in my pockets to avoid doing something stupid like reaching for her. “Yeah, okay.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m left standing in an empty hallway, heart pounding, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to sleep tonight.