Chapter Twenty-Three
RUMOR HAS IT
Tori
The week after we get back feels like I’m holding my breath underwater.
Every interaction with Zayden is measured, calculated, filtered through the lens of who might be watching.
We’ve become adept at it—the professional nods, the way we never stand too close or let our eyes linger.
He calls me Wells. We pretend we’re nothing more than player and trainer, and most days, I almost believe it.
But at night, my phone lights up with his texts. Stupid things, small things. A photo of Maisie’s latest art project. A complaint about the hotel coffee. A single thinking about you that makes me smile into my pillow like a teenager.
We agreed to figure things out after the road trip. We just... haven’t yet.
And I’m trying not to read into it.
Now it’s Thursday morning, and something’s off.
I notice it the moment I walk into the facility—the way conversations seem to stutter when I pass, the way eyes slide away from mine a beat too late.
James gives me a weird half-nod at the coffee machine and practically speed-walks in the opposite direction, which is strange because James usually corners me for a twenty-minute breakdown of whatever true crime podcast he’s binging.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid. That I’m projecting my own guilt about Zayden onto perfectly normal interactions. That nobody knows anything because there’s nothing to know—just some kissing and hand-holding and one very interrupted almost-more in a Minneapolis hotel room.
But the feeling doesn’t go away. It follows me through my morning sessions, through the staff meeting where barely anyone makes eye contact, through lunch in the break room where two trainers stop talking the second I sit down. What in the world?
By two o’clock, I’m wound so tight I could snap.
Logan’s shoulder assessment is my 2:30. He bounces in with his usual golden retriever energy, already talking about some TikTok he saw, and I let myself relax a little.
Logan’s easy. Uncomplicated. The kind of guy who says exactly what he’s thinking at all times, which is either refreshing or exhausting, depending on the day.
“Okay, let’s see your range of motion,” I say, guiding him through the standard tests. “Any pain when you—”
“So, uh.” He drops his arm. “Can I tell you something?”
My hands freeze on his shoulder. “What?”
“It’s just—okay, look.” He turns to face me, and his expression is uncharacteristically serious. “It’s really not my business, and I’m not here to yuck on someone’s yum, but I just thought you should, uh, know.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Spit it out, Logan.”
“There’s some stuff going around. About you and Bish.”
No, no, no, no.
The blood drains from my face. “What kind of stuff?”
“Reed’s been running his mouth. He says he saw you two at the hotel in Minneapolis late at night.
He also claims you’ve hooked up here in the training room.
” Logan scratches the back of his neck, looking genuinely uncomfortable.
“I don’t know if it’s true, and I don’t care if it is—Zay’s a good dude, and you’re cool; whatever makes people happy, you know?
But I figured you’d want to know before it gets to the wrong people. ”
I’m going to be sick. I’m actually going to throw up right here in the training room.
“How many people have heard this?”
“I mean...” Logan winces. “A lot? Reed’s not exactly subtle. He was telling anyone who’d listen in the locker room this morning.”
Grayson. Of course it’s Grayson. The guy I rejected, the one with the miraculous disappearing hip injury, the guy who told me I had a “type” and that he was just trying to figure out where he fit.
This is payback. This is him making sure that if he can’t have me, no one can—or at least, not without consequences.
“Tori?” Logan watches me with concern. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“I’m fine.” The words come out automatic and hollow. “I just—I need a minute. Can you ice for ten? I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, of course. Take your time.”
I make it to the supply closet before my legs give out. I lean against the shelving unit, surrounded by boxes of KT tape and bottles of massage oil, pressing my palms against my temples and trying to breathe.
This is bad. This is really, really bad.
My phone buzzes. Then again. Then a third time. I wrench it from my pocket and dare a look.
Winnie: Hey, are you okay? Derek’s cousin works at MSG and said there’s some hockey gossip going around about a trainer and a player??
Winnie: Please tell me that’s not about you.
Winnie: Tori???
I don’t respond. I can’t. My hands are shaking too hard to type.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur. I finish Logan’s assessment on autopilot, smile and nod through two more sessions, and pretend everything is fine while the whispers follow me through every hallway. By three o’clock, even the equipment managers are giving me looks.
I don’t see Zayden. He had a light practice this morning and left early—something about Maisie’s school. Part of me is relieved. Part of me desperately wants to warn him, to figure out our story together, to not be alone in this.
At 4:15, my phone buzzes with a different kind of message.
Dana: My office. Now.
Three words. No context. I feel like I might hurl.
I finish my notes, log out of my computer, and walk down the hall toward Dana’s office on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. The hallway has never seemed this long, and every step feels like I’m walking toward my own execution, which is dramatic but also kind of accurate.
Her door is open. She’s sitting behind her desk, reading something on her laptop, and she doesn’t look up when I knock on the doorframe.
“Close the door,” she says. “Sit down.”
I do both. The chair across from her desk is uncomfortable—hard plastic, no cushion. I’ve sat in it before, during my initial interview and quarterly reviews. It’s never felt this much like an interrogation.
Dana finally looks up, her expression neutral and professional, but there’s something in her eyes that makes my chest tight. “I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”
“Okay.”
“Is there something going on between you and Zayden Bishop?”
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. I think about lying, about all the ways I could spin this, minimize it, make it sound like nothing. But Dana hired me because she trusted me, and I’ve never lied to her before.
“We haven’t—” I start, then stop. I try again. “Nothing has happened that compromises my work. His treatment has been completely by the book. Every protocol followed, every session documented, every decision based purely on his medical needs.”
Dana’s expression doesn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”
I know it’s not. I was hoping she’d let me get away with it anyway. She doesn’t.
“I need you to be honest with me.”
I take a breath. “There’s… something,” I admit, and the words feel like glass in my throat. “I don’t know what to call it. But yes. There’s something.”
Dana leans back in her chair, and for a long moment, she just looks at me. I can’t read her thoughts. Disappointment? Anger? Resignation? All three?
“How long?”
“A few weeks. Maybe longer, depending on how you count.” I twist my hands in my lap. “It started during the road trips. Proximity, I guess. And then it just… kept happening.”
“Have you slept with him?”
My head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
Dana’s expression doesn’t waver. “It’s a straightforward question.”
“It’s an invasive question.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t take them back.
“I’m asking because I need to know what we’re dealing with. If this is just flirtation, that’s one thing. If it’s gone further—”
“It hasn’t.” My face is burning—embarrassment, anger, and the sheer audacity of being interrogated about something so personal. “No, I haven’t slept with him.”
The word hangs there, ugly and raw. I’ve never felt more vulnerable—in front of my boss, no less.
Dana sighs—a long, heavy exhale that seems to carry the weight of every similar conversation she’s probably had in her career.
“I believe you about maintaining professional boundaries during his treatment. You’re good at your job, Tori.
One of the best I’ve ever hired. I’ve never had a reason to question your judgment before now. ”
“But?”
“But this league runs on optics. It doesn’t matter what actually happened; it matters what people think happened.
And right now, people think you’re sleeping with one of our star players.
” I flinch, because hearing it out loud makes it sound so much worse.
“If this becomes a story,” Dana continues, “it won’t just reflect on you.
It will reflect on the whole program. On me.
On every woman who’s ever tried to build a career in sports medicine without being reduced to someone’s girlfriend or conquest.”
“I know.” Tears sting my eyes, and my voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Dana is quiet for a moment, then stands, walks to the window, and stares out at the parking lot. “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life. You’re an adult. You’re allowed to make your own choices, even the messy ones.”
“But?”
She turns around. “But I need you to make a choice. Him or your career here. Because you can’t have both. Not without consequences.”
The words land like a blow to the chest. I knew this was coming—somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve known since the first time he kissed me that this moment was inevitable. But knowing it and hearing it are very different things.
“What kind of consequences?”
“Well, it’s not entirely up to me, I need to run this up the chain of command.
But if this becomes public—and it will become public; these things always do—you’ll be reassigned.
Off his care, obviously. Probably off the team entirely.
I’ll do my best to find you a position somewhere else in the organization, assuming you’re open to relocation, but I can’t promise it’ll be anything close to what you have now. ”
“And if I end it?”
“Then we weather this storm. The rumor dies down, people move on to the next scandal, and you keep building the career you’ve worked so hard for.”
She makes it sound so simple. So clinical. Like feelings are just another variable to factor into a cost-benefit analysis.
“How long do I have to decide?”
“By the end of the day tomorrow.” Dana’s expression softens, just slightly. “I’m sorry, Tori. I know this isn’t fair. But fair isn’t really how this industry works.”
“No,” I agree quietly. “It’s not.”
I stand on legs that feel shaky and unreliable, but I make it to the door without stumbling.
“Tori.”
I turn back. Dana is watching me with what might be sympathy.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I hope he’s worth it. Whatever you decide.”
I don’t respond because I don’t know if he is. I don’t know if anyone could be worth this.
I make it to my car before I fall apart. The tears come out of nowhere—big, ugly sobs that shake my whole body, tears I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I press my hands over my face and cry in the front seat of my Honda, mourning everything I’m about to lose no matter which door I choose.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? There’s no version of this where I win.
I either lose him or I lose my career. I either break my own heart or I dismantle everything I’ve spent years building.
The rule existed for exactly this reason—because I knew, I knew, that getting involved with a player would end exactly like this.
And I did it anyway.