Chapter Twenty-Seven
FIGURING IT OUT
Tori
Dana’s office feels different this time.
The last time I was here, I sat in this same uncomfortable chair, forced to choose between my career and my heart. Now I’m back, summoned by a two-word text—My office—with no idea what’s waiting for me.
I expect anger, disappointment, maybe even a formal termination letter.
What I don’t expect is Dana looking at me with something that might be respect.
“Close the door,” she says. “Sit down.”
I do both, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“I had an interesting visitor this morning,” she starts. “Before practice. Zayden Bishop showed up outside my office, looking like he hadn’t slept, asking to talk about you.”
My stomach drops. He texted me this morning, but I have no idea how their conversation turned out.
Dana leans back in her chair. “He told me the whole thing was his fault. That he pursued you, that you tried to maintain professional boundaries, and that if anyone should face consequences, it should be him.”
I close my eyes. That idiot. That sweet, stubborn, impossible idiot.
“He also told me about Reed,” Dana continues, her voice sharpening. “The fake injuries. The comments. The fact that this whole situation started because you rejected him, and he decided to retaliate.”
“I don’t want to cause problems,” I say quickly. “I just—”
“I wish you had reported it.” Dana sighs. “That’s a separate conversation, and one we’ll be having with HR. But for now, let’s focus on you.”
I brace myself. Here it comes.
“I’m reassigning you off Bishop’s care, effective immediately. James will take over his treatment for the rest of the season.”
I nod. I expected that much.
“You’ll stay with the organization,” she continues, “but I’m moving you off the active roster for now. You’ll work with players rehabbing long-term injuries and prospects coming through the system. Same pay, same hours—just a little more behind the scenes until this blows over.”
I blink. “I’m... not fired?”
“No, Tori. You’re not fired.” Dana’s expression softens slightly.
“You’re a damn good PT. I don’t want to lose you over something like this.
But I need you to be smart. Keep things discreet—until the season is over.
No public displays, no drama, nothing that gives the rumor mill more fuel. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Good.” She picks up her pen, a clear dismissal. “That’s all. You can go.”
I stand on shaky legs but pause at the door. “Dana?”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
She gives me a warm smile before turning back to her computer.
I walk out of her office in a daze.
He showed up for me. Before I could fall on my own sword, before I could sacrifice everything to protect him, he marched into Dana’s office and took responsibility. He fought for me.
No one’s ever done that before.
Not Jason, who threw me under the bus the second things got hard. Not anyone since, because I never let anyone get close enough to have the chance.
But Zayden did. Without being asked. Without expecting anything in return.
I make it back to my office—my tiny, cramped, glorified closet of an office—and sink into my chair, pressing my hands over my face. I’m not going to cry. I’m not.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
I know who it is before I even look up. Zayden’s filling the doorway, still in his practice gear, hair damp with sweat. He must have come straight from the ice.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. Uncertain. “Dana said she talked to you.”
“She did.”
“And?”
“And I still have a job.” I stand up, moving toward him. “Because of you.”
He shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
“Maybe.” I stop in front of him, close enough to touch. “But no one’s ever done it for me before.”
Something shifts in his expression. He reaches for me, his hand cupping my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek.
“Get used to it,” he murmurs.
I want to kiss him. I want to grab him by the front of his jersey and pull him into this office to show him exactly how grateful I am.
Instead, I take a step back.
“Discreet,” I remind him. “Remember?”
He groans, dropping his hand. “Right. Discreet.” He glances at his watch, then back at me. “It’s almost lunchtime.”
“Okay?”
“Can you leave?”
I blink. “What?”
“Come to lunch with me.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “There’s a place around the corner with really good sandwiches.”
“You want to go get sandwiches?”
He grins. “I want to kiss you and since you just pointed out that I can’t do that here, yes. Let’s go get sandwiches.”
· · ·
The sandwich place is a hole in the wall three blocks from the facility. Plastic tables, paper napkins, a counter where you order by number. It’s the least romantic setting imaginable.
I love it.
We grab a booth in the back corner—discreet, as promised—and unwrap our food. Zayden got the Italian sub. I got chicken salad on sourdough. We’re eating out of paper baskets like teenagers on a lunch break.
“You know,” I say, popping a chip into my mouth, “this is technically our first date.”
Zayden pauses mid-bite. “This is not a date.”
“We’re sitting across from each other, eating food, having a conversation. That’s a date. Plus… you insisted on paying.”
“This is a plastic basket and fluorescent lighting. This is not a date.” He sets down his sandwich, looking almost offended. “When I take you on a date—a real date—there will be candles. And wine. And food that doesn’t come with a number.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “That sounds very romantic.”
“I’m serious.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m going to do this right, Tori. Dinner reservations. Flowers. The whole thing.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “You deserve to be taken out properly. Not snuck around with. Not hidden. Properly.”
My chest tightens. “Zayden...”
“Tomorrow night,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something nice.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” He grins. “But I promise it won’t involve a pickup counter.”
I laugh, and it feels like the first real laugh I’ve had in days. Maybe weeks. “Fine. Tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”
“It’s a date.” He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “A real one this time.”
We finish our sandwiches, talking about nothing important—his skate this morning, the game tonight, my new assignment, whether Italian subs are superior to meatball subs (they are, and I will die on this hill).
It’s easy. Normal. The kind of conversation couples have all the time, except we’ve never been a normal couple.
We’ve been stolen moments, secret texts, and constant fear of getting caught.
Maybe we can finally be something else.
Zayden reaches across the table and wipes a smear of mayonnaise from the corner of my mouth. “You’re a mess,” he says, but he’s smiling.
“Your mess, apparently.”
“Apparently.” He leans in, and I meet him halfway, our lips brushing in a soft, quick kiss that still manages to make my toes curl. “We should head back.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
My phone buzzes, breaking the moment. I glance down, expecting Dana, James, or some work emergency.
It’s Winnie.
Winnie: I broke up with Derek.
I stare at the screen. Holy plot twist.
Winnie: Or he broke up with me. Not sure. Either way, it’s over.
Winnie: I’m fine. I think. Maybe. Can we talk later?
“Everything okay?” Zayden asks.
“Yeah, I...” I look up at him, then back at my phone. “Winnie just texted. She and Derek broke up.”
“The guy with the strong opinions about everything?”
“That’s the one.”
“Good.” Zayden shrugs. “She can do better.”
He’s not wrong. But the timing feels strange—my life finally coming together while Winnie’s falls apart. Like the universe only has so much happiness to go around, and I just used up her share.
Me: I’m so sorry. Yes, let’s talk. Tonight? Wine at my place?
Winnie: Perfect. Bring tissues. I might cry.
Winnie: Or I might celebrate. Haven’t decided yet.
A thought hits me. Winnie and Derek live together. Have for almost a year now. His name is on the lease.
Me: Wait. Do you have a place to stay?
Winnie: TBD. My friend Megan offered her couch, but she has a cat that hates me.
Me: You can stay with me. As long as you need. Bring a bag tonight!
Winnie: Tori, your apartment is the size of a shoebox.
Me: A shoebox with a very comfortable couch. And no cats that hate you.
Winnie: You sure?
Me: Positive. We’ll drink wine, trash-talk Derek, and figure out the rest tomorrow.
Winnie: I love you, you know that?
Me: I know. See you tonight.
I pocket my phone, making a mental note to pick up her favorite rosé—and maybe some extra pillows—on the way home.
“You okay?” Zayden asks again.
“Yeah.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Winnie and Derek live together. Lived together. She needs a place to crash.”
“So she’s staying with you?”
“For a while, yeah.” I smile. “My tiny apartment is about to get a lot more crowded.”
“You’re a good friend.”
“She’d do the same for me.” I pause. “She has done the same for me, actually. After Jason. Let me sleep on her floor for two weeks while I got my head on straight.”
Zayden nods slowly. “Then I guess it’s your turn.”
I guess it is.