Chapter Twenty-Nine
FINALLY
Zayden
Ichange my shirt three times.
This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man. I’ve played hockey in front of twenty thousand screaming fans—sick, injured, and I’ve given post-game interviews with blood drying on my face. I’ve handled custody negotiations, contract disputes, and a six-year-old’s meltdown over the wrong color popsicle.
But somehow, getting dressed for a date with Tori Wells has me standing in front of my closet like a teenager before prom.
“Daddy, you look handsome.”
I turn to find Maisie in my doorway, already in her pajamas even though it’s only 6:30. Hannah’s downstairs getting dinner ready, and Maze is supposed to be washing her hands, but apparently my fashion crisis is more interesting.
“You think so?”
“Mm-hmm.” She walks over and studies me with the critical eye of a six-year-old fashion consultant. “But maybe not that shirt.”
“What’s wrong with this shirt?”
“It’s boring.”
“It’s navy blue. Navy blue is classic.”
“It’s boring,” she repeats, then marches to my closet and starts rifling through hangers. After a moment, she pulls out a dark green button-down I forgot I owned. “This one. It brings out your eyes.”
“Where did you learn that phrase?”
“Hannah. She said it once about my sweater.” Maisie thrusts the shirt at me. “Trust me, Daddy.”
I take the shirt. At this point, I’m willing to trust anyone’s judgment over my own.
“Are you going to kiss Tori tonight?” Maisie asks while I change.
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because that’s what people do on dates. Sophie’s mom told her.”
“Sophie’s mom talks about kissing with her six-year-old?”
“Sophie’s mom tells her everything.” Maisie sits on my bed, swinging her legs. “So? Are you?”
“That’s... not really something we discuss, Maze.”
“But you like her, right? Like, like-like her?”
“I like-like her,” I admit, because there’s no point in lying to a child who can smell dishonesty from a mile away. “Very much.”
Maisie beams. “Good. I like-like her too.” She hops off the bed and heads for the door. “Don’t mess it up, Daddy!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, shadow.” I shake my head.
“You’re welcome!”
She disappears down the hall, and I finish getting ready with her words echoing in my head.
Don’t mess it up.
No pressure.
· · ·
I pull up to Tori’s building at 6:55.
Five minutes early because I’m pathologically punctual, but also because I’ve been ready for an hour, and sitting at home was making me insane.
I check my hair in the rearview mirror, grab the flowers from the passenger seat—colorful gerbera daises, because she mentioned once that roses felt too cliché—and head inside.
Fourth floor. No elevator. By the time I reach her door, I remember why she complained about this walk-up.
I knock, and when she opens the door, I forget how to breathe.
She’s wearing a deep red dress that stops just above her knees—simple but stunning.
Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and she’s adorned with earrings I’ve never seen before—small gold hoops that catch the light when she moves.
She’s wearing lipstick. I’ve never seen her in lipstick before—and it’s distracting as hell. She’s a knockout.
“Hi,” she says, sounding almost shy.
“Hi.” I hold out the flowers. “These are for you.”
“They’re beautiful.” She takes them, and her whole face softens.
She looks up at me, and for a moment, we just stand there, grinning at each other like idiots.
“I should put these in water,” she says. “Come in for a second?”
I follow her inside and notice the woman on the couch.
She’s curled up under a blanket, laptop open, hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head. She looks up when we walk in, and I realize this must be Winnie—the best friend, the yoga instructor, the one who just left her boyfriend. Yikes.
“Oh.” She sits up straighter, her eyes widening a bit. “Hi.”
“Winnie, this is Zayden. Zayden, Winnie.” Tori gestures between us while heading toward the kitchen. “I need to put these in water.”
“Hey.” I give an awkward wave. “Uh, sorry about the breakup.”
Winnie blinks. “Thanks?”
“Tori mentioned it. The guy sounds like a jerk.”
“He is a jerk.” She almost smiles. “A very large, fantasy-football-obsessed jerk.”
“I could kick his ass if you want. I know people.”
Now she actually laughs. “I appreciate the offer, but I think public humiliation via word of mouth will be more satisfying than physical violence.”
“Fair enough. But the offer stands.”
Tori reappears from the kitchen, flowers now arranged in a tall glass that’s definitely not a vase. She sets them on the counter and grabs her clutch from the coffee table.
“Don’t wait up,” she tells Winnie.
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Winnie waggles her eyebrows. “Have fun, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves a lot of options,” Tori replies dryly.
“Exactly.”
“Okay.” Tori turns to face me. “I’m ready.”
“You look incredible.”
“You already said that—with your eyes, when I opened the door.”
“I’m saying it again—with words this time.” I offer her my arm. “Shall we?”
She takes it, and we head out into the night.
· · ·
The restaurant is a hidden gem in Brooklyn, tucked between a laundromat and a bakery.
There’s no sign out front, just a wooden door with a brass number.
Inside, it’s all exposed brick, candlelight, and tables tucked into cozy corners.
The host leads us to a booth in the back, and I slide in across from Tori, trying to memorize the way she looks in this light.
“This place is beautiful,” she says, looking around. “How did you find it?”
“Archer told me about it. He brought Bree here for their anniversary.” I open the menu, then set it down. “I’ve been saving it.”
“Saving it?”
“For someone worth bringing.”
She ducks her head, but I catch the smile. “That’s very smooth, Bishop.”
“I have my moments.”
The waiter arrives, and we order wine—a red she chooses because I tell her I trust her judgment—and way too much food. Neither of us seems to care. When he leaves, Tori props her chin on her hand and studies me.
“I just realized something weird.”
“Weird?” I lift an eyebrow.
She nods. “We’ve done everything out of order. I’ve seen your medical history. I know your resting heart rate. I’ve met your daughter.” She pauses. “But I don’t know where you grew up or if you have siblings. Basic stuff.”
“I was born in Montreal. A little suburb outside the city.” I take a sip of wine. “Moved to Colorado when I was ten for my dad’s job—he was an engineer and got transferred. I did one year of college in Minnesota before getting drafted.”
“So you’re barely Canadian.”
“Don’t ever say that to my mother. She’d disown me.” I smile, but it fades a little. “She’s back in Montreal now, actually. Moved home a few years ago after my dad passed.”
Tori’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Heart attack. It was quick, which I guess is a blessing, but...” I shrug. “Maisie was only two when it happened. She doesn’t remember him at all.”
“That’s hard.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, my mom wanted to be near her sisters, so she went back. My older sister Elise lives there too—she’s got twin boys, so Mom’s busy being the world’s most devoted grandmother.”
“You have a sister?”
“She’s three years older. Bossy as hell. Calls me every Sunday to make sure I’m eating my vegetables and not letting Maisie watch too much TV.” I grin. “You’d like her. She doesn’t take any of my crap either.”
Tori laughs. “I already like her.”
“What about you? Where did you grow up?”
“Connecticut. Suburbs. Very white picket fence.” She takes a sip of wine. “My parents are still married. My dad’s an accountant, and my mom teaches third grade. I have two older brothers who made my life hell until I learned to fight back.”
“Two brothers?”
She nods. “They’re both married now, with kids. I’m the cool aunt who shows up at Christmas and teaches their children bad words.”
I laugh. “Oh, you’re very cool.”
“Well, not according to my mother. Apparently, I’m not getting any younger, and she has started asking about my love life on almost every phone call.
‘Meet any nice boys, Victoria? You’re not getting any younger, Victoria.
’” She rolls her eyes. “I’m twenty-six. She acts like I’m running out of time. ”
“My mom’s the same way. Except she’s less subtle. Last time I visited, she literally handed me a newspaper clipping about a local girl who was ‘very nice and looking for a good Catholic boy.’”
“Did you call her?”
“The girl? No. My mom? Yes, to tell her to stop.”
Tori laughs, and the sound does something to my chest, loosening a knot I didn’t know was there.
The appetizers arrive—burrata with tomatoes and some kind of stuffed mushroom—and we eat while we talk about our childhoods, our families, and the dreams we had when we were young and foolish, convinced we knew everything.
“I wanted to be a marine biologist,” Tori admits, “until I realized it involved a lot more chemistry than swimming with dolphins.”
“I always planned to be a hockey player. There was never a backup plan.” I twirl pasta around my fork. “Which is terrifying in retrospect. What if I’d gotten injured? What if I wasn’t good enough?”
“But you were good enough.”
“I got lucky. Right place, right time, right genetics.” I set down my fork. “But it’s made me think a lot about what comes next. I can’t play forever—another five years, maybe, if my body holds up. Then what?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Coaching, maybe. Or something with kids—hockey camps, youth programs. Something that gives back.” I’ve never said this out loud to anyone before.
“That could be cool.”
“What about you? Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
She’s quiet for a moment, swirling her wine. “I used to have this whole plan: career ladder, accomplishments, titles. Be the head of a sports medicine department by thirty-five. Open my own clinic by forty.”
“Used to?”