“The appetizer.”
“Spinach dip. It was like eight dollars.”
He’s quiet for a second, and when I glance at his face, he looks genuinely offended on my behalf. “What’s wrong with people?”
“If I knew that, I’d be a lot richer and a lot less single.”
“So CrossFit guy and Venmo guy. Anyone else in the lineup?”
“There was a radiologist who talked about himself in the third person. And a financial advisor who told me I had ‘good birthing hips.’”
Zayden chokes. “He saidwhat?” He turns to look at me fully now, disbelief written all over his face. “You’re making this up.”
“I wish I was.”
He shakes his head slowly. “How is that possible? You’re—” He stops. Clears his throat. “I mean, those guys sound like idiots.”
I catch the stumble. File it away. Pretend I didn’t notice.
“Yeah, well.” I gesture for him to lie back down. “That’s dating in New York. It’s a wasteland out there.”
“What about before? College, whatever?”
My hands still on his shoulder for just a second. “That’s a story for another session. Maybe after you actually complete a full cooldown.”
“Bribery. Nice.” He settles back onto the table with a half-smile.
“What about you?” I ask, moving to his lower traps. “Since we’re sharing.”
“What about me?”
“Dating. Relationships. Any Venmo-requesting nightmares in your past?”
He’s quiet for a second. “No.”
“No nightmares, or no dating?”
“Both.” He shifts slightly under my hands. “Haven’t really... there hasn’t been anyone. Since Maisie’s mom.”
My hands slow. “Maisie’s your daughter?”
“Yeah. Maze is six now.” Something in his voice changes when he says her name. Softer. Like the word itself is precious. “She’s, uh... she’s my whole world, basically.”
I process this information while working a knot out of his trapezius. My hands slow. “Wait. You said she’s six?”
“Yeah.”
“So you haven’t dated anyone in six years?” My eyebrows shoot up.
“Haven’t had time. Between hockey and Maze, there’s not a lot left over.” He says it like it’s nothing. Like six years of being alone is just a scheduling issue.
I try to do the math. Six years of no—
Okay, no. He’s a professional athlete, not a monk. He probably just handles things casually, scratches the itch when he needs to. No strings, no complications, no one who sticks around long enough to meet his kid.
Not that I should be thinking about Zayden Bishop scratching any itches.
But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. My brain unhelpfully supplies images of what that might look like—those broad shoulders over me, those big hands pinning my wrists, all that controlled intensity unleashed on someone who—
