I see a man I want to do deeply unprofessional things to. A six-foot-two French-Canadian snack I’d like to ride into the sunset, and wow, okay, I really need to get laid if this is where my brain goes after one late-night conversation.
...which is a thought I’m going to blame on the wine and never revisit again.
The problem is, I want to help him. Not because it’s my job, but because it’shim.
That’s terrifying.
I roll over, punch my pillow into shape, and try to sleep.
It doesn’t work.
6
TOUCH-STARVED
Zayden
Iwake up thinking about her.
Not in a dirty way—although, let’s be honest, my brain went there around midnight and I had to take a cold shower like some kind of horny teenager. No, this is worse. I’m lying in a hotel bed in Chicago, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way she saidmaybe I don’t mind your messlike it meant something.
It didn’t mean anything. She’s my PT. She’s paid to care about my well-being. That’s literally her job description.
I scrub a hand over my face and try to get my head on straight.
Here’s the thing, it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone. And I don’t mean dating—I already told Tori about that wasteland. I meanwithsomeone. Physically. The last time was... I don’t even want to do the math. Let’s just say Maisie was a lot younger and I was a lot more willing to make questionable decisions.
So maybe that’s the problem. I’m touch-starved and projecting. Tori puts her hands on me every single day, works out the knots in my shoulders, presses her fingers into my muscles, and my body is confusing clinical contact for something else.
I just need to get laid. That’s all this is. Find someone fun, blow off some steam, and stop obsessing over a woman who calls me “Mr. Bishop” when she’s annoyed and looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s not sure she wants to solve.
Simple.
Except even as I think it, I know it’s bullshit. Because it’s not just the physical stuff. It’s the way she laughs, unguarded and real. The way she calls me out. The way she sat with me at that bar last night and just... listened. Like what I had to say actually mattered.
When’s the last time someone did that?
I roll out of bed and hit the shower, turning the water as cold as I can stand. Game day. I need to focus. Chicago’s been playing well this season, and my shoulder needs to hold up for three periods of hockey.
Everything else can wait.
• • •
My pre-game session with Tori is at ten.
She’s already set up in the training room they’ve given us at the arena—portable table, her kit laid out with military precision, tablet open to what I assume is my file. She’s wearing team athletic wear today, a Knights T-shirt that stretches across her chest and a pair of black leggings. Her hair is pulled back, and she looks up when I walk in with an expression that’s pure business.
“Bishop. On the table.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“It’ll be a good morning when I confirm your shoulder isn’t going to fall apart during the game.” She pats the table. “Shirt off. You know the drill.”
I do know the drill. That’s the problem.
I pull my shirt over my head and settle onto the table, trying to think about literally anything other than the fact that her hands are about to be on me. Hockey. I’ll think about hockey. Defensive strategies. Forechecking patterns. The way Chicago’s goalie tends to cheat left on breakaways.
Tori’s hands press into my shoulder, and my brain goes blank.
