Winnie reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Tori.” She sets down her wine glass, her expression softening. “I love you. You know I do. But I’ve heard of Zayden Bishop. Everyone’s heard of Zayden Bishop.”
My stomach tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s got a reputation. The guy used to be tabloid fodder—women, club photos, all of it. Just because he’s got a cute kid doesn’t mean he’s suddenly a saint.”
“That was years ago. Before Maisie was born, mostly.”
“Mostly.” She raises an eyebrow. “And you know this how? Because he told you? Of course he’s going to seem like a good guy when he’s trying to get into your pants.”
“He’s not trying to get into my pants.”
She meets my eyes with a knowing look. “He almost kissed you on a sidewalk in Detroit.”
“And then he walked away.”
“Which could mean he’s a gentleman, or it could mean he’s playing the long game.” She sighs. “Look, I’m not saying he’s definitely a player. I’m saying you don’t actually know him. You know the version of him he shows you during your sessions and team trips. That’s not the same thing.”
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. Because she’s not wrong. I don’t know him—not really. I know he loves his daughter. I know he’s funny when he lets his guard down. I know the way his jaw tightens when he’s holding something back.
But do I know what he does when I’m not around? Who he texts at midnight? Whether there’s a rotation of puck bunnies waiting for him after every home game?
The idea of it makes my skin crawl.
“I’ve seen how these guys operate,” Winnie continues, gentler now. “Different girl in every city, the whole thing.” She gives me a sad smile. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I stare into my wine glass, my chest tight.
The thing is, she’s right to be cautious. I know she’s right. Zayden Bishop does have a past—a documented, photographed, tabloid-covered past. And the fact that he’s been sweet to me doesn’t erase any of that.
“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” I finally say. “I have rules, remember?”
“I know you do.” Winnie reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Just... keep them. Okay? At least until you know for sure what kind of guy he really is.” My chest does something complicated at her words.
“I will.” But even as I say it, I’m not sure I believe it.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing.” I say it firmly, as if saying it out loud will make it true. “I’m going to do my job, maintain my boundaries, and get through the rest of this season without doing anything stupid.”
“And if he tries to almost-kiss you again?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Because the truth is, if Zayden Bishop looks at me the way he looked at me in Detroit, I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to walk away.
“Let’s order food,” I say instead. “I need something to absorb this wine before I start making confessions I can’t take back.”
Winnie lets me change the subject, but her expression says this conversation isn’t over.
It’s probably not.
But for now, I’m going to eat my weight in tacos and pretend that my carefully constructed life isn’t on the verge of falling apart.
• • •
I get to the training facility early.
Not because I spent half the night staring at my ceiling, replaying Winnie’s warning on a loop. And definitely notbecause I need time to compose myself before a certain French-Canadian hockey player shows up for his 8 AM session.
