Zayden
Ihate these things. Team banquets, sponsor schmoozing, whatever you want to call it—it’s all the same. Uncomfortable suit, forced small talk, and rich people eager to shake your hand so they can brag to their golf buddies that they met a hockey player.
My collar is too tight. I’ve loosened my tie twice already, but it still feels like it’s strangling me. I’d rather be home with Maisie, watchingBlueyfor the nine hundredth time and eating chicken strips off paper plates.
Instead, I’m standing in a ballroom at the Waldorf, nursing a sparkling water and trying to look like I want to be here. Coach made it clear that attendance is mandatory—something about “building relationships with key partners” and “representing the organization.”
So here I am. Representing.
The room is packed—players in suits, wives and girlfriends in cocktail dresses, sponsors in expensive watches checking their phones. Logan is working the crowd like he was born for it, dimples on full display as he charms a group of older women who are probably donors. Banks is lurking near the bar, lookinglike he’d rather be literally anywhere else, which makes two of us.
And Tori...
Tori is across the room, talking to Coach Reynolds.
She’s wearing a black dress that shouldn’t be affecting me the way it is. It’s not even that revealing—high neck, sleeves to her elbows—but it fits her perfectly, hugging every curve and I can’t stop looking. Her hair is down for once, dark waves falling past her shoulders, and I keep thinking about what it felt like threaded through my fingers.
Stop it. She made herself clear.
It was a mistake.
I drain the rest of my sparkling water. The bubbles burn my throat, sharp and cold. Not cold enough to put out the fire she started.
I force my eyes somewhere else. Anywhere else. It’s been ten days since the kiss. Ten days of clinical sessions and professional distance, her treating me like I’m just another patient with a shoulder problem. Ten days of giving her exactly what she asked for.
It’s killing me.
“You look like someone ran over your dog.”
I glance sideways. Banks has materialized next to me, drink in hand, his face as unreadable as ever.
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Hence the metaphor.” He follows my gaze across the room—to where Tori is now laughing at something Coach said—and makes a low sound in his throat. “Ah.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask how your shoulder’s doing.” He takes a sip of his drink. “But sure. Let’s talk about the PT you’ve been moping over.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re standing in a corner glaring at everyone who talks to her. That’s textbook moping.” He shrugs. “No judgment. She’s hot. I get it.”
I shoot him a look that would make most people back off. Banks just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. The man has the emotional range of a glacier and apparently the observational skills of a hawk. It’s an annoying combination.
Banks claps me on the shoulder—the good one—and heads toward the buffet line, leaving me alone with my sparkling water and my bad decisions.
The universe, apparently, has a sense of humor.
Because ten seconds later, Tori appears at the bar next to me.
“Hey.”
My whole body goes tight. “Hey.”
