“I know.” Banks’ voice is low, steady. “But you throw a punch, you prove every headline they’ve ever written about you. The temper. The instability. All of it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should. You’ve got a kid, Zay. You’ve got a career. You really want to blow that up because Reed’s a piece of shit?” He tightens his grip. “Everyone already knows he’s trash. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
I’m shaking. Actually shaking, with the effort of not crossing this room and putting my fist through Grayson Reed’s perfect teeth.
Câlice.
The Quebecois curse words pop into my head when I’m too angry for English. My mother would still smack me for them, even now. But it gives the rage somewhere to go that isn’t my fists.
“Let it go,” Banks says again.
I breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way Tori taught me when my shoulder pain was at its worst and I wanted to punch a wall instead of doing my stretches.
Tori. Who doesn’t deserve to be talked about like that. Who’s probably dealt with guys like Grayson her entire career—guys who see a woman in sports medicine and assume she’s there for their entertainment. It pisses me off.
She’s been so careful. So protective of herself. And assholes like Grayson are exactly why.
“Zay.” Banks again, quieter now. “You good?”
I unclench my fists. Roll my shoulders. Force my face into something neutral.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m good.”
He doesn’t believe me—I can tell by the way he’s watching me—but he lets go of my arm anyway.
I finish getting dressed without looking in Grayson’s direction. Without acknowledging the conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear. Without giving any indication that I’m two seconds away from committing aggravated assault.
But I’m filing it away. Every word, every laugh, every casual assumption that Tori is something to be won.
Grayson Reed is going to learn otherwise.
I’ll make sure of it.
• • •
I find Tori in the training room after everyone else has cleared out.
She’s wiping down one of the tables, hair pulled back, clearly lost in thought. When she sees me in the doorway, her expression shifts—guarded at first, then softer when she realizes it’s me.
“Hey. I thought you’d left.”
“I wanted to check in about my shoulder.” It’s not entirely a lie. “It’s a little tight.”
“Come here. Let me look.”
I cross the room and sit on the table, letting her prod at the joint with those competent hands. She’s close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy—and see the faint freckles across her nose that you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.
I’m always paying attention.
“It feels okay,” she says. “Maybe ice tonight, just to be safe. Are you sleeping on it weird?”
“Probably.”
“Try to stay on your back. I know it’s not comfortable, but—”
“Has Grayson been bothering you?”
