“Would you prefer Daddy Z? I believe that’s one of the official team nicknames.”
I choke on air. “How do you know that?”
“You told me. Last week. After your second glass of wine.” She grins.
I drop my forehead to the table. “I hate you.”
“You love me. Now talk. What’s the update?”
I lift my head and take a long sip of my smoothie, stalling. Because the truth is, I don’t even know where to start. The last two weeks have been a blur of stolen moments, lingering glances, and the constant, low-grade hum of want that I can’t seem to shake no matter how hard I try.
“I met his daughter,” I finally say.
Winnie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You what?”
“His nanny had an emergency. He needed someone to watch her. I was...” I trail off. “Available.”
“Available.” She repeats the word slowly, like she’s testing it for hidden meaning. “So you babysat for him.”
I shrug. “I was just... helping out.”
“For how long?”
“A few hours.”
“And?”
I stare into my smoothie. “And she’s great. She’s six, and she’s funny and sweet and way too smart for her own good. She made me rank her stuffed animals by importance and quizzed me on dinosaur facts, and she—” My throat tightens unexpectedly. “She fell asleep holding my hand.”
Winnie is quiet for a moment. When I look up, her expression has shifted into something softer, more serious. “Tori.”
“I know.”
“You met his kid. You were in his house. You tucked his daughter into bed.”
“I know, okay? I know.” I press my palms against my eyes. “And then he came home, and we had wine in his kitchen, and he was looking at me like—”
“Like what?”
Like I was something he wanted to keep. I don’t say that out loud. It sounds too big. Too real.
“Like he wanted to kiss me again,” I say instead.
“Again?” Winnie leans forward. “Wait. Back up. You kissed again?”
I nod. “In the training room and then at a team banquet, and I—” I’m rambling now, words tumbling out faster than I can organize them. “The second one was in a hallway, and he had me against the wall, and I could feel—I mean, he was—”
“Hard?”
“Winnie.”
“What? I’m just clarifying.” She’s grinning now, enjoying this way too much. “So you’ve made out with your hockey player multiple times, you’ve met his daughter, you’ve been in his home, and you’re sitting here acting like this is still somehow professional?”
“It is still professional. Technically. We haven’t actually...” I make a vague gesture.
“Haven’t actually what? Jumped his bones? Let him score?”
“Please stop.”
