“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Goodnight, tough guy.”
“Goodnight, Win.”
I hang up and sit in the dark, phone clutched in my hand, hating myself for every word I didn’t say.
She trusts me.
And I’m lying to her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Distance
Winnie
Something is wrong with Banks. I noticed it three days ago—a shift so subtle I almost missed it. He was quieter than usual during our phone call, which is saying something for a man who treats words like a finite resource. I chalked it up to exhaustion. They’d had a brutal game, an overtime loss, and he sounded tired.
But then it kept happening.
Short texts instead of conversations. Canceled plans with vague excuses. That wall I’d spent weeks dismantling was suddenly rebuilt, brick by brick, until I couldn’t see him behind it anymore.
“Hey, want to grab dinner tonight?”
“Can’t. Early practice tomorrow.”
“What about Thursday? That new Thai place opened near my apartment.”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”
He didn’t let me know. Thursday came and went with no mention of dinner, no follow-up, nothing but a “Goodnight” text that felt more like a period than a comma.
I try not to spiral. I remind myself that he’s a professional athlete with a demanding schedule, that he’s never been good at communication, that not everything is about me.
But it feels like it’s about me.
It feels like something changed after his birthday, after that night in his truck when we fogged up the windows and almost—
Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe the physical stuff freaked him out. Maybe he realized this was getting too real and decided to pull back before things got complicated.
Maybe he’s done, and he just doesn’t know how to tell me.
The thought makes my chest ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
After all, he’s the one who’s held up his end of the bargain—one fake boyfriend supplied in exchange for keeping his teammates away. Check. I’m the one who complicated it by wanting more.
I see him at the facility on Friday. I’m finishing up a session with some of the younger players when he walks past the training room door. Our eyes meet for half a second—long enough for me to catch the way his jaw tightens—and then he looks away.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t do any of the things a man who’s been texting you goodnight for weeks should do.
He just keeps walking.
I finish the session on autopilot, correctingform and offering encouragement while my brain screamsWhat did I do wrong?
After the players leave, I find myself wandering toward the weight room. I tell myself I’m just taking a walk. Clearing my head. It has nothing to do with the fact that Banks usually lifts around this time.
He’s there. Alone. Headphones in, attacking the weights like a man on a mission. I hover in the doorway, watching. He looks tired—more than tired. Worn down. The kind of exhausted that even sleep doesn’t fix.
