What if one simple lie could make all of this go away?
What if Banks Callahan—silent, scowling, impossibly intimidating Banks Callahan—was the answer I didn’t know I was looking for?
I roll over, punching my pillow into submission.
It’s crazy. It would never work. He’d never agree to it.
But I’m still thinking about it when I finally fall asleep.
Chapter Five
The Plan
Banks
I shove through the locker room doors at 7:47, seventeen minutes past when I was supposed to be here. Coach is going to have my ass. He always does. You’d think after six years of this, I’d have figured out how to set an alarm that actually works.
I have five alarms. I slept through all of them.
The locker room is already buzzing when I reach my stall. Guys are half-dressed, lacing skates, and talking shit—just the usual pre-practice chaos. I drop my bag and start stripping down, trying to make up for lost time.
“—told you, she’s into me. Did you see the way she looked at me yesterday?”
I don’t have to ask who they’re talking about. There’s only one topic of conversation around here lately.
“She looked at you like she wanted to kill you,” someone else says. Archer, I think. “That’s not interest, Reed. That’s homicidal intent.”
“Same thing.” Grayson’s smirk is audible. “Passion is passion.”
I keep my head down and pull on a pair of shorts. Not my business.
“I’m telling you, she’s playing hard to get. Women like that—they want to be chased. They want you to work for it.”
“Or maybe she just wants to do her job without you drooling all over her,” Logan offers. “Just a thought.”
“Please. You’ve been drooling harder than anyone.”
“I’ve been appreciating. There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not,” Archer says.
I grab my shin guards and strap them into place while the conversation flows around me.
“Did you see what she was wearing yesterday? Those leggings. Her curves.” He makes a chef’s kiss noise.
“Her ass in downward dog is a religious experience.”
“I’d let her stretch me out any day.”
Laughter. More comments. Each one cruder than the last.
My jaw tightens. I don’t say anything.
Ishouldsay something.
Instead, I finish dressing, tugging on hockey socks over the shin pads with more force than necessary. I lace up my skates with numb fingers, then grab my helmet and head for the tunnel before I have to hear any more. The cold air of the rink hits my face, and I breathe it in, letting it clear my head.
Not my problem. Not my business.
