He’s gone before I can respond.
I stand there in the empty weight room, hiswords echoing in my head.
It’s okay to let someone in.
Easy for him to say. He has Tori. He has Maisie. He has a family, a home, and people who love him.
I have a two-bedroom apartment with bare walls and a fridge full of meal prep containers. I have a career that could end with one bad hit. I have teammates who tolerate me and a reputation for fighting on the ice.
I don’t let people in because people leave. That’s not pessimism—that’s experience.
But when Winnie touched my face and looked up at me, for a second, I forgot it was fake. For a moment, I wanted it to be real.
And that’s the most dangerous thought I’ve had in years.
I grab the barbell and start my next set, pushing the weight until my muscles burn, until I can’t think about anything except the lift.
Chapter Nine
Breathing Room
Winnie
I have eighteen minutes until my afternoon session, and I’m hiding in the bathroom.
Not my proudest moment, but I need a second to breathe, to process, to figure out how to walk into that training room like everything is normal when nothing about today has been normal.
Banks Callahan just claimed me in front of the entire cafeteria. He shared his chicken with me, put his hand on my lower back, and walked me to the door like it was something he does every day.
My skin is still tingling where he touched me.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and head for the studio.
Then I round the corner and nearly collide with two of the younger players—the same rookies who cornered me yesterday asking for a selfie.
I brace myself. Here it comes.
But they just step aside, giving me plenty of room to pass.
“Hey, Winnie,” one of them says. Polite. Distant. Almost nervous.
“Hey,” I manage.
They don’t follow me. Don’t try to make conversation. Don’t look at me like I’m a piece of meat they’re considering ordering.
They just… let me walk by.
I keep my pace steady until I’m around the next corner, then I stop and press my hand to my chest.
Holy shit.
It’s working.
The studio is already filling up when I arrive—guys filtering in, grabbing mats, finding their spots. I scan the room automatically, counting heads, noting who’s here.
No Grayson.
The knot in my stomach loosens slightly.
