“Winnie!”
Logan bounds over like an overgrown puppy, all floppy hair and eager energy. But he stops about three feet away, maintaining a respectful distance he’s never maintained before.
“Hey, Logan.”
“So…” He rocks back on his heels, clearly bursting with questions. “You and Banks, huh?”
“Me and Banks.”
“How did that even happen?” He looks genuinely baffled. “He doesn’t talk to anyone. Like, ever. I’ve been on this team for two years, and I think the longest conversation we’ve had was about protein powder. And even that was mostly grunting.”
I can’t help but smile. “He talks to me.”
“He does?”
“Yeah.”
“In, like… words? And sentences?”
“Sometimes.”
Logan shakes his head, amazed. “Wild. That’s wild.” He glances toward the door like he’s expecting Banks to materialize and glare at him. “He’s like… intense. You know? I can never tell if he likes me or wants to murder me.”
“I think that’s just his face.”
“It’s a scary face.”
“You get used to it.”
Logan studies me for a second, the teasing gone from his face. “You really like him, don’t you?”
The question catches me off guard. I wasn’t prepared for sincerity. “I… yeah. I do.”
I think about him walking me to the studio—the big, scary enforcer, nervous about holding hands. There’s something underneath all that armor—a softness he doesn’t let people see.
It comes out more convincing than I expected. Maybe because part of it isn’t entirely a lie.
“Cool.” Logan nods slowly. “That’s cool. He deserves someone nice. He’s been alone for, like… forever.” He pauses, then adds quickly, “Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll actually murder me.”
“Your secret’s safe.”
“Thanks.” He grins and backs toward his mat. “Good luck with the session. I’ll actually try to pay attention today.”
“That would be a refreshing change.”
He laughs and jogs off, and I’m left standing there, processing.
Logan was nice. Genuinely nice. No weird comments, no lingering looks, no attempts to stand too close. He treated me like a person. A colleague.Maybe even a friend.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?
I shake off the emotion and head to the front of the room, setting up my tablet and pulling up today’s routine. More players file in, grabbing mats and settling into rows. They’re chatty with each other but give me space. Respectful space.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to make a comment, push a boundary, ruin the illusion.
It doesn’t happen.
By 3:00, the room is mostly full. I do a quick count—fourteen players. A reasonable number. An appropriate number. No random extras who “just wanted to check it out.”
