“It’s not adorable. It’s—” I stop myself. “It’s just a word. People say goodnight all the time.”
“Not Banks Callahan. That man doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean.” Tori studies me with an intensity that makes me squirm. “You like him.”
“I don’t—”
“Your face is doing a thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re trying not to smile and failing miserably.”
I force my expression into neutral, which only makes Tori laugh.
“Win. Honey. It’s okay to like him.”
“I don’t like him. I’m playing a role.” I say it firmly, as if I can make it true through sheer force of will. “This whole thing is fake, remember? We agreed to terms. We have an end date. It’s a business arrangement.”
“Business arrangements don’t involve sitting on someone’s lap and melting into their chest like butter on a warm biscuit.”
The memory surfaces before I can stop it. Thesolid wall of his thighs beneath me. The heat radiating through his shirt, seeping into my back. The way his arm felt wrapped around my waist—heavy and sure, like an anchor holding me in place. All that hard muscle, everywhere, surrounding me. And when I shifted, trying to get comfortable, I felt… something. Something that made my breath catch and my cheeks flush and my brain short-circuit entirely.
“That’s a terrible metaphor.”
“It’s an accurate metaphor.” She grins.
The nail technician starts working on Tori’s feet, and she sighs contentedly, sinking back into her chair. I think maybe she’s going to drop it, let me off the hook.
I should know better.
“What do you actually know about him?” she asks. “Like, his background. Family. Past relationships.”
“Not much.” I’ve been thinking about this since my late-night Google deep dive. “He grew up in the Midwest somewhere, but I couldn’t find any details. No mention of parents or siblings. No hometown features or family stories. It’s like he appeared out of thin air when he got drafted.”
“That’s… weird.”
“Right? Everyone has a past. Everyone has something. But Banks is just… blank.”
Tori is quiet for a moment. “Zay doesn’t know much either. They’ve been teammates for three years, and Banks has never mentioned family. Never talked about holidays or going home for the off-season. Zay invited him to Thanksgiving lastyear, and Banks just said he had other plans.”
“Did he?”
“Zay doesn’t think so.” She picks at the edge of her magazine. “He’s always been closed off. Keeps everyone at arm’s length. The guys respect him, but no one really knows him.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is.” Tori looks at me. “Maybe that’s why this is good for him. You, I mean. Whatever this is.”
“Can we talk about something else? Please?”
Tori holds up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Subject change. How’s the yoga program going? Any more issues with the guys?”
“Actually, no.” This, at least, is safe territory. “It’s been great. The sessions are focused now. The guys are actually trying. Even my metrics are improving—Dana showed me the injury reports, and soft tissue strains are down fifteen percent since I started.”
“That’s amazing!”
“It feels good. Like I’m actually making a difference instead of just… existing in their space.”
“Because they respect you now. Because Banks made them respect you.”
