“Better.”
We work the room together, which mostly means I make small talk while Banks looms beside me like a well-dressed bodyguard. He’s terrible at this—stiff and monosyllabic with strangers, his handshake too firm, his smile nonexistent. But he stays close. Always close. Hand on my back, arm brushing mine, positioning himself between me and anyone who gets too near.
It should feel suffocating. It doesn’t. It feels safe.
“Banks! There you are.”
A man in his sixties approaches, silver hair, expensive watch, the confident stride of someone used to being important. Banks shakes his hand with something approaching warmth, which tells me this person actually matters.
“Mr. Harrison. Good to see you.”
“You too, son. You too.” The man’s eyes slide to me. “And who’s this lovely young lady?”
Banks’s hand tightens on my back. “This is Winnie. My girlfriend.”
The word sends a shiver down my spine. I’ve never heard him introduce me that way before—it sounds different than I expected. Heavier. Like he means it.
“Wonderful to meet you, Winnie.” Mr. Harrison shakes my hand with both of his. “You’ve got a good one here. Banks is one of my favorite players. All heart, this one.”
“I’m learning that,” I say, and I mean it more than he knows.
We make the rounds: more handshakes, more small talk, more introductions where Banks refers to me as his girlfriend, and something warm blooms in my chest. I meet the team owner, several sponsors, and a few wives who promise to invite me to brunch. Banks says approximately twelve words total, but his presence beside me speaks volumes.
We’re getting drinks at the bar when Grayson appears.
He’s cleaned up too—designer tux, hair slicked back, and a smug expression firmly in place. He has a model-type woman on his arm who looks bored out of her mind, but he abandons her the moment he spots me.
“Winnie.” He slides up beside me, too close. “You look amazing. That dress is—”
“Back off, Reed.” Banks is there before I can respond, stepping slightly in front of me. Not aggressive. Not confrontational. Just… present. A wall between me and whatever Grayson thinks he’s doing.
“Relax, man. I’m just saying hello.”
“You said it. Now you can say goodbye.”
Grayson’s jaw tightens, but he’s not foolish enough to push it. Not here, surrounded by sponsors and press. “Whatever. Enjoy your night.”
He retreats quickly, melting back into the crowd.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.” Banks’s hand finds my back again. “I did.”
The music shifts from ambient background to something slower and more intentional. Couplesbegin migrating toward the dance floor—Zayden and Tori, Archer and Bree, and other pairs I don’t recognize.
Banks looks at the dance floor like it’s a pit of snakes.
“We should probably…” I gesture vaguely.
“I don’t dance.”
“It’s a gala. There’s a dance floor. People are going to expect us to dance.”
“People can expect whatever they want.”
“Banks.” I chuckle, lifting one brow.
He sighs—the sigh of a man accepting his fate. “Fine. But if I step on your feet, you can’t complain.”
