It was a long time ago. Since then, I’ve had other relationships. I dated Matt for a year and a half. I’ve kissed and slept with other men, building a life that had nothing to do with Archer Lockwood’s bedroom.
But my body seems to remember none of that. It recalls his hands, his breath on my neck, the sound he made—quiet, involuntary, surprised—like touching me was something he hadn’t anticipated.
I stare at myself in the mirror. “Get it together,” I whisper.
I dry my hands, fix my hair, take one more deep breath, and walk back out.
Winnie is on her phone when I sit down, and she puts it away with a smile. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Long week.”
“I bet.” She refills my glass—this woman is generous with the wine—and leans forward on her elbows. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“When I first started working with the team, Banks and I had to fake-date to get the other guys to back off. It was this whole arrangement—rules, boundaries, totally professional.” She takes a sip. “It lasted about three weeks before we were making out in a supply closet.”
I choke on my wine. “Seriously?”
“I’m telling you this because I recognize what it looks like when two people pretend they don’t have feelings for each other. I did it for an entire season. I almost lost the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too scared to admit I wanted it.”
I set my glass down. “Winnie, Archer and I are not—”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying.” She shrugs, easy and without pressure. “Sometimes the thing you’re most afraid of is already happening. Fighting it just makes it hurt more.”
I have no idea how to respond. So I drink my wine and change the subject to something safer—her yoga practice, my dance background, the overlap between the two—and Winnie lets me redirect without pushing. She’s good at that.
By the end of the bottle, we’re laughing about the players’ flexibility (or lack thereof). She’s shown me three videos of Banks attempting crow pose that should probably be classified as comedy, and I feel lighter than I have in weeks.
“We’re doing this again,” she says as we settle the check. “Next Saturday. Same place.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. “I’d like that.”
We hug outside on the sidewalk. She holds on for a moment longer than polite.
“He’s lucky to have you, you know,” she says. “Whatever you are to each other. He’s lucky.”
“We’re friends,” I say, and the word feels different than it used to. Smaller. Like it doesn’t truly capture what he means to me.
“Sure,” Winnie replies with a smile, then hails a cab.
I stand on the sidewalk and watch her walk away. The city is loud around me—horns, voices, the distant rumble of the subway beneath my feet. I pull out my phone and text Lauren.
Me:I made a friend tonight.
Lauren:A real one or a hockey wife?
Me:Both. She’s great.
Lauren:Did she ask about Archer?
Me:Obviously.
Lauren:And?
I stare at my phone as the city hums around me. A taxi honks nearby. Somewhere in a brownstone across town, Archer is probably on the couch in his sweatpants, watching a game. The thought of him there—comfortable, alone, waiting for me to come home—makes my chest ache in a way I’m running out of excuses for.
Me:And nothing. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
