Page 125 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“It’s not much,” he says, almost apologetically.
I step inside, and my breath catches.
It’s not what I expected. I’d imagined something cold and sparse, maybe bachelor utilitarian: a couch, a TV, nothing on the walls.
This is different.
The apartment is spacious—open concept, withfloor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the glittering Manhattan skyline. The city sprawls below us, a sea of lights and movement, and the view alone must be worth a fortune.
But it’s the details that surprise me.
The living room has a deep charcoal sectional, oversized and comfortable-looking, with a soft throw blanket folded neatly over one arm. There’s a bookshelf against one wall—actually full of books, not decorative props—and when I step closer, I see dog-eared paperbacks mixed with hardcovers. Thrillers, mostly. Some history. A few that look like biographies of hockey legends.
The kitchen is clean but clearly used. A bowl of fruit sits on the counter—filled with bananas, oranges and apples. A fancy coffee maker rests beside it. Magnets adorn the fridge: one shaped like a hockey puck, another that simply says “EAT” in blocky red letters.
“Banks.” I turn to look at him. He’s hovering near the door, watching me take in his space, looking almost nervous. “This is lovely.”
“It’s just an apartment.”
“It’syourapartment. It’s you.” I wander further in, trailing my fingers along the back of the couch. The fabric is soft—expensive but not flashy. “This couch is enormous.”
“I’m enormous. Regular couches don’t fit.”
I laugh, and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders.
The walls aren’t bare, either. There’s a framed print of what looks like a Canadian landscape—mountains, water, and endless sky—and a fewphotographs in simple black frames. I step closer to examine them.
One is a team photo. The Knights, from what looks like a few seasons ago. Banks is in the back row, towering over everyone, not quite smiling but not scowling either.
Another is older and grainier. A teenage boy on a frozen pond, stick in hand, grinning at the camera with a joy I’ve never seen on adult Banks’s face.
“Is this you?” I ask.
He comes up behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Yeah. I was maybe fifteen. Some photographer came to do a piece on youth hockey in the Midwest. I don’t even remember his name, but he sent me a copy a few years later.”
“You look happy.”
“Hockey was the only thing that made me happy back then.” He pauses. “It was the only thing I had.”
I turn to face him. In the dim light filtering through the windows, his features are soft, open, and vulnerable in a way I’m still getting used to.
“What else do you have now?” I ask.
“You.” He says it simply, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s everything.
I kiss him.
It starts gently—a soft press of lips, a quiet affirmation. But then his hands find my waist, and my fingers slide into his hair, and suddenly gentle isn’t enough.
He walks me backward, and I let him guide me, trusting him to navigate his own space. My shouldersbump against a doorframe, and then we’re in a hallway, and then another door, and then—
His bedroom.
The city lights spill through another massive window, illuminating a king-sized bed with a dark gray comforter, neatly made. Nightstands sit on either side: one with a lamp and a book splayed open face-down, and the other completely empty.
Like he’s been waiting for someone to fill it.
“Win.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark and searching. “Are you sure about this?”
