Page 41 of Ice Cold Chemistry
He nods, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. I wasn’t expecting him to let go, but I also wasn’t expecting him to hold on. It’s confusing. This whole thing is confusing.
We walk toward the door, our fingers still intertwined. His hand dwarfs mine—I knew it would, he’s huge—but there’s something strangely nice about the way our palms fit together. Like puzzle pieces that weren’t meant to match but somehow do.
We emerge into the hallway, and I immediatelyfeel eyes on us. Staff members, a few players lingering by the water fountain, someone from the front office walking past. Everyone notices. Everyone looks.
But instead of feeling exposed, I feel… protected. Banks is a wall beside me—literally and figuratively. No one’s going to mess with me while I’m holding his hand. My own personal bodyguard.
I keep thinking about the way he looked at our fingers intertwined—like it was something fragile he might accidentally break. The way he admitted it’s been a while since he’s been touched…
It’s been a long time since anyone just… touched me. To be nice.
What happened to him? What kind of life leaves someone so starved for basic human contact that holding hands feels foreign?
I don’t have answers. But I want them.
Maybe more than I should.
Chapter Ten
Down the Rabbit Hole
Winnie
It’s 11:47 PM, and I can’t sleep.
I’ve tried everything. Warm milk (disgusting). Meditation app (too many wind chimes). Counting sheep (boring). Reading (my brain won’t focus). I even did a twenty-minute yoga flow in my living room, which usually knocks me right out.
Nothing.
My mind keeps spinning, circling back to the same thing—the same person—no matter how hard I try to redirect it.
Banks Callahan.
My fake boyfriend. My human shield. The man who held my hand today like it were a live grenade he wasn’t sure how to defuse.
I know almost nothing about him. We’re supposed to be dating, yet I couldn’t tell you his middle name, his birthday, or where he went to high school. All I know is that he’s huge, grumpy, has no favorite color, and grew up “here and there”—whatever that means.
It’s not enough. If someone asks me about him,I need to have answers. This is research. Reconnaissance. Totally justified.
That’s what I tell myself as I grab my laptop and settle against my headboard.
I type “Banks Callahan hockey” into Google and hit enter.
The results load instantly. Wikipedia. Sports news sites, highlight reels. I click on the Wikipedia page first because it seems like the most efficient place to start.
Banks CallahanAmerican professional ice hockey defenseman
The basics are all there, laid out in neat little boxes. Born: April 13, 1997. That makes him… almost thirty. His birthday is coming up soon, actually. I file that away for later.
Height: 6’4”
I knew he was tall, but seeing it written out makes me realize just how much he towers over me. I’m 5’6”. He has ten inches on me. That’s almost a foot.
Weight: 225 pounds.
All muscle, from what I can tell. I think about how his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders today, the solid wall of his chest when we stood close.
Position: Defenseman.
