Page 45 of Ice Cold Chemistry
The server comes by, and everyone orders. I get a steak, medium rare, a lobster tail, a side of mac and cheese, a baked potato, extra bread, no vegetables, because I’m an adult and I can make my own choices. Winnie orders salmon and a salad, which seems inadequate, but I don’t comment.
The conversation flows around me. I contribute nothing, which is normal. What’s not normal is how aware I am of every point of contact between us. Her thigh against mine, her elbow brushing my arm when she reaches for her water, the warmth radiating off her body seeping through my clothes.
I feel like I’m running a fever.
She’s good at this—laughing at jokes, asking questions, making everyone feel included. She remembers details—asks Archer about his twins, congratulates one of the rookies on a good game, teases Logan about something that happened at practice. She fits seamlessly into the group, like she’s been here for years instead of weeks.
I’m terrible at this. Stiff. Monosyllabic. Every time someone addresses me directly, I give the shortest possible answer and hope they’ll move on.
“Banks, you want another beer?”
“No.”
“Did you see that hit Reed laid out in the second period?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you think of the new defensive scheme Coach is trying?”
“It’s fine.”
Winnie shoots me a look—half amused, half exasperated—and puts her hand on my arm. Casual. Easy. Like she does it all the time.
My skin burns where she touches me.
“He’s chatty tonight,” she says to the table, and everyone laughs. Even I almost do. She’s covering for me, making my silence seem like a funny personality quirk instead of a social deficiency.
I should thank her. Instead, I take a long drink of water and try to remember how normal people act at dinner parties.
The food arrives, and I focus on eating. This, at least, I’m good at. I demolish my steak in record time, then eye Winnie’s salmon, wondering if she’s going to finish it.
“You want some?” she asks, catching me looking.
“No.”
She raises an eyebrow—she’s heard this before—and pushes her plate slightly toward me. “Have some. It’s good, and I’m full.”
“You barely ate anything.”
“I ate plenty. You’re just a human garbage disposal.”
Someone across the table snorts—Logan, probably—but I’m too focused on the salmon to care. I spear a piece with my fork and eat it. It’s good. She was right.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome.”
Her hand is still on my arm. Has it been there this whole time? I can’t remember. I can’t thinkabout anything except the warmth I can feel through my sleeve.
“So,” Logan says, leaning across me to address Winnie. “I’ve been dying to know. How did you two actually get together? What’s the story?”
The question lands like a bomb.
We haven’t discussed this. We’ve talked about rules, boundaries, and how to act in public—but we never came up with an origin story. An explanation for how the grumpiest guy on the team ended up with the gorgeous yoga instructor everyone’s been pining for.
I freeze. My brain goes completely blank.
Winnie doesn’t miss a beat. “Honestly? It was the protein bars.” She laughs, shaking her head as if she’s remembering something fond. “I was in the break room one day, starving, and Banks had this whole stash in his bag. I asked if I could have one, and he just… handed me three. Didn’t say a word. Just gave me three protein bars.”
