Page 68 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“‘M watching.”
“You’re not. You’ve missed the last ten minutes.”
She doesn’t argue, just curls tighter into herself, a small smile on her lips.
I should leave. I should have left an hour ago. But she looks so peaceful, so soft, and I can’t bring myself to move.
Her hair is loose, strands falling across her face. Without thinking, I reach out—
And stop.
My hand hovers inches from her cheek. I want to brush those strands away, tuck them behind her ear, let my fingers linger on the curve of her face. But that’s not part of the arrangement. That’s not what she signed up for.
I pull my hand back.
“I should go,” I say quietly.
“Mmkay.” Her eyes flutter open briefly. “Thanks for the company.”
“Thanks for the burger.”
She laughs sleepily. “Goodnight, tough guy.”
The nickname hits me the same way it did on the phone—right in the chest, right where it matters.
“Goodnight, Win.”
I stand up carefully, trying not to jostle the bed. She’s already drifting off again, her breathing evening out, one hand tucked under her cheek.
She’s beautiful like this—unguarded, real. All the walls she puts up during the day have crumbled away in sleep.
I want to crawl into that bed beside her, wrap myself around her, and fall asleep with her warmth surrounding me.
I don’t. Obviously I don’t. Can’t.
I turn off the TV, pull the blanket up over her shoulders, and let myself out as quietly as I can.
The hallway is cold after the warmth of her room. I stand there for a moment, hand still on her door, trying to remember how to breathe.
This is a problem.
This is a very big problem.
But as I head back to the elevator, I can’t stop thinking about the way she said “tough guy,” the way she smiled when I admitted I could cook, and the way she looked at me like I was someone worth knowing.
Five days. Three cities. One impossible woman.
Chapter Seventeen
Hands On
Winnie
The arena in Boston is older than the Knights’ home rink—all exposed brick and industrial lighting, with that particular smell of cold air and old sweat that seems baked into the walls. The visiting team’s practice facility is tucked in the basement, a utilitarian space with rubber flooring and fluorescent lights.
It’s not glamorous. But it works.
I set up in the corner they’ve designated for my session, rolling out mats and arranging foam rollers while the guys trickle in. It’s early—nine AM, before morning skate—and I expect the usual grumbling.
