Page 98 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“No.”
“Logan just said—”
“Logan says a lot of things. Most of them are wrong.”
Zayden doesn’t push it. That’s one of the things I like about him. He knows when to leave well enough alone.
Practice is brutal. Coach runs us hard—line drills, defensive plays, a scrimmage—and by the end, I’m soaked in sweat and my shoulder is screaming. I tell myself it’s the good kind of pain. The kind that means I’m still alive, still useful, still capable of doing my job.
I shower, change, and head for the exit, planning to go home and spend the rest of my birthday doing absolutely nothing. Maybe I’ll get crazy and take a nap.
But when I push through the doors, she’s there.
Winnie.
She’s leaning against the wall near the parking lot entrance, wearing jeans and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. In her hands is a single cupcake—chocolate, from the looks of it—with a lone candle stuck in the top.
She smiles when she sees me. “There you are.”
I stop walking. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” She holds up the cupcake. “Happy birthday.”
“How did you—”
She shrugs. “I have my ways.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to this—people knowing things about me, people showingup with cupcakes, people caring.
“I don’t do birthdays,” I manage.
“I figured.” She pushes off the wall and walks toward me. “But humor me. Just this once.”
I should be annoyed. I am annoyed—or, at least, I want to be. But looking at her, standing there with the cupcake in hand and hope in her eyes, I can’t find the irritation I’m searching for.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.” She’s in front of me now, close enough that I can smell her shampoo. “But I wanted to. Everyone deserves to have their birthday acknowledged. Even grumpy hockey players who pretend they don’t care.”
“I don’t pretend. I genuinely don’t care.”
“Liar.” She lights the candle and holds up the cupcake. “Make a wish.”
“Win—”
“Make a wish, Banks. It’s tradition.”
“I don’t make wishes.”
“Everyone makes wishes.” Her voice is soft. “Just close your eyes and think about something you want.”
I want to argue. I want to tell her that wishes are for children, that I stopped believing in them around the same time I stopped believing in Santa Claus, that no amount of candle-blowing has ever changed anything for me.
But she’s looking at me with those blue eyes, and I’m powerless.
I close my eyes and think about what I want.
The answer comes immediately, without hesitation.Her. I want her. Not just physically—thoughGod knows I want that too—but all of it. Her laugh. Her warmth. Her hand in mine. Her voice saying my name. I want to wake up next to her. I want to come home to her. I want to build something with her that I’ve never built with anyone.
