I’m not broken. I’m just… built differently. Built to survive. I’ve endured a lot. Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.
She watches me for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. She doesn’t.
Instead, she offers something of her own. “I have a younger brother. He’s getting his MBA and thinks he knows everything. We text every day, mostly to argue about reality TV.”
“You watch reality TV?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging.”
“Your face is judging.”
“This is just my face.”
She laughs—a real laugh, bright and warm—and I feel it somewhere in my ribs.
“Okay, important question,” she says. “What’s your coffee order? I need to know in case someone asks.”
“Black.”
“Of course it is.” She rolls her eyes. “Most boring answer possible.”
“What’s yours?”
“Oat milk latte with vanilla and cinnamon.”
“That’s not coffee. That’s dessert.” It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s sugar with caffeine.”
“You’re very judgmental for someone who doesn’t have a favorite color.”
I almost smile. Almost. I catch myself just in time.
She notices anyway. Her eyes light up like she’s won something. “Was that a smile? Did I almost make Banks Callahan smile?”
“No.”
“It was. I saw it. The corner of your mouth moved.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“I have perfect vision.”
Before I can respond, a shadow falls over our table.
Archer Lockwood stands there with his tray,looking between us with raised eyebrows. He’s one of the few guys on the team I actually tolerate. Goalie. Steady. Doesn’t talk too much.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, already pulling out a chair across from us.
I shrug. Winnie smiles.
“Hey, Archer,” she says. “How’s the hip flexor?”
“Better since the session last week.” He settles into his seat, arranging his food with the particular fussiness of someone who takes nutrition too seriously. “So. You two, huh?”
