Page 197 of Break the Ice
“Grilled veggies for Eli. Salmon for us. Whole grain rice. Easy.” I flash her a grin, bumping her hip with mine as I grab the cutting board. “Chef JJ at your service.”
Eli opens the fridge, takes one look at the chaos inside, and shuts it again with a groan. As messy as he is, his fridge is always in order. Everything is regimented and meticulously prepped by his chef.
“You wanna help or just brood in the corner?” I toss over my shoulder when he opens the fridge again and starts trying to make sense of it before giving up for real.
He smirks faintly, the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll sauté onions.”
“Atta boy,” I tease, knowing damn well the last time he touched a frying pan, he almost burnt the pine nuts he was meant to toast lightly.
The three of us fall into this easy rhythm. Finley chops, I season, Eli stirs. I love how easy this feels between us. So normal, like we’ve been doing it for years.
Every now and then Eli’s shoulder brushes mine as we switch spots, the touch casual but lingering in a way it never used to. Like the walls he’s always carried are slowly cracking, piece by piece, and tonight’s warmth is spilling through.
Even so, the weight from the hospital still hangs in the back of my head. Every time I drift toward it, Eli nudges me back with a hand to my shoulder when he passes me the tongs, a quiet look when Finley laughs at something I say. He doesn’t call me on it, but he doesn’t let me drown in it, either.
By the time the rice is done and the salmon’s crisp around the edges, Finley’s leaning against the counter with a hard seltzer in hand, cheeks pink from the stove’s heat. She grins at Eli when he plates everything, at me when I steal a bite of her broccoli before sitting down.
It’s… domestic. That’s the only word for it.
The three of us at the table, eating something we cooked together, with the music still low in the background and the city lights bleeding through the windows. For a second, the road trip, the games, the past—none of it exists.
Just this.
Her soft laughter. His quiet presence. The peace I didn’t know I needed settling under my skin.
Dinner doesn’t last long.We’re athletes—none of us linger when there’s food in front of us—but it isn’t just the eating. It’s the way Finley keeps leaning into Eli when she laughs, or the way he keeps sliding things onto her plate like she hasn’t eaten enough. It’s me catching both of them watching each other when they think no one’s looking.
And maybe it’s the tight ache in my chest every time I remember Dylan’s face earlier, every time Paige’s name whispers across the back of my mind like a weight I can’t shake off.
I think Eli feels it, too. There’s this moment when I catch him watching me across the table. He doesn’t say anything—he rarely does—but his fingers brush my wrist when he takes my empty plate, deliberate enough that I know he’s there. That he’s paying attention.
By the time the kitchen’s clean, the heaviness in my ribs feels easier to carry.
We end up on the sectional in the living room, the three of us collapsing into the cushions like we’ve lived here forever. Finley claims the corner of the sectional, legs tucked under her,Wuthering Heightscracked open in her lap. I stretch out beside her, head tipped back, while Eli settles on her other side with the remote in hand like he might actually pick something to watch.
He doesn’t. Of course.
Finley reads quietly, stopping only when something ridiculous happens in the book and she has to groan about it.
“Shoot,” she mutters after a chapter or two, blotting at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “I swear, I hate this guy one minute and love him the next.”
“Because he’s a narcissistic bastard,” I tell her, deadpan.
“But he loves Catherine so hard,” she argues, voice wobbling as she sniffles.
“They are the definition of toxic, Lucky.” I drop my hand to her knee, squeezing lightly before rolling my head toward her. “You need a palate cleanser after this one. Something that doesn’t make you cry on me.”
Her lips twitch like she might smile. “Like what?”
“Austen,” I say instantly. “She wrote happy endings before they were cool.”
“Not sure Mr. Darcy counts as happy,” she mutters, turning a page.
“He’s better than this guy,” I nod at the book in her hands. “At least he’s not trying to ruin lives for fun.”
Her quiet laugh sinks under my skin, softening the edges of everything else crowding my head.
I glance at Eli. He’s leaning back, eyes half-lidded, listening, but not interrupting. There’s this calm about him tonight, but every now and then his gaze flicks to me like he’s checking in. Making sure I’m still here, still present.
