Page 16 of Cold Comeback
Pluto picked up the thread. "Thatcher and I were just talking about getting together more. We'll work on our connection."
"Connection's crucial," Thatcher agreed, running his finger around the rim of his wine glass. "You need to know your teammate's rhythm. How they move. What they respond to."
The server delivered our desserts, and I shoved a spoonful of gelato into my mouth to avoid saying something I'd regret. It was good—rich vanilla with real vanilla beans—but it might as well have been cardboard.
"And Captain, how do you foster that kind of... intimacy among the team?"
I choked. Linc pounded my back while I coughed into my napkin, gelato going down the wrong pipe.
"Team building," I croaked once I could speak again. "Trust exercises."
"Gideon's big on trust." Thatcher loaded his voice with fake innocence. "Likes to test your limits. See how much pressure you can handle before you break."
Janet ate it up, scribbling furiously while navigating a monster slice of chocolate cake. "That sounds intense."
"Oh, it is. Sometimes you're unsure if you can take it, but Gideon always knows exactly how to push. Finds that sweet spot where you're right on the edge."
My fork clattered against my bowl loud enough that the conversation at the next table paused.
"The edge of what?" Janet asked.
Thatcher spoke quickly. "Performance. Peak performance. Gideon excels at reading when someone's about to... peak."
Linc made a strangled noise. Pluto was suddenly very interested in the restaurant's art collection—local landscapes.
In the background, Knox was telling anyone who'd listen about his fantasy football team while our goalie demonstrated stick-handling techniques with a breadstick. The noise level climbed as wine glasses emptied and inhibitions lowered.
Thatcher cut into his dessert. "This tiramisu's incredible. It's so much better when someone else handles the prep work, you know? Gets it nice and ready for you."
Janet nodded. "Do you cook much yourself?"
"I'm better with my hands than most people think." He licked his spoon clean. "Good with tools. Really know how to work a shaft."
Janet tilted her head to the side while I looked down and shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
"Pasta shaft," Thatcher clarified helpfully. "The long noodles. Though I'm also pretty skilled with shorter, thicker varieties, too."
"Penne," Pluto added weakly.
"Exactly. It's all about technique. Finding the right angle. Applying just enough pressure."
I stood abruptly. "Excuse me."
The bathroom was a single-stall refuge at the back of the restaurant, past the kitchen, where I heard line cooks shouting in three different languages. I locked the door, braced my hands against the sink, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Behind me were framed fake vintage advertisements for Coca-Cola and Lucky Strike cigarettes.
My face was flushed, my breathing uneven.
Professional boundaries,I told myself.He's doing this on purpose. Don't let him get to you.
Every word out of his mouth reminded me of yesterday. The taste of his skin. How he'd gasped my name. How perfectly he'd fit against me when I'd lost my goddamn mind and—
A knock interrupted my spiral. "Occupied," I called.
"It's me."
Of course it was.
I unlocked the door, and Thatcher slipped inside, locking it behind him. The bathroom was barely big enough for one person, let alone two full-grown athletes.
