“There’s no sign that says there’s a limit.” I held up the empty coffee cup in my hand. “I paid for a coffee.”
When the milk reached the neck of the plastic bottle, I pulled the jug away and twisted on the cap. I turned, expecting to see one of the ladies who worked here wearing her cafeteria uniform, but instead my eyes landed on a gorgeous blonde I’d never seen before. She looked a few years older than me. I glanced around the room to see if whoever had started with me about the milk might’ve walked away, but nope… No one was around except her. She had her feet propped up on the chair in front of her, and I did a double take catching a look at her ankle.
“What’s going on there?” I motioned to her leg. A dozen or so colorful ice pops were taped around her ankle with black electrical tape.
“I twisted my ankle playing volleyball. It’s starting to swell, and no one has an ice pack. So it was these or beers. I figured ice pops are colder and plus, Andrea will let me return them if I bring them back unopened.”
“Andrea?”
She lifted her chin toward the cashier. “The woman you handed a dollar for your empty coffee cup to justify stealing a half gallon of milk.”
I chuckled. “You’re a stickler for rules when it comes to me, yet you’re stealing ice.”
“I’m not stealing. I paid for them. I’m just going to return them when I’m done, unharmed.”
“But they will no longer be frozen, correct?”
“Probably not.”
“Right. So you’re stealing the ice. The school is going to have to pay the electric bill for that freezing a second time.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you return them while they’re still frozen to avoid becoming a thief? I have plenty of ice packs in my room. I’ll give you a few to ice your ankle properly.”
“Why do you have so many ice packs?”
“I’m on the hockey team. I’m always icing something.”
“You’re not just trying to lure me to your room, are you?”
I chuckled. “I’ll go get them for you. You can wait here.”
She tilted her head. “Why would you do that?”
“Because swelling should be iced and…” I shrugged. “You’re hot.”
She smiled, suddenly more shy. “Okay. Thank you.”
I lifted my chin. “What’s your name?”
“Teagan Kelly. What’s yours?”
“Max Yearwood. I’ll be back in a few minutes, Teagan Kelly.”
I jogged up to my room, grabbed a few instant cold compresses and a box of Cheerios, and went back to the cafeteria. Teagan was still sitting in the same place, but she’d removed the frozen ice pops from around her ankle and was now in the process of trying to unstick the pops from the tape.
She looked at the crap in my hands. “What are the Cheerios for?”
“Breakfast.”
“But where’s your milk?”
I grinned and lifted the empty coffee cup I’d bought earlier, pointing to the machine. I’d left my nice, full half gallon in my fridge back in my room.
Teagan laughed. “What’s your major, Max?”
“Math.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Why do you look so surprised?”
“I don’t know. Just doesn’t seem to go with hockey.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “Dumb jock stigma.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So you expected me to be stupid because I’m so pretty?”
She laughed. “Sorry. I guess I was kind of labeling you.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. I’ll give you a pass. What’s your major? Baton twirling? I mean, you are hot.”
Setting everything except one of the ice packs down, I whacked the plastic bag against the table to activate the cold. The inner bag made a popping sound and began to swell. After I finished getting the second one ready, I pointed to her foot. “Can I take a look?”
“I’m a third-year med student. I can get it checked at the hospital later. I just started ER rotations, and I stand for hours at a time. I just wanted to keep the swelling down before I had to go over there in a little while.”
My brows shot up. “You’re a third-year med student, and your treatment plan of choice was ice pops and electrical tape?”
“Shut up. It’s what was available.”
“Can I take a look anyway?”
She sighed. “Sure. Why not?”
Fifteen years of playing hockey, with doctors feeling all of my battered bones, had made me pretty damn good at guessing the extent of an injury. I put my hand on her anklebone and pressed. “Does this hurt?”
“Not really.”
Sliding my hand to the soft part of her ankle, I pressed again. “What about this?”
“Oww—yeah, that’s right where it hurts.”
“Any numbness or tingling?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s just sore right where you touched.”
I nodded. “Good. It’s probably not broken. You’d feel it in the bone if it were. My money is on a bruise.”
“Your money? You just bought an empty cup to steal milk. I hope you’re not insulted if I don’t think that statement holds a lot of weight.”