“I assume you get to practise with the rest of the team,” she points out, through fading giggles. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and bet that’s when it happened. You’ve just got so caught up in measuring yourself against the rest of them you didn’t notice. Don’t you ever stop comparing yourself to everyone else?” It’s a pretty hypocritical thing for her to say, actually, but he doesn’t know that. On the pretext of taking the warming ice pack away, she gets up and inspects his arms at close range.
Stiles is still mostly looking down at his own arm, although he does offer her the towel-pack once Summer gets close enough, presuming that’s what she’s come over to actually do. She has a point—he’s a reasonably well-built young man, broader in the shoulders than he was a year ago and while he might not be sculpted, he’s clearly toned. He has no real answer to the question she’s really asked, so he shrugs again, looking back up to Summer with a sort of equally lopsided expression. “If I’m comparing myself to me, the bar isn’t exactly high.”
“I don’t know,” she says wryly, “I don’t know that many people who would have gone this far out of their way to return a cat to its owner, much less to find that owner in the first place.” Impulsively she kisses his cheek. “In case I forget, thank you.” She shakes the ice pack out of the towel and carries them both into the kitchen area, putting the ice pack back into the freezer before hanging up the towel.