CHAPTER TEN #7
Zach suddenly swings his legs off the bed. I track his movement with my eyes, already bracing for him to head home. Makes sense—it's late. A glance at my clock tells me it's 11:38 P.M.
But then—oh no. Oh no.
He grabs the hem of his shirt and peels it right off.
My brain short-circuits. What the actual hell.
I blink. Fast. Like maybe if I blink enough, my retinas will reboot and he'll magically be wearing clothes again. Nope. Still shirtless. Still shirtless-Zach. Still my best friend standing in my room like a freaking Calvin Klein model who accidentally wandered into suburbia.
"Uh—" my throat closes up. My mouth is Sahara-dry. I practically choke on air. "Wh-what are you d-doing?"
He doesn't even look at me. Just tosses his shirt onto the sofa in the corner and starts unbuckling his belt.
My eyes go saucer-wide. Oh my God. He's multiplying crimes.
"What else?" he says casually, jeans sliding off like this is normal. "Getting ready for bed."
"Bed?" My voice hits a pitch only dogs can hear. "You're sleeping here?" ...Half-naked? I want to add.
Finally, he turns.
And, well. Fuck.
Broad chest, abs that look carved, tan skin glistening just slightly from the leftover post-game heat. The sharp V-cut disappearing under his boxers. His legs—long, solid muscle from years of hockey. He's basically a living, breathing sports ad.
I'm salivating. Literally salivating. I should not be allowed to see this.
"What's so shocking about it?" He shrugs, circling the bed like this is the most casual thing ever. "I sleep here all the time." He flops onto his usual side, settling in with zero shame.
I clear my throat, but it's useless. My voice still comes out shaky. "Okaaaay... but why are you half naked?"
He yawns, grabs the duvet. "Because my body's still running on pure adrenaline from the game. I'm overheating. If I sleep in clothes, I'll feel like I'm combusting. This way, I don't burn alive." He slides under the covers, pulling them over himself.
Great. Fantastic. He won't burn up. Meanwhile, I'm about to spontaneously combust.
I freeze in place, still sitting there like a malfunctioning robot. Then he grabs my wrist and tugs me down beside him. "Time to sleep, Sugarplum."
Sleep? With my half-naked best friend lying two inches away, smelling like sweat, cologne, and pure temptation? Yeah, right. My heart is doing parkour and my brain is screaming expletives.
I roll to my side, back facing him, trying to think of gross things to distract myself. Rotten eggs. Moldy cheese. Tyler's smug face. Nothing works. My heart is still sprinting.
The room falls quiet, except for Taylor faintly humming from my speakers. I assume he's drifted off when suddenly he speaks.
"I'm sorry," he says softly.
My eyes snap shut. Nope. Not this. Not now.
"I'm sorry you had to hear it from Cici... about the hot tub."
The words slam into me. My stomach sinks. I don't answer. Can't. My throat locks up.
"...I know you don't wanna hear it, but I can't sleep without setting the story straight."
My brows pinch.
"It's true I was in the hot tub. But not the way she made it sound." His voice is low, careful. "I was there first. Alone. Drunk. Totally out of it. I'd downed way too much because I was still wrecked over us losing nationals to Easton. I just... couldn't deal."
He pauses, running a hand over his face before continuing.
"So I sat there, wasted, half-asleep. Next thing I knew, I woke up to someone's hand on me. I opened my eyes, thought it was someone else, and then she kissed me. But the second I realized it was Cici, I pushed her away. Got out of there. That's it. Nothing more."
I suck in a sharp breath, my chest tight. Relief trickles in, warm and dizzying, but I don't move. Don't let myself.
He exhales. "I never liked her, Caroline. You know that. Especially with how she treats you. Hooking up with her? That'd feel like betraying you."
God. My heart actually squeezes.
"So... why did you lie?" I whisper, finally turning—only to jolt when my eyes meet his.
He's already watching me. His expression serious, stripped of all the teasing.
He shrugs faintly, shoulders shifting under the covers. "Maybe I thought denying it made it... not real. Or maybe I just didn't want to hurt you. Even if nothing happened, I didn't want it between us."
I drop my gaze, nodding slowly. My throat's too tight to say much more.
Then his hand finds my chin, tilting it up. His silver eyes lock on mine, so sincere it makes my chest ache. "You believe me, right?"
I search his gaze, and before I know it, a small smile slips through. "Yeah. I believe you."
"Good." He grins, tugging me against him, strong arms wrapping around me. My face presses into his chest as he kisses the top of my head. "Now let's go to sleep."
And for the first time tonight, I actually can.
Smiling.
Like an idiot.
Because when he holds me like this, how could I not?
CHAPTER FOUR
CAROLINE
The hallways buzz with the usual early-morning chaos—lockers slamming shut, sneakers squeaking across polished floors, laughter bouncing everywhere, and the occasional shriek from someone who forgot their homework.
High school, in all its glory. Loud. Chaotic. A little suffocating if you're not in the mood.
Zach and I walk side by side like we always do. Our lockers have been neighbors since freshman year and they’ve stayed that way ever since. Honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way. This tiny slice of routine is ours.
I can't believe it's the last year though. Graduation's in a few months, and then... no more side-by-side lockers.
Don't think about it, Caroline. Nope.
He looks obnoxiously cool this morning in his Everglades hockey letterman jacket, hair still damp from practice.
Girls wave at him as we pass, batting lashes like we're in a bad teen movie.
He flashes them that grin—the one that makes half the female population forget their own names—and I pretend it doesn't bother me. Spoiler: it does.
He’s animated, grinning as he talks about Ridgewater U and officially making their hockey roster next year. They only recruit top high-school prospects—like the freakishly talented, state-leading-scorer kind. Which, of course, is exactly what Zach is.
"They're taking me for a campus tour next month," he says, tugging open his locker. "Meet the team, check out the rink. I'm pumped but... nervous too. What if they don't like me?"
I glance at him, trying not to look like I want to wrap him in bubble wrap for doubting himself. Zach Westbrook doesn't do insecurity. He's the guy who can talk to anyone, charm teachers into forgetting about late homework, and have strangers calling him their best friend within five minutes.
I smile, grabbing my binder. "You're Zach Westbrook. Everglades' golden boy. Hockey superstar. And you literally have a sign stamped on your forehead that says 'friendly.' It'd be impossible not to like you."
His grin softens, like my words just locked something in place for him. And of course it makes my chest do this stupid fluttery thing.
He bumps my shoulder lightly. "And what about you, Miss Performer? Any letters yet?"
My fingers hesitate over my books. "Not yet," I say, casual. So casual it almost sounds real. "But Ridgewater usually mails acceptances in January, right? It's only the middle of the month. I'll probably get mine this week."
I don't tell him about the other letter. The one sitting in my drawer. The one with NYU stamped across the top in bold, shiny letters.
Because I never told him I submitted a college application anywhere other than our dream school. Our school. Ridgewater U isn't just some random college on a brochure. It's the college. The holy grail.
We grew up on Ridgewater stories—our parents went there, made lifelong friends there, basically treated the place like it was Disneyland with textbooks. We had Ridgewater sweatshirts before we could even spell university.
Every holiday, someone would bring up campus life like it was some sacred rite of passage: Ridgewater dorms, Ridgewater hockey games, Ridgewater love stories.
So of course it became our dream. Our shared, non-negotiable, totally-set-in-stone plan. It was Ridgewater or bust, like there weren't even other schools in existence.
Which is why I have no clue how Zach's gonna react if I tell him I applied to NYU on the side—and worse, that I already got my acceptance letter two weeks ago.
Not that I actually want to go there. Duh. My first and only choice is Ridgewater U. Where he's going. And where I want to be. No doubts. No competition.
Zach slams his locker shut, calculus book already shoved in his bag. "How about you come with me on the campus tour next month?"
My head tilts. "Why?"
"So we can see it together. First time."
I frown. "Aren't you going with Coach Cooper?"
He huffs. "Not necessarily. And honestly, I'd rather go with you. You're more fun than him." He winks, adding, "And the car ride will be way better. Just the two of us. Blasting your Taylor Swift playlist. You know—quality time."
My cheeks burn instantly. Thank God for locker doors hiding faces. He talks like Ridgewater U is hours away when it's literally an hour and a half drive. Still... the idea makes my insides turn to goo.
Then he peeks around my locker door, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Hey. You're not stressing about the letter, are you? You'll get it soon. Maybe tomorrow."
I force a laugh. "I'm not bothered. I swear."
"Good."
He shifts, moving to lean against the locker across from me so he can actually see my face. And because apparently I'm on a mission to ruin my own life, the words just tumble out.
"I've got my NYU acceptance, though," I say casually. Too casually.
Silence stretches between us, and my stomach knots.
I risk a glance, and yep—there it is. Zach's staring at me like I just told him I'm moving to Mars.
Shit!
"NYU?" His voice comes out sharp with disbelief. "Since when did you even apply there?"