CHAPTER TEN #8
I swallow. My hands suddenly feel clammy on the spine of my binder. "Uh... since I, you know... applied." Brilliant answer, Caroline. Gold star.
His brow furrows deeper, like that's not nearly enough. "I thought our plan was Ridgewater. Ridgewater U. Together." His voice isn't dramatic, but there's a rough edge to it—like he actually feels betrayed.
My throat tightens. He's never looked at me like this before.
"Yeah, that's the plan," I rush to say, nodding. "We're still doing Ridgewater."
"Then why did you apply to NYU?" His jaw flexes. "That's like... twenty hours away."
I slam my locker shut, juggling my AP books like a shield. "Oh, stop being a drama queen, Westbrook. There are planes, you know. Three hours, tops. You'll survive." I tack on a crooked grin, hoping it'll soften the mood.
It doesn't.
When I glance at him again, he still looks butthurt—eyebrows drawn, lips pressed, like someone just stole his puppy.
And I don't know if I should feel guilty... or completely giddy that he's this bothered by the thought of me being somewhere else.
I sigh, softer this time. "Look, I only applied because my mom wanted me to. Just to have options. That's all. I'm not planning on disrupting our plans." My voice gentles without me meaning to. "Don't worry, okay?"
He nods slowly, but I can tell he's still chewing on it. His eyes don't have their usual sparkle. He doesn't joke back. He just... looks at me.
And this is the first time I've ever seen him like this. Guard down. Unsettled. Actually worried about me not being there.
And what does my dumb heart do?
Oh, it cannonballs straight into Delulu Lake. Because in my head, the translation is crystal clear: Zach Westbrook can't imagine college without me. Which, duh, means he can't imagine life without me. Which, duh, means he loves me.
I think he's about to say something—something big, maybe—but then it happens. The familiar stomp-stomp-clap of ego-filled footsteps echoes behind us.
Here they come.
Zach's friends. Varsity hockey guys in their navy-and-gold letterman jackets, strutting like they own the hallway.
Too loud, too cocky, too everything. Their dumb little clap-handshake-shoulder-bump routine plays out like some weird cult greeting, and of course Zach falls right into it the second they reach us.
"Z! You coming or what?" Tyler shouts, smirking like he invented smugness.
Zach returns the handshake, laughing that easy laugh he always saves for them. "Yeah, yeah. Gimme a sec."
"Hi, Caroline," a voice pipes up. I turn and it's Jacob, flashing me his adorable smile.
I smile back automatically. "Hi, Jake."
Confession: I hate Zach's teammates. They're loud, arrogant, and think their jock status makes them kings of the school. Walking stereotypes with skates. Except Jacob. Jacob's different. He's nice. Sweet. Actually human.
And, okay, cute.
"How was your weekend?" he asks, stepping closer.
I open my mouth to answer, but Zach is suddenly there—hand clamping down on Jacob's shoulder. Friendly on the surface, but I swear I can see his fingers digging in, his eyes sharp. Protective.
God, I wish it was the hands-off-my-girl kind of possessive.
Keep dreaming, Caroline.
"Come on, Jacob," Zach says smoothly. "Leave my best friend alone, she's late for class." He doesn't wait for a reply, just steers Jacob back toward the group.
Then, softer, only for me: "I'll catch you after school, Sugarplum."
And just like that, warmth blooms in my chest, spreading until my cheeks flush pink. I duck my head, biting back the smile tugging at my lips.
But it doesn't last.
"Sugarplum?" Tyler crows, eyebrows raised in fake innocence. "You mean Sugar Plump, right?"
Laughter detonates around them—loud, sharp, mean. The kind that echoes off lockers and makes your skin crawl.
I freeze.
Another voice piles on. "More like Fat Plum!"
The laughter doubles, cruel and jagged.
And then Zach's voice cuts through it.
"Quit it!" His tone is nothing like before—loud, sharp, commanding. Team captain, not teammate. "Unless you want me skating your asses into the ground at practice tonight."
The laughter dies instantly.
*****
By the time I get to the rink, the place is echoing with blades slashing against ice. I spot him immediately—number 19 practice jersey. Of course. Like I could miss him.
He looks gigantic in that thing. Not just big—intimidatingly huge. Like if Goliath played hockey.
The guys are flying across the rink, full speed, skating end to end like their lives depend on it. Some are huffing, some stumbling, one looks like he might just keel over.
And at the center of it all? Zach.
"Move! Faster! Again!" His voice booms through the rink, sharp and unrelenting.
He's barking orders like some drill sergeant fresh out of boot camp.
No Coach Cooper tonight. Just Zach, running the show, looking dead serious—angry-monster serious.
He doesn't care if they collapse, puke, or both. His only mission is to break them.
Why though?
I slide into one of the empty bleachers right against the glass. Close enough that when he finally stops terrorizing his teammates, he'll see me.
The guys look absolutely wrecked, sweat dripping as they push themselves harder and harder. But Zach? He looks carved out of stone. Jaw set, eyes blazing, veins in his arms flexing as he points and yells.
And I can't lie—there's something amusingly hot about it. Like, unfairly hot. My brain should be concerned about their survival, but nope. Instead, it's like: yes, captain, yell at me too.
My delusion spiral is cut short when a blur of motion slides right in front of me. Jacob.
He stops with a sharp spray of ice against the glass, grinning like he just pulled off the coolest stunt in the world. His stick dangles in one hand, casual, like this is nothing.
I blink. I didn't even realize he wasn't part of Zach's death drill.
"Hey, Caroline," Jacob says, lifting his visor. "You're still at school?"
"Yeah," I say. "Had a study group." My eyes flick toward Zach and the poor souls suffering under him. "Uh, what exactly is going on out there?"
Jacob follows my gaze, then chuckles—like watching his teammates' misery is prime-time comedy. "Captain's famous punishment drill."
"Punishment?" My eyebrows shoot up. "For what? And wait—why aren't you included?"
Jacob smirks, unfastens his helmet, and pulls it off. His damp hair is plastered to his forehead, and when he rakes his fingers through it—of course—he looks like some sweaty teen-mag cover model.
A chorus of giggles erupts from the group of girls sitting on the other side of the rink, proving my point.
"'Cause I'm a good boy," he says, smirk not budging. Then he nods toward Zach. "They kept calling you names. Even after Z warned them to knock it off. So now..." He gestures toward the chaos. "Ergo, punishment."
My heart does this weird double-thump as I watch Zach bark again, his voice slicing through the rink like thunder. And it hits me—he's doing this because of me. Because they wouldn't shut up about me.
Cue my inner delulu orchestra: See? SEE? This is proof. He's literally torturing his entire team just to defend my honor. Forget knights in shining armor—give me Zach Westbrook in a sweaty practice jersey yelling at his teammates until they collapse.
I press my knees together to keep from vibrating out of my seat.
While I'm busy melting into a puddle, Jacob shifts his stick against the glass, turning his easy grin back on me. "So... how're you holding up with English lit? That paper on Shakespeare's sonnets killed me."
We talk for a minute about iambic pentameter and how much we both hate annotations, and then—he pauses. Like mid-sentence, lips still parted.
Then, casually—but with this strange edge of hesitation—he asks, "So, uh... who are you going to prom with?"
I blink. "Prom?"
He nods, cheeks tipping pink, that boyish grin sneaking back. "Yeah. Prom. You going with Zach?" There's a sharpness in his curiosity—like he really needs the answer.
"I'm not really su...re..." The word scrapes out, all stumbly.
Lies. Absolute lies.
Because of course I'm sure. I've always been sure. The only person I want to go to prom with is Zach. Always Zach. I'm just waiting for him to ask, that's all.
"Why?" I ask instead, stalling.
Jacob ducks his head, fiddling with his stick for a second before glancing back up at me. His lashes catching the light, and when he tilts his head, he looks unfairly handsome.
"Because..." He exhales. "I kind of, uh... want to know if you'd want to go to prom with me?"
My jaw literally drops. Like, open-mouth fish impersonation levels of shock.
Never—not once—did I expect anyone to ask me to prom. I'm the outcast, the background character, the "oh, she's friends with Zach" girl. And definitely not Jacob Hewitt. Sweet, gorgeous, varsity goalie Jacob Hewitt.
I clear my throat, cheeks burning, and manage an awkward laugh.
He just grins wider, a lopsided smile that could probably get half the school to faint on command. And now he's aiming it directly at me.
"Prom, huh," I say, rubbing at my forehead with my finger while sneaking a glance at Zach—still busy yelling at his team, blissfully unaware that his goalie is trying to sweep me off my feet.
"Isn't it a little early? We've still got, like, four months."
Jacob shrugs, still smiling, still too close. "Yeah, well... gotta shoot my shot while I've got the chance, right?" His voice dips playfully, teasing but warm. "Better ask you early before somebody else does."
And oh no. My face heats instantly. Not because I like Jacob like that—please. My heart belongs to one delusional Zach Westbrook fantasy at a time. But still... being asked to prom by someone as sweet, as kind, as hot as Jacob Hewitt? Who wouldn't flush like a tomato?
Especially when he's looking at me like that—hopeful, like my answer actually matters.
I don't know what to say. Or how to say it. Or how to politely say no to him of all people.