CHAPTER TEN #12
And I cry. God, I cry until my chest aches and my throat burns, until I'm choking on sobs I can't seem to swallow back.
Because what about last night?
What about the way his eyes locked on mine, like he wanted to close the distance? The way his hand pressed against my waist, pulling me closer? The way I almost—we almost—kissed?
Was I hallucinating the whole damn thing?
Am I really that delusional?
Shit, maybe I am.
Maybe I've built up this fantasy for so long that I can't tell the difference anymore between what's real and what's just my hopeless, pathetic imagination.
And okay, yeah—it hurts to finally know. To finally hear it from him that he doesn't see me that way. That I've always been, and will always be, just the best friend. Nothing more.
That part? I could maybe live with. I could survive knowing my love was one-sided.
But this?
The cruelty. The venom. The way he laughed while spitting out the same insults other people have thrown at me my whole life. Fat chick. Not worth your time.
I could take it from anyone else. I'm used to it. But not from him.
Never from him.
And now I know. It was all a lie. Every reassurance. Every word that made me feel like I was enough.
All lies.
And I don't think I'll ever forgive him for it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZACH
Three years later...
The Ridgewater locker room is chaos. Towels snapping. Water dripping. Guys yelling like they're across a football field instead of ten feet away.
Steam. Sweat. Axe body spray choking the air.
Half the guys are still dripping from the showers, towels hanging dangerously low. Others are flexing in the mirror, admiring their abs like they're auditioning for Baywatch.
Honestly? The whole scene, it's less post-practice cool down and and more like the opening act of Magic Mike: Ridgewater Warriors Edition.
Across from me, Elijah Deveraux—our team captain, and the guy who somehow makes six-foot-four look like the default setting for human evolution—steps out of the showers. His ash-blond hair is dripping, pushed back like he walked straight out of a sports magazine.
He's got tattoos running from chest to hip, water still sliding down over stupidly defined abs, and honestly? If I didn't know him, I'd assume he was the kind of guy I'd hate on principle.
But he's not.
He's my boy. My best friend. The annoying, genetically blessed brother the universe shoved into my life.
And the truth?
He deserves the "C" stitched on his chest. Not just because he's a beast on the ice—though, yeah, I'll admit he edges me out in a couple areas—but because he knows how to run a team.
He's the guy who can bark orders and make people actually want to listen.
Knows how to keep the room from burning down when everyone's egos start swinging.
That's why I'm rocking the A instead of the C.
I've worn the captain thing before in high school, and don't get me wrong—I can lead when I need to. But college hockey? Different animal. Bigger stage, higher pressure, more politics. And honestly, I'm not the guy who wants to deal with everyone's shit 24/7.
Elijah's better at it. Way better.
I'm cool being his right-hand, the one who gets the boys fired up, cracks the jokes, and drops the gloves when needed.
That's my lane. That's where I'm at my best.
"Yo, Westbrook," Elijah calls over, towel draped across his shoulders, water still running down his back. "You spacing out, or you just admiring me again?"
I snort. "Relax, Captain America. Your ego's already bigger than the ice sheet."
Before he can clap back, the Archer twins stroll over from the showers—Luke and Liam, matching smirks, water dripping off them like a goddamn cologne ad. Identical six-packs, identical smug faces, identical pain-in-the-ass personalities. Freaking clones.
"Speaking of egos," I mutter.
Luke grins, snapping his towel against the back of my leg as he passes. "Don't be jealous, Westbrook. Not everyone can look this good fresh out of a cold rinse."
"Yeah," Liam adds, grabbing his Ridgewater tee from his locker. "Some of us were just born for the cover of GQ. Others were born to chirp from the bench."
I roll my eyes.
Classic Archer trash talk. They've been at it since they were in freshman year, and honestly, I'd miss it if they stopped.
Elijah just shakes his head, chuckling as he laces up his shoes. "God help this team if the three of you ever decided to use your energy for something productive."
"Where's the fun in that?" I grin, tugging my navy Ridgewater Warriors sweatshirt down over my head, the big gator-warrior logo stretching across my chest.
Elijah glances around like he's suddenly realized someone's missing. "Where's Ken? Haven't heard him grumble at us in the last ten minutes."
Kentaro Azuma is our team's goalie—and not just any goalie. The best in D1, hands down. Guy's got reflexes like he's part cyborg. He's tall, ripped, has that whole broody, mysterious vibe going. Girls eat it up. Doesn't matter that he barely talks—he scowls, they swoon.
The guy's got sex appeal without even trying. Total package. If you can ignore the fact he'd rather spend Saturday night with a textbook than at a party.
"Left already," I say, tugging my sweatshirt straight. "Said he had a study group."
That earns me a chorus of groans.
"Wait—study group?" Liam snorts, half in disbelief. "Bro, school hasn't even started yet."
Luke cracks up. "What's he studying—how to scowl harder?"
"Yeah," I smirk. "Apparently goalies don't just block pucks, they block free time too. Guy's already cracking open textbooks like finals are tomorrow."
Elijah shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about overachievers.
Honestly? None of us are surprised anymore. It's Kentaro. Academic excellence is just... his default setting.
The four of us start heading out, duffels slung over shoulders, still laughing about Kentaro being the human GPA curve.
I clap a hand on Elijah's back as we hit the hall. "Oh—heads up. I'm picking up my sister tomorrow, helping her move into the dorms. You should come. Sam would be thrilled to see you."
Elijah freezes like I just told him finals got moved to tomorrow.
He winces, groans, and drags a hand down his face. "Dude. Don't do this to me."
I almost lose it laughing, because yeah—I know exactly why my best friend reacts this way. It's not just dislike. It's full-blown PTSD.
Long story short? Elijah and I have known each other since we were twelve, back when we played in peewee together. And my sister—who was ten at the time—took one look at him and boom. Lovestruck. Cupid arrow straight to the heart.
Since then? The girl made it her full-time job to chase him. Followed him around middle school, tried to sit at his lunch table, all of it. She would've done the same thing in high school too, but Elijah moved to Virginia with his mom after his parents split.
Did that stop Sam? Nope.
She stalked his socials like a detective on salary.
And three years ago, when she heard he was dating some girl from his school?
Yeah, I still don't know who fed her that lie — because my best friend does not do relationships.
But my sister? She got in her car, drove from Florida to Virginia, marched straight into his high school, and publicly declared him her fiancé.
With printed proof.
The proof being a picture of Elijah in a suit and Sam in a white dress with a little flower wreath on her head.
Why? Because before my dad passed away when I was sixteen, his wish was to walk her down the aisle. We knew it wouldn't happen for real, so I asked Elijah for a huge favor—to stage a fake little wedding in our backyard so Dad could have that moment.
Elijah, being the solid guy he is, said yes.
And Sam? She was ecstatic. Willing participant doesn't even cover it.
And now? Elijah's been paying the price ever since.
"Do what?" I grin.
"You know." He jabs a finger at me. "You know I can't stand being around your sister. She terrifies me. She's like... a little devil in Converse. Every time she looks at me, I feel like she's plotting my murder and wedding vows at the same time."
I bust out laughing. "Come on, bro. You're the big, bad captain of the Warriors. You bark orders, crush guys on the ice, play like you're possessed. You make entire defense lines crumble. And this is what rattles you? My five-foot-nothing little sister?"
He glares. "Don't act like you don't know her, Zach. Sam is chaos in human form. She's relentless. I can already see it—she's gonna camp out at every practice, stalk every game, ruin my focus, and yeah—cockblock me every chance she gets."
I smirk. "Damn, you sound traumatized."
"Because I am," Elijah snaps. "The girl's been declaring me her husband since she was ten. TEN. Who does that?"
The twins, walking just ahead of us, are snickering. Liam throws a look over his shoulder. "Low-key, kinda iconic."
"Yeah," Luke chimes in. "She called dibs early. Respect."
Elijah shoots them a death glare. "Shut up."
I clap him on the shoulder, still laughing. "Relax, Cap. You'll survive. Besides, I already feel bad for the girls she's gonna terrorize when they try flocking around you. It's gonna be like a horror movie—Sam lurking in the bleachers, waiting to pounce."
Elijah actually looks like he might puke. "Jesus. Don't say that out loud. I'll have nightmares."
"She's gotta come here anyway," I say with a shrug. "She's been planning this forever. Said there was no point going anywhere else since 'the love of her life'—" I throw the quotes in with my fingers, just to piss him off— "is right here."
He groans louder, dragging a hand down his face. "Kill me now. Why couldn't she just pick, I don't know... UCLA? Something far."
I snort. "Because it's Sam. And because she's been hyped for this for two years. She was supposed to start last year, remember? But..."