CHAPTER TEN #16
And as if the giant banners weren't enough, the student body has basically turned into a hormone convention ever since hockey season hype kicked off. Every corner I turn, girls are talking about the Ridgewater Warriors like they're ordering off a damn menu.
"The Archer twins? God, girls used to say they'd let them drag them to pound town and not even ask for return fare.
"Double the trouble, double the stamina," they'd giggle.
"They don't call them the Dirty Double for nothing. Imagine being sandwiched between those two on the boards—literally."
Then, of course, Elijah Deveraux had his share.
"Team captain, six-foot-four, broad as hell? Yes, please. He could pin me against the glass any day."
"Bet he's got the stamina of a marathon runner. I mean, look at him. That man screamed captain in the bedroom too."
And of course, Zach's own fan club.
"Oh my god, Westbrook? Don't even get me started."
"Mm, he was cocky, you could tell—but that was half the fun. Bet he'd make you scream his name in, like, five different pitches."
"And that smirk. You knew he'd make you beg for it first."
One girl even leaned in like she was sharing state secrets. "My cousin's roommate hooked up with him last January. Swore it was the best orgasm of her life. Said she saw God, then forgot her own name for a full ten minutes."
They squealed like contestants on a reality show, smacking each other's arms.
"Okay, but is it true he doesn't do repeats?" one of them asked, wide-eyed.
Cue the nodding, like a prayer circle but hornier.
"Ugh, I don't even care," another had sighed dreamily. "He could one-and-done me and I'd still die happy. Just one night with Zach Westbrook? That's bucket-list material."
I swear, the way the girls at school talk, the season opener isn't even about hockey—it is about who is gonna end up in whose bed afterward.
And of course, Zach's name comes up the loudest.
Big shocker. He's always had that reputation—Everglades High's resident manwhore. The boy who could score on and off the ice. Half the girls back then swore he ruined them for every other guy.
So yeah, nothing new here. Same old Zach Westbrook.
And I shouldn't care. I don't care. His sex life has nothing to do with me. Except... every time I overhear this crap, something hot and ugly coils in my stomach.
Because all I can think is: how is it fair that he gets to live like that—wild, reckless, worshipped—while I spent years dragging myself out of the hole he shoved me in with his words?
I hate that my body still remembers the sting of those words, like an old bruise you can't see but still press on by accident.
I grit my teeth, nails digging into my palm. No. Not going there. Not giving him that power.
Let them fantasize about Zach Westbrook. He's their problem now.
Not mine.
Absolutely not mine.
I close my eyes and inhale slow. Exhale slower.
In. Out. Repeat. Like one of those breathing exercises YouTube swears will fix your entire life.
Because no. Nope. I am not letting Zach-crap live rent free in my head. Not today. Not when I've fought too damn hard to shove all that junk down, down, and kick it into the gutter where it belongs.
When I open my eyes again, I smile.
Today's a good day.
Scratch that—today's a great day.
I grab my purse and my portfolio, tuck it under my arm. One last look around before I head out—and my gaze lands on Sam's bed. Empty, of course.
I shake my head, smirking. No mystery where she is.
The Pond.
Ridgewater's hockey residential hall. It's basically a giant on-campus palace the university gift-wrapped for the team, known as The Pond—part frat house, part shrine to testosterone. Every single player lives there. Including the captain. Her captain.
Sam's practically made it her second address.
That girl rolls out of here before sunrise, five-thirty sharp, like clockwork.
She drives to his favorite diner downtown, grabs his usual breakfast, and makes sure she's camped out there before the guys drag themselves back from their 6 to 7 a.m. workout.
Not that Elijah actually eats it. Nope. He usually leaves it sitting there untouched—because if it came from Sam, it's automatically radioactive.
But does that discourage her?
Ha. Please. That girl's got a hide thicker than Kevlar and enough determination to fuel a small army. She's been courting Elijah since she was ten years old, and she's not about to retire the playbook now.
I can't even be annoyed—it's almost impressive. Dedication? Delusion? Jury's still out.
Either way, typical Sam.
And maybe that's why it nags at me a little—because watching her chase Elijah like that kind of reminds me of... well, me. Once upon a time. I just hope hers doesn't end the same way mine did—crashing, burning, and hurting like hell.
The rehearsal studio smells faintly of sawdust and coffee, like every other day.
Sunlight filters through the high windows, catching the scuff marks on the black floor.
Twenty-six of us are scattered around, some on the floor, some slouched against mirrors, waiting for Professor Callahan to sweep in.
I sit cross-legged near the wall, hugging my knees, pretending to look over my notes but mostly eavesdropping.
Beside me, Adam bounces a tennis ball lazily against the floor, catching it with one hand like it's second nature.
"Any guesses?" he says, flashing me one of those easy, dangerous smiles—the kind that makes half the girls in the department forgive him for everything. "What do you think Callahan's gonna throw at us for the Winter Showcase?"
Adam looks like he should be on the cover of some fitness app, not a drama student. Broad shoulders, unfair jawline, that messy hair that somehow always falls perfectly. Nobody expects him to be a theater kid, but here he is, sinking into monologues like he was born for it.
Honestly? The department probably just thanks God every day they've got a guy like him to balance out the endless parade of ingenues.
Lucy pushes her glasses up her nose, eyes bright behind the lenses.
She always gets more talkative when it's just us three, her doe-eyed enthusiasm spilling out. "It's gonna be Shakespeare. It's always Shakespeare. I'm betting Romeo and Juliet."
Adam groans dramatically, rolling onto his back like she's just wounded him. "Kill me now. I can't be anyone's tragic lover. I've got dimples, Lucy. People don't take you seriously when you've got dimples."
I laugh, shaking my head. "You'd make a killer Mercutio, though."
"See? Exactly. Best friend material. I get stabbed, say something witty, die young. That's my brand." He throws me a wink.
Lucy giggles, tugging at the sleeve of her cardigan. "Or Midsummer Night's Dream. At least that one's fun."
"That's worse," Adam argues, sitting back up, tennis ball in hand. "Shakespearean forest party? Half-naked fairies? Glitter in my hair for a month? No, thanks."
"Better than tights," I shoot back.
He points at me with the ball, grin widening. "Touché."
I can't help laughing. Around us, the other students murmur about Chekhov, Ibsen, the usual heavy hitters.
But me? I can't stop hoping it'll be something different, something magical.
Because since the first day of class, Professor Callahan made it clear: our midterm and final grades ride entirely on the Winter Special Showcase, the department's annual centerpiece. Ballet has Swan Lake. Music has their mix of opera, jazz, even a pop ensemble.
And us? The drama majors are still in the dark.
"Watch it be something weird," Lucy says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Like Brecht. Or Beckett. Endless monologues about despair and politics."
Adam shudders. "I'll take glitter fairies over that any day."
I smile to myself. Whatever it is, I just want it to be something I can pour myself into.
The door swings open with a gust of air. And just like that, the chatter dies.
Professor Callahan sweeps in, draped in enough layers to make a winter coat jealous—shawls, scarves, jangling necklaces, colors that clash so hard they almost work. She always says people should dress like every day is a performance, and she lives by it. Never mind the Florida heat.
She strides straight to the center of the room, red folder in hand, beaming.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announces, voice ringing with delight, "this year's Winter Showcase will be The Nutcracker. Auditions are this Friday."
A ripple of confusion spreads across the room. Murmurs, raised brows. This is definitely not Shakespeare. Not Ibsen. Not even close.
But me? My heart soars. I sit up straighter, a smile stretching across my face before I can stop it.
The Nutcracker. My favorite. It feels like someone just handed me my dream role, tied up in ribbon, laid neatly in my lap.
The room stirs, a low wave of whispers and half-hidden groans. Someone mutters, "The Nutcracker? Isn't that ballet?"
Professor Callahan, of course, lives for this moment. She stretches her arms wide, as if she's conducting an orchestra, jangling bracelets catching the light. "Settle, settle, my darlings," she says, her voice booming.
"I know what you're thinking. The Nutcracker, ballet, tights, pirouettes—ah, the horror." She flutters her hands dramatically, then makes a shooing gesture, as if batting the very idea away. "Rest your horses. You are not about to be flung into Swan Lake's leftover costumes."
A couple people laugh under their breath. Adam leans closer to me and whispers, "Damn, and here I was excited for my big tutu moment." His grin makes me snort.
Professor Callahan clasps her hands, tilting her head as she paces the center of the studio.
"Now listen. Yes, traditionally, The Nutcracker is a ballet performance.
Magnificent, iconic, performed in every city across the globe in December.
But this," she taps the red folder in her hands, "is a drama class.
Theater. Acting. Not mime, not silent gestures.
" Her eyes sparkle as she looks around the room.