CHAPTER NINETEEN #6
It wrecked me. Completely. Like I've been body-checked by a freight train, helmet off, no pads.
I recoiled the moment I saw her eyes staring coldly at me like that. I didn't expect a warm welcome — hell, we haven't talked in three years — but still... that look. Pure hostility. Like every ounce of anger she'd bottled up was aimed right at me, and she wanted me to feel every damn drop of it.
I can count how many times my best friend got mad at me for pulling stupid pranks, for pushing her buttons, for testing her patience.
Didn't matter how many times I showed up late when we had plans.
She'd be sitting there, waiting with that soft little smile, acting like it didn't bother her even though it had to.
I'd roll in with some dumb excuse — practice ran late, lost track of time, traffic — and she'd just shrug like it was no big deal.
Didn't matter how many important days I forgot. She'd tease me, say she'd "trained me by now," and when I still screwed it up, she'd laugh and tell me, It's fine, Zach. Don't worry about it.
Add all that up, stack every screw-up on top of each other, and you know how many times she really got mad at me?
Zero. Yeah — zero times.
She should've been pissed at me a hundred different times. But she never was. Not once.
She has patience as wide as the Pacific. Forgives me like she's some saint who believes second chances are her holy mission. And that perk? That endless grace? It's only ever been for me.
Was, my asshole brain corrects.
Right. Was. Past tense.
Because apparently, my best friend hates me now. Has hated me for the last three years. The anger and hurt I saw burning in those ocean-green eyes tonight? I never thought I'd see that from her. Not aimed at me.
The warmth that used to be there is gone. What's left is animosity. And it's mine to carry.
But why?
Why? Why? God, the endless why's are driving me insane. And now that I know Caroline's back — not just in Florida, but here in Miami. At Ridgewater U. I can't let this hang over me for another three years.
I need to look her in the eye and make her tell me why she left the way she did. Why she hates me now. Why everything between us blew up when I didn't even see the bomb coming.
Finally, I've got a shot at answers. If she even lets me talk to her.
And that's the kicker, right? If.
If she doesn't bolt the second I walk up. If she doesn't cut me down with that same ice-cold stare that damn near split me in half tonight.
But I can't just sit on my ass and wonder anymore. I've done that for three years. Every sleepless night, every what-if chewing me alive. It's like being stuck in overtime with no puck to chase — pointless, endless, maddening.
I need to face her. Even if she spits fire in my face, even if she tells me I'm the villain in her story — at least then I'll know.
At least then I'll stop replaying every memory, trying to find the moment I fucked up and lost her.
Because right now? I'm driving myself insane searching for an answer that only she can give me.
Damn it, I don't even know her class schedule or where the hell to start looking.
Oh wait — yeah, I do. Performing Arts. She's a Drama major. Which means if I've gotta scour every hallway, peek into all fifteen classrooms in that department, I will. Doesn't matter. I'll find her.
But for now? Sleep. My body feels like it got flattened by a ten-wheeler after practice, and my eyes can't stay open another second.
Tomorrow then. Tomorrow, I find Caroline. My Caroline.
And she better not run this time.
Because now that she's here — near me, within arm's reach — I'm not letting her slip away again.
Not now. Not ever.
I'd burn the whole damn campus down before I let that happen.
...Christ, I sound like a lunatic. A really determined, sleep-deprived lunatic.
*****
"Zaaachhh. Zaaachyyyy. Wakeey up."
A soft voice cuts through the fog, and then I feel a weight drop on the bed beside me. My ribs groan in protest.
I bury my face deeper into the pillow I'm hugging, lying flat on my stomach like a dead man. My whole body feels like it's been steamrolled — every muscle stiff, eyelids too damn heavy to even consider opening.
"Go away," I mumble, voice muffled into cotton. "Let me die in peace."
"Wakeey up... it's late." She whispers it all sweet, dragging the words out like she's singing me out of a coma. Then her small hands grab my shoulders and start shaking.
A guttural grunt rips out of me. Everything aches — like every tendon, every joint, every overworked muscle just staged a collective protest. "Angel, for the love of God, stop shaking me. I'm sore everywhere. I just got back from our yoga session an hour ago, and my body officially hates me."
"Yoga session?" she giggles, still poking at me. "Big bad hockey guys do yoga now?"
"Recovery yoga," I correct, cracking one eye open to glare at her. "Team workout. Helps keep us from breaking in half. Not that it worked."
She laughs, shaking me again just to piss me off. "You sound like an old man."
"Feels like it," I mutter. "Ugh, I should've just picked tennis... or golf. Or... I don't know, chess."
"You? Please. You'd be terrible at tennis, and chess would have you flipping the board in five minutes." Her voice is all smug, and even with my eyes too heavy to open, I can picture the smirk plastered on her face.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
If I had a choice, I'd never move again. Not today. Not ever. Just stay here, starfished on this bed, dead to the world. But hockey doesn't give you that choice. Being a player means living by the schedule — strict, relentless, no excuses.
Even on days when you can barely lift a muscle, when every hit from practice feels like it left a bruise in your bones, you still drag yourself out of bed.
That's the beauty of hockey.
And yeah, sometimes I wonder why the hell I chose this sport out of all the others.
Could've picked something less brutal, less competitive.
A sport where your body doesn't get slammed into glass every game night.
Definitely regretting my life choices right now.
Well... I only regret it when I feel shit like this.
Thankfully, today's one of the lighter days. Thursday. Team workout from six to seven a.m. — recovery yoga this time — then just two classes, one at eleven and another at one. After that, regular practice from three to five-thirty. Manageable. Doable.
And since yoga ended an hour ago, that gives me, what — two more hours? Two glorious, precious hours of sleep before class.
I close my eyes again, muttering into the pillow, "Two more hours, Angel. That's all I ask. Two. Little. Hours."
I feel her shift beside me, the mattress dipping, then her chin rests on my back. "Well, if you wanna be late for class, I can definitely leave you alone."
My brows knit together. What the hell's she talking about? It should still be just past eight. I've got time. I set my alarm.
"What time is it?"
"Uh... it's ten... thirty-three."
That rips me out of my coma. My eyes snap open, brain lagging behind like it needs a minute to catch up. No way. No fucking way.
I jerk back, squinting as she shoves her phone right in my face, the screen glowing so bright it blinds me. She even shakes it, just to rub it in. Big fat numbers read 10:33. Nope—10:34 now.
"Shit!" I explode, rolling off the bed like I've been shot with a cattle prod. "I'm gonna be late for Econ! Fuck!"
Adrenaline slams through me, burning out every ache. I'm moving at light speed, grabbing for my bag, patting my pockets, checking for keys I know are already in there.
Sam's cackling behind me, absolutely loving the show, but I don't even look at her. I can't. I've got bigger problems.
How the hell did I sleep through my alarm? I set it for 9:55. Five whole minutes before ten. Plenty of time. Except, yeah, apparently not.
The good news? I don't need a shower. Took one after our workout earlier, so I'm already clean. The better news? I'm literally dressed. Ridgewater Warriors hoodie, jeans. Perfect. I don't even need to change. All I gotta do is jam my feet into shoes, grab my bag, and haul ass across campus.
Ten minutes away. I can make it.
The adrenaline fades just as fast as it came, leaving me slumping back on the bed with a long, dramatic sigh. Shoes. Bag. That's it. That's all I need.
I close my eyes again, letting the adrenaline bleed out, trying to relax for just a second. My body sinks back into the mattress—until my brain jolts awake with a memory.
My eyes snap open. "I saw Caroline last night," I blurt. My voice sounds strange, even to me. "She's back. She's at Ridgewater. Here. In this school."
"Oh, so the secret's out, huh."
I shoot up so fast my vision tilts. My head whips toward Sam. "Wait—what? You knew Caroline's been at Ridgewater U?"
Shock hits me like a body check—my jaw hanging, my eyes wide, my whole face twisting as I stare at her.
Sam doesn't even glance up.
She's too busy with her phone, grinning like a lovesick idiot. I know that look. She's stalking Elijah's Instagram again, liking his posts and probably dropping heart-eye emojis like a total creeper.
I push off the bed, half turned toward her. "You knew?" My voice cracks up into pure disbelief. "You knew she was here and you didn't tell me?"
"Of course," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. A little chuckle slips out. "I mean, it's kinda hard not to know—since, you know... she and I are roommates."
My jaw slackens. A scoff bursts out of me before I can stop it. Dumbfounded doesn't even cover it.
"Roommates? You—you've been living with Caroline this whole damn time and just... forgot to mention it?"
That's when it hits her. Her eyes widen. Her face freezes like she just got caught sneaking cookies before dinner. Then both hands slap over her mouth.
"Oh shit..." she mumbles behind her fingers, eyes darting everywhere but me.
I narrow my eyes. "Oh shit? Oh shit? That's all you've got?"