CHAPTER NINETEEN #9
"You should leave, Zach." My voice comes out low, flat, resigned—the sound of someone too wrung out to keep fighting. "I'm tired. I don't want to talk to you."
I walk toward my bed without glancing back, each step measured, deliberate, like it's the only thing keeping me from crumbling.
"No." Zach's voice cuts through the room, firm, defiant. "We are going to talk."
"I... I'm tired," I whisper, dragging out the words like lead. "Just leave."
"No, Caroline." He steps closer, voice low but steel-wrapped. "I'm not leaving. We're gonna sit down and talk like two grown-ups and fix what needs fixing."
"I don't want to!"
"And I'm saying no to that!"
My chest heaves. "God, you're so infuriating, Zach! Why can't you just leave me alone?!"
His hands fly out, then rake back through his hair, frustration carved into every sharp line of his face.
"I did! I left you alone for three fuckin' years, didn't I?" His voice cracks on the last word, rough and ragged. "Not that I had a choice since you blocked me everywhere and vanished into thin air. But I'm done waiting, Caroline. Done!"
I crash onto the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, my head bowed. My fingers press against my temples, sliding down to my cheeks.
The mattress dips slightly as Zach crouches down in front of me. Close. Too close. His hand twitches like he wants to tilt my chin up, but he doesn't—just hovers there, the weight of his presence suffocating.
"Caroline," he says, softer now, though the urgency bleeds through.
"Don't you think three years of silent treatment is enough? Cold shoulders, blocking me on everything... I get it, you're pissed. But damn—don't you think I've paid for it long enough?"
He leans in, eyes locked on mine. "Just tell me what I did. What made you hate me like this. Because you don't cut someone off for three years unless it's something big. So, what is it? What the hell did I do?"
His jaw works like he's chewing on the words before spitting them out. "I know I can be dense. I miss shit. I've always been like that. But I can't fix something if I don't even know what the hell I broke."
His voice drops, raw. "We used to tell each other everything. You used to trust me with everything. And now I don't even deserve a simple explanation?"
I let out a bitter laugh, sharp as glass. "Yeah. Used to. Which means not anymore. And trust me, Zach—there's nothing simple about the explanation you think you deserve."
Zach flinches—barely, but enough. His brows knit, eyes searching mine like he's just been punched in the gut, and for a second, the defiance drains, replaced by something raw. Hurt. Confusion.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Forget it. Just leave me alone, okay?"
I push up from the bed, shoulders squared, moving past him. But his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, tugging me back just enough to make me face him.
"No." His jaw flexes, his grip firm but not painful. "I won't leave this room until you tell me."
"Fine!" The word tears out of me, sharp and shaking.
My chest heaves as I finally look him dead in the eye, every ounce of rage and betrayal I've carried for three years blazing through.
My glare could cut steel, my eyes daggers, my whole body trembling with fury.
"Three years ago. The day of prom." My voice is harsh, clipped, but already cracking at the edges. "I heard you, Zach. I heard you telling your friend how you were just going with me because no one else wanted to ask me. Like being my prom date was some kind of charity. A chore you got stuck with."
My throat tightens, but the words pour out, bitter, ragged.
"How I wasn't worth anyone's time because everyone else was out of my league, so the idea of being with me was laughable."
Tears burn hot in my eyes now, spilling even as my anger keeps me standing upright. "And how you didn't see me as anything more than a friend. How you never would. Because I wasn't girlfriend material—not for you. Because I wasn't your type, right? You don't date girls like me."
My lip trembles, but I force the final blow out, my voice cracking wide open. "If I remember right, the exact words you used were: 'I don't date fat chicks.'"
My hands curl into fists at my sides, my whole face blotched with the fury and humiliation of dragging that memory back into the open—as raw and vicious as the day it happened.
"You know, Zach... it would've been fine if you didn't see me as someone you wanted to date. I never asked you to. I never expected you to." My voice hitching on every word.
"That? I could've forgiven. I could've lived with that." I drag the back of my hand across my wet cheeks, glaring at him through the blur.
"But the rest?" My throat burns, the words clawing their way out. "That was different. That was cruel. Degrading. Malicious. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that it came from you. My best friend of eighteen years. The one person I trusted more than anyone else in this goddamn world."
My voice cracks, raw and jagged. "You were supposed to be the one protecting me from that shit, not piling on.
You were the one always telling me I was beautiful, that I didn't need to change a thing about my body, that I was perfect the way I was.
You told me not to listen when people called me names, that their words didn't matter. To only believe yours."
I choke on a sob, clutching my stomach like I can hold myself together.
"So, imagine how it felt when the words that cut the deepest didn't come from strangers.
.. but from you. You obliterated every good thing you ever told me in one day.
Every kind word, every reassurance—it all turned to ash the second you opened your mouth and called me fat and unworthy.
Do you even realize what that did to me? "
My whole body trembles, like I'm being hollowed out from the inside.
"Your words didn't just hurt me, Zach. They branded me.
They sank into my bones and poisoned every part of me until I couldn't look in a mirror without hearing them again.
And the sickest part?" I shake my head, bitter tears streaming.
"Even now, three years later, they still haunt me. Louder than anything else."
The silence after is deafening.
"So there. Now you know. Happy now?"
Zach goes rigid, shoulders squared like he's been struck. His mouth opens, then shuts again, the words dying before they can form.
For once in his life, Mr. Smooth-Talker has nothing. No joke. No deflection.
His jaw works, tight and unsteady, like he's fighting to breathe past the weight of what I just threw at him. His silver eyes—usually cocky, untouchable—flicker with something raw, almost gutted. Shame. Regret. Like the ground just shifted beneath him.
And that? That almost makes it worse. Because now he knows. Now he sees exactly how deep he cut me.
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. His face is still frozen—like he's been turned to stone by my words.
Good. Let it sink in. Let him feel even a fraction of what I felt that day.
I shove against his chest, hard, surprising even myself with the force. He stumbles a step back, confusion still plastered across his face. My hand fumbles for the doorknob, twisting it so fast it rattles.
The door swings open, and I push again—palm flat against him—driving him toward the hall.
"Now that you know what really happened," I bite out, sharp as glass, "you can leave. Don't ever try to talk to me again. Because our friendship? It ended three years ago."
His throat works like he wants to speak, but I don't give him the chance. My knuckles whiten as my grip tightens around the edge of the door, grounding me, keeping me upright when all I want is to crumble.
"Good luck with your game tomorrow." I force myself to meet his eyes one last time, then slam the blade down. "Goodbye, Zach."
The door swings with all my weight behind it, slamming shut—almost.
"Wait—" he blurts, his voice cracking through the sliver of space left before wood meets frame.
But I don't wait.
The door thunders closed in his face, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. My forehead drops against the cool wood, breath shuddering out of me. Tears are hot trails down my cheeks, unrelenting, humiliating.
God, I hate myself for this. For crying. For being weak. For letting him see me like this—again. I swore I'd never give Zach Westbrook that satisfaction. That I'd never let him catch me broken.
And yet here I am, crumbling in the shadows of my own dorm, the sound of his voice still ringing in my ears.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ZACH
It's finally Friday. Game day. Our season opener against Lakeview State, and the whole damn campus is hyped like it's Christmas morning. Everywhere we walk, people are shoving good-lucks at us, slapping our shoulders, waving Ridgewater banners out dorm windows.
Sidewalk chalk scrawled Go Warriors! across the quad, posters plastered on walls, cheer squad already practicing outside the arena like we're about to step into the Stanley Cup Final instead of some college opener.
I should be lit up with it. I've been waiting weeks for this. Grinding in practice, eating clean, getting extra ice time, locking in like my whole year depends on tonight — because it kinda does.
Season openers set the tone. You go out flat, it follows you for weeks. You go out swinging, you build the fire. I wanted tonight to be fire.
And the guys? They're riding high. Morning skate's light, as always — nothing but flow drills and a little fun to shake the nerves off — but the energy is electric.
"Opening night, baby!" Liam crows, snapping a wrister top shelf in warmups. "Lakeview doesn't stand a fucking chance. We're dropping double digits on their sorry asses tonight."
"Triple," Luke fires back, flashing his cocky grin. "Opening game deserves fireworks. We'll make their goalie wish he'd picked another sport."