CHAPTER NINETEEN #12
It's like being trapped in sudden death overtime with no puck to chase — no way out, no play to run, just endless pressure crushing me down. And all I've got left is this rage, this boiling need to bleed it out before it eats me alive.
"Zach, talk to me. What's going on?"
I don't answer him at first. Just sit there, helmet dangling between my knees, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.
"Talk to me," Elijah says again, firmer this time, voice low so it doesn't carry. "I know you. You're not yourself right now. You're out of focus. And if this keeps up? It's gonna show tonight."
The words land heavy, because he's right. I should be locked in on practice, on our season opener. Instead, my head's stuck three years in the past, stuck on Caroline's face last night, broken and wet with tears I caused. I feel like the shittiest co-captain alive.
And I know—there's no fixing my game tonight until I fix that. Until I talk to her. Until I explain.
I swallow hard. "Is it okay if I step out for a bit. There's something important I gotta do."
His brows knit, puzzled, concern cutting deep. "Will this help you get your head straight for the game tonight?"
I nod once. No hesitation.
Elijah studies me for a beat, then finally nods back. He glances over at Coach Hopper, then returns his gaze to me. "Alright. Go. Do what you gotta do. But you come back in an hour, and when you do—your head better be all on the game. Got it?"
"Got it."
Elijah smirks faintly, clapping a hand to my shoulder. "Good. I'll cover you from Hopper. Now move before I change my mind."
I don't waste another second. I bolt for the locker room, the clang of my skates on concrete echoing down the tunnel. My gear comes off in record time—pads, jersey, everything hitting the floor in a heap.
I yank on jeans, hoodie, cap, hands shaking like I just slammed three Red Bulls back-to-back.
No one stops me. Good. I don't think I could explain myself if they did.
Minutes later I'm in my car, the engine roaring louder than it needs to. My grip on the wheel is white-knuckle tight, pulse hammering in my throat the whole drive.
Caroline's dorm looms in my mind like a finish line I'm not ready for. It's already past ten—she could be in class, could be anywhere. But I have to try there first.
Because if I don't? If I waste more time? This knot in my chest is never gonna loosen, and I'll be useless tonight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ZACH
Iknock once. Twice. Nothing.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, jaw tightening.
Did she already leave for class? I should've called Sam first, or at least texted before sprinting out of the rink like a fugitive. But I was too busy sneaking out before Coach Hopper noticed.
The dorm hallway is alive with traffic — girls shuffling past in slippers, others heading out with backpacks slung over one shoulder.
A group of them glance my way, all giggles and whispers the second they clock me. My jersey doesn't help. Meant to change into my Ridgewater sweatshirt, but in my rush I yanked my practice jersey back on instead.
"Hey, Zach," one of them sing-songs, batting her lashes.
Another pipes up, "Good luck tonight! Score one for us!" A couple more shoot me those knowing looks — half flirty, half like they're already picturing me shirtless on the ice.
I smile back, robotic. A nod here, a quiet "Thanks" there, the same auto-pilot response for all of them. But my brain? Nowhere near here.
I knock again, harder this time. "Caroline, are you in there?"
Silence.
"Please open the door. I just need to talk to you." My knuckles rap the wood again, hope draining with each unanswered hit.
I check my phone. Nothing from Sam. Just the old text I sent a few minutes ago asking where she was, asking for Caroline's new number.
The screen glares 10:28 back at me. I've been standing here for ten minutes like a desperate idiot.
I curse under my breath. I should've cut my losses and headed to the Drama building already, started scouring classrooms one by one.
I'm about to turn away when the knob twists. Relief hits me in the gut like a cold splash, but it drains just as fast when it's not Caroline who opens the door.
It's my sister.
Hair sticking up every which way, eyes half-shut, yawning so big it makes my jaw ache just looking at her. "Za... Zachy?"
"Hey, angel." I don't wait for an invite — just shoulder past into the dorm. "Is Caroline here?"
She rubs her eyes, shutting the door behind me with a sleepy grunt. "No... she left like two hours ago. She's at the rehearsal studio in the Drama building."
"Shit." The word grates out.
"Why? What's wrong?"
"I just..." I drag a heavy sigh, my voice fraying. "I need to talk to her, and I only have an hour before coach realizes I'm gone. Anyway, I'll go to the studio then—"
I pivot, but Sam grabs my arm, surprisingly strong for someone half-asleep.
"Hey, hold your horses." Her voice is sharper now, the haze gone from her eyes.
"What? Why?" I snap, already halfway to the door.
Sam exhales, long and heavy, like she's trying to summon patience. "Because Caroline has an audition this morning. An important one. For the Winter Showcase in December." She pauses, lets that sink in.
"She's been preparing for this for days. If you show up now—storming in all frantic—you'll distract her. Maybe even ruin her shot. You don't want that, Zach. Trust me. You'd only make things worse."
Her words punch through, and my body finally sags. I drag a hand down my face, raking through my already wrecked hair before collapsing onto Sam's bed. Air blows out of me in one long, miserable gust.
"I really messed up, Sam," I whisper. "And I don't know if I can ever fix this."
She slips beside me, her arm looping over my shoulders. Her head rests against me.
"I've heard."
That jerks me upright, just enough to catch her expression. "Wait—she told you?"
Sam's lips press together, then soften into something small, sad. She nods.
"When I came back here last night, she was still up. Still crying." Her voice falters, quiet but steady enough to carve right through me. "I've never seen Caroline cry like that, Zach. Not once."
Sam told me Caroline unloaded everything on her last night. All of it.
The shit I said. The stuff she overheard. Word for word.
Sam said she was sobbing so hard she could barely choke the story out. And hearing it back like that? Christ. It felt like someone jammed a stick straight through my ribs.
She told Sam how humiliating it was. How much it gutted her. How it stuck, like I tattooed those words on her forehead and branded her with the worst version of herself.
Three years later and she's still hurting because of it.
And I did that. Me. Her best friend. The guy who was supposed to have her back. The one person she should've felt safe with. Instead, I'm the asshole who took the knife and twisted it.
So yeah, crown me. MVP. Most Valuable Piece of Shit. The guy who managed to destroy the one person he swore he'd never hurt.
Now all I can see is her crying into Sam's shoulder, reliving every second of it because of me. And every tear, every sob — that's mine. My fault. My mess.
I blow out a heavy sigh, running both hands down my face like I could scrub the guilt off.
"Sam... I didn't mean it. Not one word." My voice cracks, hands curling in my hair like I can rip the memory out by the roots. A grunt slips through clenched teeth. "Those shitty things I said that day? That wasn't me."
My jaw locks, and I drag in a breath that rattles in my chest. "I mean—it was me, but... fuck." My head drops forward, shaking. "It wasn't the truth. Not even close."
My throat feels like sandpaper dragging every word out.
"I've wanted to set it straight ever since last night — the second she finally told me why she ghosted me.
To explain why it came out the way it did.
But she kicked me out before I could even get a word in.
Slammed the door in my face, and I can't even blame her for it. "
My voice drops rough. "Now all I want is five minutes. Just five fucking minutes to tell her everything. To tell her I never meant to hurt her."
Sam shifts beside me, "Then why, Zach? Why'd you say it in the first place?"
Her voice cracks, frustration bleeding through. "I know you. I know how much she's always meant to you. And that—" she waves a hand, like even repeating it tastes sour "—that stuff you said... it was degrading. Cruel. Humiliating. Help me understand, because that's not the brother I know."
I drag my hands down my face, palms scraping over the stubble on my jaw as I tell my sister what really went down three years ago. Not every detail — I can't bring myself to go there yet — but enough. Enough for her to understand the mess I made.
She doesn't interrupt. Just sits there, listening, her silence heavier than any lecture she could throw at me.
When I finish, I slump forward, elbows on my knees, feeling like I've just carved myself open anyway.
I glance sideways, and there it is — that look on Sam's face. Not anger. Not judgment. Worse. Sympathy. Pure pity. Her eyes soften in a way that makes my stomach twist, like she's staring at something broken she doesn't know how to fix.
And God, it makes me feel even shittier. Like I've gone from being her big brother, the one who's supposed to have it together, to some sad case she's tiptoeing around.
"I'm supposed to be focusing on the game tonight. Thinking about lines, matchups, faceoff strategies. That's my job. That's what the boys need from me right now. But I can't."
Because I can't think straight, can't breathe right, can't even picture the damn ice when all I see is her face — devastated, like I'd taken every sharp object in the world and shoved it straight through her chest.
Like I'd torn her apart with my bare hands.