CHAPTER TWENTY-seven #4
Embarrassing as hell, considering half the team was in the living room and saw me do it. The guys stared at me like I'd grown two heads. Then came the groans.
"Dude, what the hell was that?"
"Never. Do that. Again."
"My eyes are bleeding."
"Bro, I think you just set dance back by at least fifty years."
I didn't even care. Not even a little. I hadn't felt that stupidly happy in years, and I was gonna celebrate like a man who just got paroled.
Because how could I care when my girl was finally - finally - giving me the smallest sliver of hope that we were on the road to mending our relationship.
But apparently, replying to my texts is the only olive branch she's willing to hand me.
If I try to call? Straight to voicemail.
If I ask her out? A polite but firm no.
Sometimes she just leaves me on read - and I swear, I can feel the rejection radiating off that little seen checkmark.
Like today. I texted her ten minutes ago asking if she wanted to grab coffee. Crickets.
A couple hours before that, I texted just to check in, maybe bait her into lunch. Also nothing.
And the worst part? She seenzoned me.
Me.
Zach freaking Westbrook.
I have never been seen-zoned in my life. I'm the one who does the seen-zoning. That's supposed to be my power move.
Do you know what it feels like to stare at those little gray words - seen 9:47 AM - and just... sit there? Like an idiot? Staring at your phone like maybe, just maybe, if you wait long enough she'll suddenly decide to reply?
Spoiler: she didn't.
I roll onto my back, groaning into my pillow like some lovesick idiot.
I really thought it would be easy, slipping back into our old rhythm after we finally hashed things out. Like, in my head, that was the hard part.
But apparently not.
Why I assumed that, I have no clue. She told me straight-up she couldn't promise me anything and fine, maybe that sounds like rejection to a normal person.
But me? No. I'm taking it as her cracking open the tiniest gap in that massive wall she's built around her heart.
Like... microscopic. Hairline crack small. The kind of crack you'd miss if you blinked.
But hey, a crack's a crack. I'll take it.
Still, I know better than to think we're "good" again. One crack doesn't mean the whole wall's coming down.
But try telling that to the idiot part of me that's already acting like we're back to how we used to be.
Yeah, not even close.
But I swear to God, one day I'm knocking it down.
Even if I have to climb it, chip away at it brick by brick, or pitch a tent outside and wait her out until she finally opens the damn gate.
I'm not giving up. Not on her.
I groan again and roll onto my stomach, staring at the floor. God, I'm acting like it's been months since she last answered me when it's only been... four hours, eight minutes, and -
I check my phone.
-twenty-seven seconds.
Perfect.
Jesus, I'm losing it.
I'm literally counting the seconds since she last left me on read. Someone should slap the phone out of my hand.
I flop back, drag a pillow over my face, and let out a strangled yell into it.
What the hell happened to me?
Oh right. Caroline Pennington happened.
The girl who single-handedly rewired my brain, turned my heart into her personal stress ball, and flipped my entire world upside down without even trying.
Three years without her wrecked me - and now that she's back, it's like my body's stuck on "Caroline alert" 24/7.
One text from her and I'm high. One read receipt and I'm spiraling like a stock market crash.
I've officially become the kind of guy my teammates roast in the group chat. The guy they give humiliating nicknames to - Captain Whipped, Sir Simps-a-Lot, King of the Seen-zone.
And you know what? At this point, they wouldn't even be wrong.
I shove off the bed and cross the room to stand in front of the full-length mirror.
"Get a grip," I tell my reflection.
The guy staring back at me doesn't look like someone who's been lying in bed pouting over a girl.
He looks good - annoyingly good, if we're being honest. Broad shoulders.
Muscles built from years of bleeding on the ice.
Hair perfectly messy. Face handsome enough to sell Wheaties if Wheaties still did that kind of thing.
I puff out my chest, rolling my shoulders back. Yeah, that's right. I'm Zach freaking Westbrook, co-captain of the top D1 hockey team in the country. I don't pine. I don't mope. I don't-
My phone buzzes.
I whip around so fast I nearly wipe out on the carpet and sprint back to the bed, grinning like an idiot as I belly flop onto it to grab my phone.
So much for not pining.
My grin dies the second I see the screen. Not Caroline.
It's Liam. Goddamn it.
LIAM
Be downstairs in 5. We're leaving for practice.
I let out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a dying walrus. Then I shoot back a quick reply.
ME
Yeah, yeah. Be there in a minute.
Before shoving my phone away, I open my chat with Caroline. My last message is still sitting there, unread, mocking me.
A heavy breath rattles out of me — not just a sigh, but the kind that feels like deflating a balloon straight from your chest — before I drag myself up, grab my navy hoodie from the chair, and pull it on.
Sweatpants. Sneakers. Duffel over my shoulder.
Captain Whipped, reporting for duty.
I head downstairs to meet Liam, the twins, and Kentaro for the drive to the rink. Elijah's already there, because of course he is — Captain Perfect never misses early warmup.
The last whistle finally blows and practice wraps. Most of the guys are already heading off the ice, chirping and laughing about who's buying drinks at La Playa.
Kentaro? He's still in the crease. Just standing there like a damn statue.
I clocked it earlier - he was off his game all practice. Way off.
Normally the guy's a brick wall. You can fire fifty pucks at him and maybe, maybe one sneaks through. Today? It was like shooting on an empty net. Half the shots went in, and every time Coach Hopper blew the whistle, he was screaming at Kentaro to lock in, reset, focus up.
Didn't do a thing. Kentaro just stayed back there with that permanent scowl, shoulders hunched like he was dragging a thundercloud around with him. Broody as hell.
I can't just let that go.
I rip my helmet off, hair plastered to my forehead with sweat, and skate toward him. Elijah's over by the net with him, saying something low. Kentaro just nods, jaw tight, and Elijah gives him a quick hair ruffle before skating off toward the tunnel.
I coast to a stop right in front of the crease, stick dragging lazy figure-eights on the ice.
"Everything okay, man?" I ask, chest still heaving from the last drill. "You weren't yourself today. Felt like half those pucks just... sailed past you."
Kentaro grabs his water bottle off the top of the net, tips his head back, and squeezes a long pull before answering. Sweat's running down the side of his face, dripping off his chin, but he doesn't even bother wiping it.
"Yeah," he says finally, voice flat as the ice under our skates. "Sorry about that. Just... talked to my dad earlier. And like always, he managed to tank my entire fucking mood."
I arch a brow, leaning on my stick. "Damn. How'd he get through to you?"
Kentaro never answers his dad's calls - not unless he's in the mood to hear the same speech on repeat. Come back to Japan. Step up. You're my only heir. It's always the same lecture, the same demand.
And honestly, it's not like I blame him for dodging. Azuma Holdings isn't just some mom-and-pop store - it's a full-blown empire. Department stores across Asia, luxury malls in Tokyo and Osaka.
Kentaro's been groomed since birth to take the throne, but it's never been the life he wanted. That's why he moved to Florida after his parents' divorce, why he picked ice rinks over boardrooms.
But his dad? Six years later, the guy still refuses to take the hint. Stubborn as hell. Worse than Kentaro.
Every time they talk, it ends the same: his dad barking orders, Kentaro gritting his teeth and saying no. So yeah, ignoring the calls is easier than letting the guy wind him up.
Not that Kentaro ever talks about it. Hell, we only know because last year he got blackout drunk after playoffs and spilled everything in the locker room.
Kentaro tips back the last of his water before saying, "He didn't call this time. Showed up at the Pond earlier. Said if I wouldn't pick up the phone, he'd hunt me down himself. Guess he wasn't kidding."
My brows shoot up. "He what?"
"Yeah." Kentaro's jaw flexes. "Said he was done wasting time trying to talk sense into me over the phone. Wanted to look me in the eye when he dropped his 'big proposition.'"
"What kind of proposition?"
"Not one I can actually refuse, apparently." Kentaro's mouth twists, dark and bitter.
"He said if I don't get on a plane after graduation, he's cutting my sister off. No more tuition, no more Paris, and he's pulling the plug on Mom's treatments. Just... boom. Like we're all pawns on his fucking chessboard."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. Real nice guy, huh? The perfect father. He knows exactly how to twist the knife."
My chest tightens. I bitch about Caroline not texting me back, and this guy's over here trying to keep his family from falling apart. No wonder he looked like a storm cloud all practice - he's basically skating with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I thump my glove against his shoulder pad, solid. "I'm sorry, man. That... really fucking sucks."
Kentaro just shrugs, scowl still carved into his face. "Yeah. Guess I better get used to it. It's not like this is the first time he's pulled this shit."
He swings a leg over the boards and steps onto the bench, already done with the conversation. And honestly? I don't blame him. Some shit's too heavy to unload twice in one day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CAROLINE