CHAPTER TWENTY-seven #10
Once he made captain, he just swapped fists for power. He ran those guys into the ground at practice instead. Drills until they puked, laps until their legs gave out.
God, he was a menace. My menace.
"So you two aren't friends anymore?"
I snap out of my thoughts and look up at Adam. "What?"
"You said former best friend. Which means... not anymore?"
I purse my lips, glance away, and let out a slow sigh. "Yeah. Something happened before graduation, and we sort of drifted apart."
Drifted apart. Ha. That makes it sound gentle, like we just floated off in different directions. More like our friendship went down faster than a ship in the Bermuda Triangle — swallowed up, lost without a trace.
And honestly? Digging it back up feels just as terrifying as that cursed stretch of ocean.
Adam leans back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a napkin, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"So... you and Zach. You guys working things out now? Looked like it earlier."
I nod, though it's slower than I mean it to be. "Yeah. That's the plan."
He studies me for a beat, forehead creasing. "You don't sound sure."
Of course he'd notice.
"If you don't mind me asking... what happened between you two?"
I freeze for half a second, sushi halfway to my mouth.
It feels... weird. Too personal.
And normally, I'd deflect, crack a joke, keep it surface-level. But for some reason — maybe it's the sunlight streaming in, maybe it's Adam's annoyingly steady gaze — the words start coming out.
So, I tell him. Not everything, obviously.
I leave out the part where Zach once blurted out that he's never... you know. Done that. (Seriously, he said it with a straight face, like some kind of boy-scout badge of honor.)
Do I actually believe him? Debatable.
The guy's practically Ridgewater royalty; half the campus has probably tried to throw themselves at him. But still — not my secret to spill.
By the time I finish, Adam just blows out a long breath, his cheeks puffing, eyes practically bulging like he's trying to process it all.
"Damn," he says finally. "That was a very bad case of a clusterfuck."
I huff out a laugh, stabbing at my green beans. "Tell me about it."
For once, he doesn't crack another joke.
His expression shifts, softer, like he actually gives a damn.
"I mean... I get it now. Why you seemed unsure earlier.
Eighteen years of friendship is heavy. That's not the kind of history you just..
. toss or forgive overnight. I don't blame you for feeling confused whether you are doing the right thing by giving him another chance. "
"And as for him," Adam goes on, dragging his thumb along the condensation on his glass, "I kinda get that too.
Why he didn't just confess his feelings to you.
Look—when it's some random girl, who cares if she turns you down?
You walk away, ego bruised for a week, and then you find someone else. No big deal."
I tilt my head, skeptical. "So what, you're saying I should cut him slack because he was scared?"
He pauses, meeting my eyes. "I'm saying... when it's your best friend? That's not just a crush anymore. That's risking the one person who actually knows you, inside out. You lose that, and you're not just heartbroken—you're alone. And guys... we think about that. A lot more than we admit."
I toy with my chopsticks, picking at a piece of sushi.
Adam, burger still half in hand, shrugging like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"So yeah, I can't fault him for freezing up. He probably figured keeping his feelings for you was safer than gambling eighteen years of history on a shot that maybe wouldn't land."
I let out a short laugh, bitter at the edges. Safer for him. Not for me.
Adam lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. "But you know what the shittiest move was? Not having the guts to tell you how he felt, but still pulling the strings to keep the other guy away from you. That was not love, Care. That was him being selfish. A damn coward move."
I arch a brow, biting back a smile. "Coward, huh? Since when did you become the relationship guru?"
He smirks, unbothered. "Hey, just calling it like I see it. I know how the game works." His tone sharpens, but there's no malice—just brutal honesty.
"Like, he wasn't man enough to say, hey, I like you, but he still wanted to stake his claim. Nah. You don't get to have it both ways. You either shoot your shot, or you back off. Can't call dibs on someone if you're not willing to step up."
"You make it sound so simple."
"That's because it is simple." He winks, wiping his hand on a napkin like he just dropped the gospel. "Guys just like to screw it up and act like it's rocket science."
"Do you think I did the right thing — giving him another chance? Or should I have left it alone?" I ask.
Adam chews, thinks for a second, then shrugs like it's obvious but not simple.
"You did the right thing. People aren't one-dimensional — especially people you've known for years.
" He meets my eyes. "But that doesn't mean everything is fixed.
The pain you felt? It's real. It wasn't just a misunderstanding you can wave away. "
"So here's the play: make him earn it. Don't hand forgiveness to him like it's a participation trophy. Make him squirm a little. Make him show up. Make him do the work. Make him prove he actually deserves to stand next to you again."
He grins then, that cocky edge back. "And if he whines? Good. Let him whine. Men need a little public humiliation now and then to get humble."
He taps the table with a fry, half joking but completely serious underneath. "You gave him a chance. Now let him sweat for it."
For the first time in weeks, I actually feel lighter. Like maybe I didn't screw up by letting Zach back in, because Adam just confirmed what my gut's been screaming all along—giving him a chance doesn't mean handing him a free pass.
And hearing it from Adam? A guy's perspective? Weirdly enough, it's exactly what I needed. Straightforward. No sugarcoating. Just the truth.
I find myself smiling—soft, small, but real. Because I didn't expect to be this comfortable spilling all of it to him.
Didn't expect him to listen, let alone validate me like this.
Maybe it's the way he cuts through the bullshit, or maybe it's just Adam being... Adam. But right now? I'm grateful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-four
CAROLINE
Later that afternoon, after rehearsal finally wrapped, I decided to swing by the ice rink before heading to the gym. Just for a second. Just to see Zach in his hockey element again.
It's been years since I last watched him play. I mean, I purposely blocked out everything related to him the past three years—muted his games, avoided the rink, refused to even glance at the posters plastered around campus.
But now... yeah, I missed it. Missed seeing him on the ice, all speed and power and sweat and—Oh my God. Nope. Stop.
Not where my brain needs to go right now.
This is not about wanting to see Zach Westbrook all dripping sweat and glistening muscles, okay?
I'm only here because talking to Adam earlier dug up all that old history with Zach and left me feeling nostalgic.
I used to sneak into his practices all the time, sitting there like the world's proudest fangirl while he skated circles around everyone else. That's all this is. A quick little memory-lane pit stop.
When I step inside, the familiar chill hits me instantly—the sharp bite of ice in the air, the echo of blades carving lines across the rink, the steady thud of pucks smacking against boards.
And of course, the bleachers are already dotted with students. Girls, mostly. Puck bunnies, in their natural habitat.
They lean forward like they're watching a boy aquarium—eyes wide, glossy, drinking in every move like the players are some exotic species meant for their entertainment. Giggles ripple through the rows every time a stick slaps against the ice or someone adjusts their helmet.
The whole place hums with it—skates scraping, sticks clashing, girls squealing.
It's ridiculous, really, the way they stare with that glazed-over look, like cartoon hearts might actually start popping out of their eyes.
I hang back, slipping into a spot far enough away that Zach won't notice me. Because I'm not here to say hi. I'm not here to be seen.
I just... want a glimpse. Then I'll leave.
And, okay, maybe I feel a little bad. Guilty, even.
He sat through ninety minutes of my lecture earlier, hoping I'd cave and grab lunch with him, and I ditched him. I could've said yes—I almost did. But then I remembered I had to meet Callahan with Adam, and there went that plan.
Still, I should've said yes.
My brain, ever the helpful little gremlin, decides to pipe up: What about the other times he asked you? When you weren't busy? You still said no.
I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Fine. Fiiine. Maybe I've been a little too stubborn about this. Maybe I've been pushing him away just to prove I could.
I'll make it up to him. Next time he asks, I'll say yes. Whatever.
I comb the ice for that familiar 19 stitched on the back, but he's not out there. I check again, squinting like maybe I just missed him, but nope. Still no 19.
My eyes sweep the rink one last time, stubborn and hopeful, but nothing. Maybe he ducked into the locker room already. A couple players are heading that way, helmets tucked under their arms, skates clacking against the floor.
I sigh, shoulders dropping, and finally turn to leave.
Outside, the lot's half empty, just a scatter of cars under buzzing floodlights. I dig into my bag, press the unlock button on my fob even though I'm still a good thirty feet from my car. The chirp echoes, and I start walking toward it.
That's when I hear it.
"Oh my God, there's Zach." One of the girls who trailed out behind me.
My head snaps up before I can stop myself.