CHAPTER thirty-five #6
Zach's whole face shifts—darkens—like someone flipped the switch from sunshine to thunderstorm. The bright excitement from before drains right out of him, and in its place is a scowl so sharp it could cut glass.
His aura? Black smoke. He's gripping the fork in his so tight it looks one second away from snapping in half.
He doesn't even try to hide it. Not from Sam. Not from me.
CHAPTER thirty
ZACH
When my afternoon classes end, I still have two hours before I need to head back to the rink for practice. So, I decide to swing by the Performing Arts Center—totally just to give Caroline her hockey jersey.
That's the plan, at least.
I've been walking on a cloud nine since I woke up. Because last night, Caroline just agreed to watch my game on Saturday, and I swear, I've been grinning like a maniac ever since. I could probably power the entire Ridgewater campus with my good mood alone.
Well—almost good. My body feels like it got run over by a Zamboni.
Guess that's what happens when you fall asleep sitting on the floor with your back against a bedframe. I should've gone home after she dried my shirt, or when she fell asleep. Could've driven back to my own bed, maybe gotten eight solid hours of actual rest. But I didn't.
I stayed.
Part of it was because Sam was sick and I didn't want to leave them alone.
But mostly... it's because last night felt familiar.
Like slipping into an old hoodie you forgot you loved.
It reminded me of the old days—before everything went to hell.
Back when sleepovers were our thing. When we'd stay up too late bickering over movie picks or playing stupid dares, and she'd always end up falling asleep first.
And yeah... watching her sleep used to be my guilty pleasure.
She looked peaceful. Untouchable. Like the whole world could be falling apart, and she'd still be dreaming about sunshine and Taylor Swift's new songs.
Those moments were the only times I let myself really look at her. No jokes, no pretending, no acting like I didn't feel what I felt. Just... quietly memorizing her face, telling myself it was harmless.
So yeah, last night brought all that back. The ache, the nostalgia, the absolute chaos she stirs in me without even trying.
Now, here I am, walking across campus with a paper bag in hand—the jersey neatly folded inside.
Let's not kid ourselves, man. You're not going there just to "drop off a jersey." You're going there to check if Adam Klein still has both arms attached—so you can decide which one to break first.
And... yeah. That's right.
Because ever since breakfast, I haven't been able to get Sam's words out of my head—how Caroline and Adam look good together when they dance. Those two words—good together—have been replaying in my brain like a bad song on repeat.
So, yeah, my sister's words been driving me insane. I couldn't even focus in class earlier. My notes are garbage. I kept thinking about Caroline spending her afternoons and evenings with him, rehearsing lines, practicing choreography, probably laughing at his dumb jokes.
I keep picturing it: his hand on her waist, her laughing at something he said, that stupid level of closeness ballet requires. I hate it. Every bit of it.
And now that I think about it, the Drama Department seriously needs to diversify their damn pool of male leads.
Why is it always him? Like—do they just skip auditions and hand him the role?
Don't tell me he's the only guy on campus capable of acting opposite a talented actress like my girl. Yeah, right.
It's always him. Every damn time.
Not that it would be any easier if it were someone else. Doesn't matter who the guy is—I'd still hate it.
And sure, I know she's just doing her job. It's acting. Acting.
There are gonna be scenes where she has to get close to her scene partner—sometimes really close. Holding hands, hugging, maybe even... kissing.
The second that thought crosses my mind, I squeeze my eyes shut like I can physically erase it. Nope. Delete. Gone. Out of my head. Never happened.
She doesn't get to control that; it's literally part of her craft. I get it. I do.
But try explaining that to the caveman part of my brain that's currently pacing in circles and chanting, MINE, MINE, MINE.
Because logic doesn't stand a single damn chance against jealousy. Right now, I'm basically a walking radiation hazard. One wrong move and I'll start glowing green and flipping tables.
By the time I reach the Performing Arts building, my hand tightens around the paper bag, knuckles whitening.
Because there she is.
Center of the room. Hair pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Laughing.
And of course—just as I expected—Adam Klein is standing too damn close to my girl. Leaning in like he's got something worth saying, whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh even harder.
That sound—her laugh—hits me right in the chest. It's supposed to be my favorite sound in the world. Has been since forever. But right now, it stings.
Because it used to be me making her laugh like that.
It used to be me standing that close, leaning in, watching her tilt her head back with that same spark in her eyes.
Flashes hit me fast: her sitting on the rink bleachers, teasing me after practice; the way she'd roll her eyes when I cracked a bad joke, only to laugh anyway.
Her sitting shotgun in our old car, windows down, hair whipping in the wind, both of us laughing over something stupid I said. The way she'd throw her head back, snort mid-laugh, then glare at me for making her do it. How she'd smack my arm whenever I sang off-key just to mess with her.
All of it—it's right there in front of me, just... with the wrong guy.
And damn, it hurts.
Because for a second, I can almost trick myself into thinking we never fell apart. That we're still us. That if I walk in there right now, she'll look up, smile that soft smile, and everything will fall back into place.
But reality's crueler than that.
Now I'm just the guy watching from the doorway, heart doing this pathetic little ache thing while she laughs with someone else.
And I hate that I can't even be mad about it.
She deserves to laugh like that.
I just wish—God, I just wish—it was still because of me.
I spot Lucy first—Caroline's brunette friend with the big dimples. She's with two other girls I recognize from La Playa, both smiling and whispering in that we're-totally-talking-about-you kind of way.
They're all grinning, giggling as they close in on Caroline like a pack of excited puppies. Lucy says something, tilts her chin my way, and that's when I know—they're absolutely telling her I'm here. Because suddenly, all three pairs of eyes flick toward me. One of them even points.
Busted.
Caroline follows their gaze, and for a split second, I see it—surprise flashing in her eyes, the tiniest parting of her lips.
"Zach..." she breathes, barely audible from across the room.
And just like that, every ounce of jealousy that's been choking me all morning dissolves faster than ice on a stove.
I grin—full wattage, all charm—like a complete idiot and give her a wave. "Hey!"
She starts walking toward me, and honest to God, time slows. Like someone hit the slo-mo button on my entire life.
It's always like this with her. Every. Damn. Time.
The rest of the room blurs out—Adam, Lucy, random background extras, all gone. It's just her. Her hair slipping loose from her ponytail, catching the light. Her steps unhurried, effortless, that kind of grace that makes it look like she's gliding instead of walking.
Even her half-smile has gravitational pull. It's not even a full smile—just this small, soft curve—but it hits like a solar flare. Warm. Blinding. Immediate.
And here I am, standing there like some love-struck idiot, watching her move in slow motion while my brain short-circuits.
Get it together, Westbrook.
Nope. Too late. I'm already a goner.
Because she's not just walking across a room—she's crossing the goddamn galaxy to me, and every step she takes is another reason I'll never recover from this girl.
"What are you doing here, Zach?"
Her voice snaps me out of whatever trance I'd been stuck in.
I blink, realizing she's right in front of me. Like, close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her hand.
When the hell did she even walk over?
"Wha—what was that?" I stammer, because apparently my brain forgot how words work.
She tilts her head, amused. "I asked what you're doing here?"
"Oh. Right."
I scratch the back of my neck, trying to look casual and probably failing miserably. "I, uh... came to give you this."
I hold out the paper bag to her.
She takes it without hesitation, brows knitting. "What is it?"
"It's just a little gift," I say. "You know... since you agreed to come watch my game on Saturday."
And just like that, my nerves melt into something else—pure, giddy energy. The kind that usually gets me in trouble. I can't help the grin tugging at my lips.
Her face stays neutral—confused, almost—as she glances between me and the bag. Then she pulls out the jersey. My jersey.
For a few seconds, she just stares at it. Silent. No reaction. No smile. Nothing.
"Wait—don't tell me you changed your mind?" I blurt out, my shoulders slumping.
Oh, hell.
Maybe she didn't say yes. Maybe I dreamed that whole conversation.
Yeah, that tracks. I was running on zero sleep and high on hope, which apparently makes me delusional now.
And just like that, my grin falters.
The giddy rush I'd been running on all morning drains out, leaving me standing there like some crestfallen idiot clutching hope by the thread.
Whatever's written on my face must say enough, because Caroline blinks, then shakes her head quickly.
"No, no," she says, eyes wide. "I'm still going. I just didn't expect... this."
She looks down at the jersey again, fingers brushing over my name on the back.
Relief crashes through me so hard I almost laugh. "Oh, thank God. You had me questioning my reality for a second."