CHAPTER thirty-five #15
When I finally glance up, both of them are staring at me—curious, expectant, and way too amused.
I clear my throat. "We... are," I admit softly, eyes dropping to my plate.
Mom's smile grows warmer. "That's really nice to hear, sweetheart. I know things ended rough back then, and it took you a long time to get over it."
"Yeah," Dad chimes in, voice softer than usual. "We know how your falling out really did a number on you."
"It did. But I'm okay now. Really." I manage a small smile.
Their words make my chest warm in this weird, unexpected way. It's been years since Zach's name came up in this house without the room going awkwardly silent.
"Don't get me wrong," he says, setting down his coffee and leaning back with a grin.
"I love that boy like my own—but he still broke my little princess' heart.
" He raises an eyebrow, half teasing, half dead serious.
"I trust you're not making it easy for him?
That young man's got some groveling to do, right? "
"Dad!"
Mom laughs, lightly swatting his arm. "Oh, leave them alone," she says, giving him a playful glare. "Let the kids resolve their own issues. I'm sure our daughter wouldn't just forgive him easily unless he really earned it."
And yep, there it is—my face heating up like someone just cranked the thermostat.
Because—yeah—if singing his heart out and confessing his love for me in front of an entire hockey arena doesn't count as groveling, I don't know what does.
It was ridiculous, mortifying, and absolutely the sweetest thing ever. And I've always had a soft spot for grand gestures, even the cheesy ones. Especially the cheesy ones.
Dad lifts his hands in surrender, smiling all innocent. "I'm just making sure, darling."
I roll my eyes, trying to hide a grin. "Don't worry, Dad. He's working for it."
Dad nods, clearly satisfied, a proud little smile tugging at his mouth. He even throws me a wink, like I just passed some secret dad-approved test.
*****
After my shower a few moments ago, I slipped into the outfit I picked for tonight's party at the hockey house and went for some light makeup—just enough to look alive and not like I rolled out of a Netflix coma.
Sam, on the other hand, has been ready since... forever. Honestly, if I weren't tagging along, she'd have left an hour ago to start gatekeeping the female population from breathing the same air as her beloved Elijah. (Her words, not mine.)
I told her earlier it was fine if she went ahead—I know where the party is—but she said Zach wanted her to go with me.
He was actually supposed to pick me up himself. That was the plan—until Coach Hopper called while we were driving back to Miami around noon and told him to report to the rink that afternoon.
For punishment.
Apparently, Coach Hopper didn't find his mid-game serenade last night as romantic as the rest of the arena did. Something about "unsportsmanlike behavior" and "using the intermission for personal affairs."
So now, while I'm getting ready for the party, Zach's probably skating suicides or worse, cleaning the locker room toilets with a toothbrush—until Coach Hopper's satisfied he's learned his lesson.
Poor guy.
Half an hour later, we pull up to The Pond—Ridgewater's infamous hockey house—and the party's already in full chaos mode. The kind of chaos you can smell, hear, and practically feel vibrating through the air.
Music's blasting so loud the windows are shaking—some upbeat remix that makes your heart thump along whether you want it to or not. The front lawn's a parking lot of half-crooked cars and red solo cups, and the minute we step inside, it's wall-to-wall people.
Laughter, shouting, and the occasional "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" echo from somewhere deep in the house.
There's beer pong happening on the dining table, someone's already spilled something sticky on the floor, and the scent of cheap cologne mixed with barbecue smoke hits like a punch to the face.
Sam, of course, fits right in.
The second we walk in, half the team's already calling out her name or giving her nods of recognition. She's practically a legend here—not because she's a party girl, but because she's the Sam Westbrook.
Zach's little sister.
And the girl who's been single-handedly cockblocking the team captain.
A few players grin when they see her, clearly bracing for the usual show. Then one of them—Reese, a defenseman with a perpetual smirk and zero self-preservation instincts—spots us and nearly spits out his drink.
"Well, well, if it isn't the captain's fiancée," he calls out loud enough for half the room to hear. "Might wanna hurry, Sam—your man's out on the patio getting swarmed by an army of puck bunnies!"
Sam freezes mid-step.
Then, slowly, she cranes her neck, rising onto her tiptoes like a meerkat who just spotted danger in the wild. Her eyes lock on the patio door, laser-focused and deadly.
"Oh, for the love of—" she mutters, grabbing the nearest drink off a random guy's hand like a weapon. "If one of them's sitting on his lap again, I'm throwing this."
Sam's already glaring daggers at the patio, fingers twitching like she's seconds away from committing a homicide with a plastic cup. Normally, she'd be halfway across the room by now, ready to drag those puck bunnies back to their natural habitat—but she doesn't move.
Instead, she stays right beside me, silent and fuming.
I follow her line of sight—and there it is.
One of the puck bunnies, all hair flips and fake laughter, is practically attached to Elijah's arm, giggling like he just told the funniest joke on the planet. Her hand lingers way too long on his sleeve, and the way she's leaning in? Yeah, it's giving Oscar-worthy performance in Flirtation 101.
Sam's glare could melt steel.
"I'm gonna break that girl's hand the second I get to her," she mutters under her breath.
I try not to laugh. "What's stopping you?"
Without missing a beat, she sighs. "Zach. He told me not to leave your side until he gets here."
My brows lift. "Why?"
"He said to stick with you in case any jealous fangirls come near you. You know—those girls who might not take last night too well."
We both roll our eyes at the same time, perfectly in sync, like we've trained for this level of mutual exasperation.
"Sam," I say, "don't let me stop you from doing your civic duty."
She blinks, finally tearing her eyes off Elijah. "My what?"
"You know," I tease, "keeping your captain's groupies in line." I nod toward the patio. "If I don't feel safe, I'll just go upstairs and hang out in Zach's room until he gets back."
For a split second, Sam looks at me like I just solved world hunger. Her face lights up with the most dramatic aha! expression.
"That—" she says, snapping her fingers, "—is genius."
And before I can even respond, she hands me the drink she'd been holding like a weapon and straightens her jacket.
"Stay here. If any of those girls even look at you funny, call for backup."
And just like that, Sam spins on her heel and marches toward the patio, all fire and fury, while I just stand there laughing under my breath—because honestly, watching her go full guard dog mode never gets old.
But the second she's gone, a weird chill crawls up my spine.
It's that prickly, someone's-watching-you feeling that makes your stomach tighten. I glance around—and sure enough, there are eyes. Lots of them.
Some people are looking at me with recognition—like, oh, that's the girl from last night. Others, mostly girls, are eyeing me like I personally offended their ancestors. Whispers ripple across the room, but they're not exactly subtle.
The kind of half-covered mouths and side-glances that scream mean-girl conference in progress.
Yep. These must be the ones Zach warned Sam about.
"Shit," I mutter when I see them straighten up, heels clicking, all synchronized like they just rehearsed this moment. They start walking toward me, and I instantly regret telling Sam to go play hockey-house security guard.
I look away fast, pretending to check my phone, then make a beeline for the stairs.
But before I can make it three steps, they're there.
Three of them, blocking my path like a human wall of perfume and judgment. One's got her arms crossed, another's resting a manicured hand on her hip, and the third is giving me the kind of once-over usually reserved for bugs that accidentally land on your food.
Their expressions are all the same—mocking, smug, like I don't belong here.
I bite back the urge to scoff, resisting the eye roll fighting its way out.
God, they even look like Cici—the queen of high school cruelty herself.
If this were still high school, I'd probably just shrink into some dark corner and pray they'd lose interest—stay quiet, stay invisible, stay safe.
But this isn't high school anymore.
I don't do hiding.
So instead, I square my shoulders, cross my arms just like they do, and lift an eyebrow in my best resting bitch face impression. Let them look. Let them whisper. I'm not seventeen anymore—and I'm definitely not scared of girls like them.
I'm bracing for whatever snide comment they're about to throw when—
"Care!"
I turn at the sound of my name, instantly recognizing the warm, familiar voice. Adam's heading straight toward me, grin wide, beer bottle dangling casually from his hand.
"Adam?"
The mean-girl trio immediately falters. One fake-laughs, another pretends to check her phone, and before I know it, they've scattered—like pigeons after a loud noise.
Adam stops in front of me, still smiling. "I didn't know you'd come tonight."
"Well, yeah," I say, "Zach invited me over."
He tilts his head, smirking in that teasing, too-knowing way. "I saw. So, I'm guessing things are going very well between you two?" he says, taking a slow sip of his beer.
I press my lips together, fighting back the grin threatening to take over my face, and give a tiny nod.
"That's great, Care," he says genuinely, voice softening a little.