CHAPTER forty-three #5
He shrugs like it's nothing. "This is how hockey players recover too. After every tough game or heavy practice, we do ice baths—basically dunk ourselves in giant tubs of freezing water for fifteen minutes. It helps with soreness and keeps the muscles from stiffening up."
"Really," I blink, half amused, half horrified.
"Yup." His grin grows, that wicked gleam sparking in his eyes. "Want me to help you try it? You've got a bathtub right there... fill it with ice, maybe join in—strictly for scientific accuracy."
"Zach!" I gasp, smacking his arm, my jaw practically dropping.
He just grins wider, clearly enjoying himself. "What? I'm just saying—ice baths are most effective when it's skin-to-skin exposure. You know, for maximum therapeutic benefits."
My mouth falls open. "You mean—nude plunging?"
He nods solemnly, though his eyes are practically dancing with laughter. "It's a legitimate recovery method, sugar plum. Very... hands-on science."
I throw a pillow at him. "You're such an idiot."
He catches it, chuckling. "An idiot who's passionate about sports medicine."
"Uh-huh, sure," I mutter, rolling my eyes—though it takes everything in me not to laugh (or imagine it).
Because now my brain, being the absolute traitor it is, won't stop replaying his words. Nude plunging. Seriously?
I can literally feel my soul trying to leave my body. I'm just sitting here when internally I'm one intrusive thought away from yeeting myself out the window.
God, I need to stop thinking about it. Stop. Thinking. About. It.
But then he smiles again—that smile—and, yeah, great. Fantastic. I think every neuron in my brain have officially quit their jobs.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Zach shifts slightly, his playful grin softening.
"Caroline..."
"Ye—yeah?" My voice wobbles, and I can feel the heat crawling up my neck. Great. Totally the perfect time to look like a human tomato—right after mentally replaying a bathtub scene that should never see the light of day. Seriously, I need to get a grip.
"Remember when I asked you a favor?"
"Favor?" I blink at him, trying to sound normal. "What favor?"
"The one where you agreed to go on a date with me if I earned some of your trust back."
He says it quietly, eyes darting away as he keeps massaging my calves. His shoulders are tense, like even saying it feels risky.
"Oh, right," I say softly. "I remember."
He glances up again, the corner of his mouth twitching, a mix of nerves and hope flickering in his eyes. "Did I... earn some of it back?" His voice is careful—almost shy—and it does something to my chest.
For a second, I want to mess with him, just to see what he'd do if I said no. But then I see his shoulders sag a little, like he's already bracing for rejection, and my teasing dies in my throat.
The truth is—he did.
More than I'd like to admit.
It's been a long time since I last thought about what he said to me three years ago. Back then, his words lived rent-free in my head, echoing every time I looked in the mirror—telling me I still wasn't enough, that I had to push harder, eat less, be better.
Now when I look in the mirror, it's just to see if my outfit looks good, make sure my hair isn't staging a full-on rebellion, or that my mascara hasn't started migrating south—not to pick myself apart.
I actually use it for what it's meant for. It feels strange—freeing, even—to not be haunted by old words that once held so much power.
And the weirdest part?
Zach's the reason why.
The irony isn't lost on me. He's the same guy whose words once wrecked my confidence so badly I could barely look in a mirror without flinching—and now, he's the reason I can.
There wasn't some sudden, dramatic turning point.
It's been gradual—messy, uneven—some days still harder than others.
But lately, the noise in my head has been quieter. The voice that used to tell me to skip meals or push harder at the gym doesn't talk as loud when he's around.
And in those moments—when he smiles, when he looks at me like I'm the most beautiful woman in the world, like my imperfections are the very things that make me perfect—my heart forgets it's supposed to be guarded.
And yeah, maybe it's a little poetic—or karmic—that the same boy who once broke me is now helping me piece myself back together.
Slowly. Clumsily. But honestly? It's working.
"Yes."
The word slips out in a breathy but steady tone before I can second-guess it.
Zach's head snaps up. "Really?"
His face lights up instantly—like someone just switched the sun back on. His grin spreads so wide it's almost ridiculous, and my chest feels stupidly warm watching it.
I nod, biting back my own smile.
"Let's go on a date."
My lips twitch. "About time, Westbrook—I was starting to wonder if you'd ever get around to asking again."
He grins, "Well, excuse me for being thorough. Wanted to make sure I earned that 'yes' properly before cashing it in."
"Where are we going? And when?"
Maybe I sound a little too eager, but whatever. Subtlety's overrated.
Zach's lips twitch. "Someone's excited."
I roll my eyes. "Just trying to plan my schedule, Westbrook."
"Mhm." His tone is pure amusement. "Sure, that's what this is. Definitely not you dying to go out with me."
I scoff, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. "You wish."
He grins, leaning back like he's already won. "Oh, I don't have to wish, sugarplum. You just proved it."
"You're insufferable."
Zach grins, completely unfazed. "How about Thursday night? Just before I leave for the away game Friday morning."
I scrunch my nose. "Can't. I've got dance rehearsal that day..."
He nods, like he already expected that.
I start to think he's about to suggest another day when it hits me—Betsy mentioned earlier that she and Keith were heading out of town Thursday night for a performance in Orlando. Some big fall arts showcase or something.
Which means... no rehearsal.
I perk up. "Actually—Thursday night's perfect!"
Zach chuckles, lowering his head with that quiet, amused laugh of his that always makes my stomach do weird, fluttery things.
When he looks back up, he's smiling so wide it hurts to look at. All white teeth, all warmth.
"So, it's a date then?" I ask, trying (and failing) to hold back a giggle.
He pushes up slightly, closing the space between us, one hand brushing gently against my cheek as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to my lips—sweet, unhurried, the kind that leaves me smiling even after he pulls away.
His face stays close, our breaths mingling.
In a low, velvety voice, he murmurs, "It's a date."
He winks, and my heart does a full somersault.
CHAPTER thirty-eight
CAROLINE
The studio looks like chaos dressed in tulle and velvet.
Costume racks line every wall—row after row of pastel dresses, embroidered jackets, and glittering tutus. Half the room smells like fabric starch and the other half like hairspray. There's a flurry of satin ribbons, tiaras, and capes everywhere you look.
It's exactly the kind of beautiful mess only a theater department could create.
Across the room, Adam is the picture of regal grace... if regal grace involved wearing a Nutcracker head twice the size of his torso.
"Your Majesty, looking sharp!" someone calls out, and Adam responds by spinning dramatically, nearly knocking into a rack of costumes.
The entire room bursts into laughter.
Meanwhile, the Mouse King and his army are having the time of their lives in oversized gray suits and furry rat heads. One of them keeps dramatically fencing with his tail, another's trying to gnaw on a plastic sword.
I'm laughing as I make my way toward my section of the racks—the one marked CLARA / SUGAR PLUM PRINCESS in big block letters. My fingers brush through layers of fabric, soft and shimmering.
There's everything from delicate white nightgowns for Clara to sparkling pink tutus and bodices that look straight out of a fairytale.
Every shade of pink imaginable—rose, blush, bubblegum, even one so pale it's almost silver. The Sugar Plum gowns glimmer under the studio lights, covered in tiny hand-sewn crystals that catch every movement.
I can't help smiling as I lift one off the rack—a breathtaking pastel-pink bodice paired with a cascading tutu. "Okay," I whisper to myself, holding it against my front and turning to the mirror. "Maybe being exhausted every day is worth it."
Behind me, Adam's muffled voice calls through the Nutcracker head:
"Hey, Care! Think this look is too subtle?"
Adam's standing there in full Nutcracker regalia, posing like some tragic hero from a 90s romance novel—one hand on his hip, the other reaching dramatically toward the ceiling.
The massive Nutcracker head makes the whole thing about ten times funnier, especially since the jaw keeps clicking open and shut like it's trying to speak for him.
"Care!" his voice comes out muffled and slightly robotic. "How do I look? Be honest—do I make your sugar plum heart skip a beat?"
I double over laughing. "You look like you just escaped from a toy store clearance bin."
"Rude," he says, turning his whole body toward me—because clearly, the head doesn't move. "You wound me, Clara. My wooden heart can only take so much."
"Pretty sure your wooden heart's hollow," I shoot back.
"Only because you took the filling," he says, pointing in my direction, the Nutcracker jaw clacking open and shut for emphasis.
Someone snorts behind us. "Dude, you sound like an animatronic at a cursed Christmas display."
Adam gasps—at least, I think he does. "You see, Care? They mock our love!"
I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts. "You're insane."
He tilts his Nutcracker head at me. "And yet... you keep coming back to rehearsal with me."
"Because I signed a syllabus, not because I enjoy your company," I say, grinning.
"Lies," he declares, hands on his waist again. "Deep down, you dream of dancing into my wooden arms."