CHAPTER forty-nine #6
The doctor said she was just exhausted—burnt out from lack of sleep, stress, and probably way too much caffeine. It's pretty common during exam week, especially for college students running on fumes. There was nothing serious to worry about, though her temperature was still slightly high.
The doctor suggested keeping her overnight for observation, but Sam refused. She said she'd rather rest in her own bed than stay in a hospital she "wasn't dying in."
So, we brought her back to the dorm after she got discharged, and Zach ended up staying the whole night, refusing to leave until he was sure Sam was comfortable and had everything she needed.
By morning, he was still there—hovering, checking her temperature every hour like he'd suddenly become her full-time nurse. He spent the entire day pacing between her bed and the mini-fridge, acting like she might collapse the second he looked away.
When practice time rolled around, he flat-out said he wasn't going. Said he'd skip, stay with her instead, just in case.
Sam practically forced him out the door.
Fever or not, she still managed to lecture him about responsibility.
She told him that missing practice wasn't an option—not when the Florida Panthers, the team that drafted him earlier this year, were keeping close tabs on his season.
Every game, every stat mattered now. If they saw his focus slipping, they could easily reconsider his contract before next year's official signing.
And Sam wouldn't let her brother throw that away, not for her.
Now, she's curled up under the blanket, eyes half-open, hair a mess, and still somehow manages a tiny smirk when she catches me hovering.
"Just text me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all." I say, adjusting the blanket even though it doesn't need adjusting. "I'll be right back after my dance rehearsal,"
Sam gives me a weak grin. "Oh, stop fussing, Care. You're starting to sound like my brother. One of him is enough."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help smiling. "Can't help it. Guess it's contagious."
She shifts under the blanket and sighs. "Even the doctor said I'm fine. I just need sleep. Now go before you actually watch me sleep like a weirdo."
"Fine, fine," I sigh, heading for the door. "I'm leaving."
I start walking out, then stop. "But seriously—text me if you need anything."
Sam groans again, and the next thing I know, a throw pillow comes flying at me.
"Leave me in peace, Mother Goose!"
I laugh, tossing the pillow back onto her bed. "Alright, alright. I'm going."
"Bye, Care," she mumbles, her voice already fading with sleep.
"Bye, Sammy."
I smile as I head for the door, glancing back once. She's already out cold. "Feel better, Sammy," I whisper before quietly slipping out.
But a few days later, Sam still isn't feeling much better.
Zach wanted to take her back to the hospital, but Sam insisted that all she needed was rest—and maybe a little time with their mom.
So, the other day, Charlene drove up from Naples to pick her up and take her home to recuperate.
With exams finally over, Sam could actually afford to take a few days off and just rest, which was a relief.
Zach, though, hasn't been taking it well. He's been worrying nonstop, checking his phone every hour for updates even though his mom calls him daily.
His mom said yesterday that Sam's fever broke and she's already feeling better, but it's still not enough for him. Nothing will be until he sees her himself.
But he can't—not yet.
He's got practice and a game tomorrow, and missing either isn't an option.
Still, I can tell he's distracted—his mind's not here. It's back in Naples with his sister. And honestly... I'm starting to worry about him too.
So... I come up with a plan.
If he won't let me fix his mood with words, maybe I can fix it with food. The man basically lives off takeout and caffeine during hockey season, so a proper homemade meal might just snap him out of his funk.
Besides, he's always the one bringing food to me—my personal Uber Eats with abs—so it's about time I return the favor.
The idea hits me like divine inspiration: baked ziti. His favorite. Gooey, cheesy, carby perfection.
I text Adam, Betsy, and Keith to let them know I'm skipping rehearsal tonight for a "personal matter," which is code for Operation Feed the Sad Hockey Boyfriend.
Thankfully, they all understand—and probably assume I'm planning some romantic gesture, which... fair.
A quick grocery run later, I'm standing in the Pond's kitchen surrounded by enough ingredients to feed a small army. Which, considering twenty-something giant hockey players live here, isn't an exaggeration.
Cooking for Zach is one thing.
Cooking for Zach and his entire mutant-sized team is another.
But whatever—love makes you do dumb things, like shredding five pounds of mozzarella and questioning your life choices halfway through layering the ziti.
Good thing Zach gave me the Pond's front door passcode a while back—along with a key to his room, "just in case." Translation: in case I ever want to invade his space and make him late for practice.
By six o'clock, three massive trays of baked ziti are bubbling away in the oven, the air thick with the smell of garlic, cheese, and victory. There are also enough garlic bread loaves to kill a vampire and a salad I made purely for decoration.
By the time I pull everything out, I'm sweaty, flour-dusted, and one burnt finger away from a breakdown—but weirdly proud. I did it. I actually cooked dinner for twenty-something hockey players without burning the house down.
I stand back, admiring my handiwork as the kitchen looks—and smells—like an Italian restaurant exploded in it. My arms ache, my hair's a mess, but my heart? Full.
"This," I mutter, hands on my hips, "is either true love or temporary insanity."
Honestly... probably both.
I've just finished washing the dirty dishes I used when I hear the front door swing open, followed by the unmistakable sound of several large, starving men.
"Dude, what is that smell?"
"Holy hell, is someone cooking real food in here?"
"Oh, it smells divine in here."
I can't help but grin.
Grabbing a kitchen towel, I wipe my hands and step into the hallway just as a chorus of footsteps thunder closer.
A few of the guys round the corner first, their eyes going wide when they spot me—and then wider when they see the trays of baked ziti and garlic bread lined up on the counter like a buffet.
"Oh, it's Westbrook's girlfriend." one of them blurts, stunned.
"No freaking way," another says, already drifting toward the table like he's been hypnotized by cheese.
Then, I see him.
Zach appears behind them, dressed in gray sweatpants and his navy Ridgewater hoodie, the hood halfway up, hair damp, and a confused smile on his face.
The second his eyes meet mine, they widen.
"Babe?"
I barely have time to react before he's closing the distance between us in a few long strides. His bag hits the floor with a thud, and then his arms are around me—tight, warm, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
"I missed you," he murmurs, voice muffled but full of relief. "God, you have no idea how happy I am to see you right now."
I smile against his shoulder, hugging him back just as tightly. "I wanted to surprise you," I whisper. "Thought you could use a little cheering up... so I made your favorite. Baked ziti."
He leans back, his eyes lighting up. "Wait—you made that? So that's what I was smelling when I first I walked in?"
I laugh, glancing over his shoulder. "Guess so."
Before I can say anything else, movement catches my eye—Elijah, walking in from the hallway, a duffel slung over one shoulder while he idly juggles his car keys in one hand.
He gives me a curt nod.
"Hey, Care."
"Hey," I reply with a polite but tight smile. The word tastes awkward. I don't want to be rude, but pretending everything's fine feels just as wrong.
Not after the way he yelled at Sam.
He doesn't linger, but as he passes, I notice him tilt his head slightly toward the kitchen—like he's expecting someone to walk out from there. When no one does, his shoulders drop almost imperceptibly before he continues on toward the others.
It's subtle, almost easy to miss. But I see it.
And for a fleeting moment, I can't shake the thought that maybe he thought Sam would be here, too. Or maybe I'm just imagining things.
I turn back to Zach when I hear him groan, incredulous.
"Hey! Hands off, you vultures! My girlfriend made that for me!"
I follow his gaze just in time to see half the team already crowded around the dining table—shoveling food into their mouths like they've been starved for weeks.
Someone's got a whole loaf of garlic bread on his plate, another's fighting for the serving spoon.
"Sorry, dude, possession's nine-tenths of the law," Luke says around a mouthful of ziti.
"Bro, this is insane. Marry her or I will," Cody calls out.
Zach glares but he's grinning too, his arm sliding possessively around my waist. "Touch another pan and you're skating suicides tomorrow."
"Worth it!" Martin yells, earning a round of laughter.
I can't stop smiling. The whole scene—Zach's teammates devouring dinner, him half-laughing, half-scolding them—feels chaotic but weirdly perfect.
"Guess I did good, huh?" I tease.
He squeezes my hand, looking down at me with that lopsided grin that still makes my stomach flip.
"You did more than good. You're amazing."
Before I can say anything, Liam waves a fork in our direction. "Hey, lovebirds! You two joining or are we finishing the rest without you?"
Zach rolls his eyes but tugs me toward the table. "C'mon, chef," he says, pulling out a chair for me.
We sit side by side, our knees brushing under the table as the boys continue to eat, laugh, and loudly argue over who gets seconds. Every few minutes someone praises the food, and Zach keeps shooting me these little proud smiles.