CHAPTER forty-nine #8
It's already late when Caroline and I pull into Naples. We drove straight here after my game ended, and the car's been quiet almost the whole ride home. Not uncomfortable—just heavy.
Some of it's exhaustion.
Most of it is the fact that we lost. Again.
Two games. Back-to-back.
Friday was bad.
Tonight was worse.
Coach Hopper didn't tear into us because of the scoreboard. He tore into us because we deserved it. We played like absolute crap.
No focus, no chemistry, no fire.
Honestly, I've seen peewee teams play cleaner than what we put on the ice. Passes off by a mile. Missed reads. Missed opportunities. No rhythm, no flow, nothing.
And I know exactly where it all started.
Thursday.
When Elijah and I blew up at each other.
Skating with him since then feels like skating next to a stranger. The easy rhythm we had—gone. A pass would come too early or too late. I'd swing left and he'd drift right. Plays we used to run blindfolded just... fell apart. It was like trying to play with a missing limb.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, jaw clenched as I pull into Caroline's driveway. The headlights wash over the front porch. I shift the car into park but don't move. Neither does she.
We just sit there for a few seconds before she reaches over and touches my face, gentle and warm.
"Hey," she whispers, "look at me."
I do. And the second our eyes meet, something in my chest loosens just a little.
"Sorry," I say. "For being a crappy, sulky travel buddy."
Her lips curve into that small, knowing smile that never fails to punch through my mood. "You're not sulky," she says, tilting her head a little. "You're just... you. And I get it. You hate losing more than anyone I know."
A small laugh slips out of me—quiet, tired. "You make that sound like a bad thing."
She shakes her head. "It's not. It just means you care. But don't beat yourself up too much, okay? I know you are—you always do. You'll replay every mistake in your head, try to fix what's already done."
Her fingers trace lightly over my face. "So here's the deal—you get an hour. Two, tops. Then you stop. You leave it on the ice where it belongs. At least for tomorrow."
I meet her eyes, and yeah—I know exactly what she means.
"Alright," I say quietly. "Two hours. Promise."
Caroline narrows her eyes at me playfully, lifting her pointer finger like she's giving me a warning. "And you know I'm going to check," she says.
I actually laugh. A real one — the kind that shakes something loose in my chest after days of being wound too tight.
Her smile widens at the sound, soft and sweet and so damn beautiful it almost hurts to look at her. The porch light from her house spills across her face, making her glow like some goddess dropped into my front seat just to pull me back to earth.
For a second, I just stare at her.
She's looking at me like I'm not a disappointment, not the guy who missed plays and blew chances — but someone who still matters.
I lean forward, brushing my nose against hers before kissing her—slow, tired, grateful. She hums against my lips, warm and gentle, before pulling back with a small laugh.
"See you tomorrow?" she whispers.
"Yeah. Go on, before I change my mind and keep you all night."
Her eyes roll dramatically, but I catch the heat flickering behind them. She shifts in her seat just slightly, like she's fighting the urge to press her thighs together.
God, this woman is insatiable.
And I am absolutely not complaining.
I reach for her, pulling her into one last kiss—deeper, hungrier—before reluctantly breaking away.
"I mean it," I whisper against her lips.
She bites her lower lip, fighting a smile. "Alright," she says, opening the door.
I watch her walk up the path toward her front steps, the porch light catching in her hair as she glances back at me one more time. She waves, then slips inside.
Only then do I shift into reverse, glancing at her door one last time before backing out of the driveway and heading next door.
I push the front door open quietly, stepping into the dark house. It's a little after midnight, and I figured Mom and Sam would already be asleep by now. Mom especially — she probably went to bed early, knowing she'll be busy tomorrow for Dad's death anniversary.
Just thinking about it makes my chest feel heavier.
I slip off my shoes and let out a long, tired breath. Just thinking about tomorrow already weighs on me.
My eyes drift toward the living room, and as they adjust to the darkness, I notice the faint light coming through the window. My eyes catch the frame above the fireplace—the big family portrait.
Our last family portrait.
Taken the year before Dad died.
All of us together, smiling like we had decades left.
Mom and Dad are in the center of it, standing so close you couldn't slip a piece of paper between them—her arm looped through his, his hand covering hers like it always did.
Sam's on Dad's right, leaning into his shoulder because she always liked being in his space.
And I'm on the other side, pressed up against Mom, stuck in that plaid shirt she insisted on, grinning like an idiot because Dad kept whispering dumb jokes to make all three of us laugh.
All of us together. Whole.
We looked like a postcard.
Happy. Balanced. Complete.
None of us knowing we only had a few months left with him.
My throat tightens as I stare at Dad's face, his smile so damn full of life.
"I miss you, Dad." I whisper, barely getting it out. "I really wish you were here."
I clear my throat and look away from the picture, pushing down the ache the best I can.
Tomorrow's going to be hard enough.
I wake up early the next morning, shower, clean up, and shave the stupid little stubble on my jaw. When I step out of my room, I can already hear pots clinking and something sizzling downstairs. Mom's definitely up.
I head down the hall toward my little sister's room.
I checked on her last night, but she was already knocked out.
Didn't get the chance to talk.
I knock lightly on her door, then push it open.
She's awake — sitting at her vanity, blow-drying her hair. Still a little pale, but miles better than how she looked the last few days.
The moment she catches my reflection in the mirror, she switches the dryer off and beams at me. The bright, Sam-style beam.
"Hey, Zachy!"
"Hey, angel. Good morning."
I walk in, lean down, and kiss her forehead before sitting on the edge of her bed.
"How are you feeling?"
She starts brushing her hair, glancing at me through the mirror as she speaks. "Honestly? I feel like a human again," she says, dramatic as always. "I'm so sick of being sick. I swear if I had to lie in bed one more day doing absolutely nothing, I was gonna throw myself out the window."
I snort. "Yeah, you look better. Yesterday on FaceTime, you looked like you were running on two hours of sleep and a cough drop."
She gasps playfully. "Wow. Love the support."
I grin. "Just saying."
She sets the brush down for a second, talking with her hands like she always does when she's annoyed.
"And being on bed rest is the worst. You can't do anything. You can't go anywhere. You just lie there staring at the ceiling, judging your life choices."
"Pretty sure that's just you."
"Probably," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "But still. I'm so glad I don't feel like I'm dying today."
I chuckle, relieved. "Good. I'm glad."
"When did you come back? This morning?"
"No, last night," I say. "Caroline and I drove back right after the game. You were already out cold when I got home. Didn't wanna wake you."
Sam gives me a small, sad smile and stands.
She walks over and sits beside me on the bed, leaning her head on my shoulder. Her hand curls around my forearm.
"Sorry about the game," she murmurs. "Bet you're pretty bummed."
"Yeah," I sigh. "It sucks. Can't believe we lost two games back-to-back."
"Yeah, losing sucks," she says plainly. "Like, big time. I'd cry too if I trained that hard just to play like garbage."
I shoot her a look.
She grins. "Relax, I'm kidding."
I huff, but she nudges me with her shoulder.
"But seriously, Zachy... it happens," she says. "Even to the strongest team — which you guys are. You're allowed to have off days. There's nothing wrong with losing one or two games."
She goes on, "Just don't do that thing where you go all sulky and moody or lock yourself in your room like some hockey hermit beating yourself up. One bad weekend isn't going to erase every good game you've played."
I raise a brow. "Do I really do that?"
She gives me a flat, very Sam look. "Yes. It's very annoying, actually."
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth.
Sam taps my arm, a little gently, "You'll bounce back. You always do. Just... don't be so hard on yourself, okay?"
I nod, letting out a breath.
"Yeah, I won't. I actually promised Caroline I'd only give myself, like... two hours to mope about the losses. And I did. Clocked out right on time before bed."
Sam snorts. "Good. Because what do you think she'd do if you didn't stick to that?"
I make a face. "Yeah, no thanks. I'm not testing that. I just got back on her good graces— I'm not stupid enough to mess that up."
Sam laughs, finally looking like herself again.
I shift on the bed, turning fully toward her. I tug her hand gently, lacing our fingers together.
"You sure you're really feeling better?"
Sam gives me a small, honest smile — the kind that's a lot calmer than her usual sunshine one. "Yeah. Really. I feel a whole lot better today."
I squeeze her hand, but there's still this annoying knot sitting somewhere in my chest.
Part of me knows she looks better... but another part of me won't relax until someone with an actual medical degree tells me everything's fine.