CHAPTER fifty-four
"Me too," I breathe, sounding every bit as gone for him as I feel.
And judging by the way his thumb sweeps over the back of my hand...he knows.
Zach and I arrive at the Pond— the place that become my de facto residence recently.
Why you ask?
Well, that's thanks to Sam.
God bless her blunt little soul.
I can still hear her voice from five nights ago — hands on her hips, ramen bowl in one hand, glaring at us like we'd committed a federal crime.
"If you two are going to be disgusting," she'd said, pointing her chopsticks at us, "can you PLEASE do it somewhere that isn't five feet from where I sleep?"
Zach nearly died trying not to laugh.
I tried to hide behind him.
But Sam? Oh no. She went in for the kill.
"I mean it, Care. I love you. Truly. But the heart-eyes? The cuddling? The giggling? And the way my brother looks at you like you're the last cookie on earth?" She shuddered dramatically.
"Traumatizing. If I catch you two playing tonsil hockey—or worse—one more time, I'm filing for emotional damages. Take your hormonal circus to the Pond. That house was built for this kind of shit. I'm too young to go blind."
Then she literally herded us out of the room like we were overgrown toddlers.
So yeah.
I've been here nearly every night since.
Not that I'm complaining.
And Zach definitely isn't — if the giant, smug grin on his face right now means anything.
He squeezes my hand as we walk to the door. "Welcome home, baby."
"Stop it," I groan, elbowing him. "You're too happy about this."
"Of course I'm happy. My girlfriend's here." He waggles his brows. "Again."
He pushes the door open, still smiling like he can't help it.
And honestly? It does something to me.
Seeing this Zach again — the light in his eyes, the bounce in his voice, the easy warmth — it's like watching the sun come back after weeks of gray skies.
He hasn't been this... himself in a while. Not since everything with his dad's anniversary. Not since Sam kept getting sick.
But ever since Sam told him yesterday that the doctor cleared her, that everything came back normal, that she was just mildly anemic and needed iron supplements — he's been different. Lighter. Like someone finally cut the weights off his chest.
I remember the way he showed up for dinner last night with his sister, eyes still a little glassy from relief when he told me the good news.
And right after we ate, he drove straight to CVS and bought Sam enough iron gummies, ferrous bisglycinate, iron-boost drinks, and even iron-fortified cereal—basically anything with "iron" on the label.
The man was stocking up like he was preparing his sister for the Iron Apocalypse.
He's crazy like that... but God, I love him even more for it.
The second we step inside the Pond, we get the usual greeting.
A chorus of distracted nods from the guys glued to the TV, controllers in hand, half-shouting at whatever game they're sweating over.
"Yo."
"Sup."
"Hey Care."
These men would probably greet a tornado the same exact way.
Before I can even take off my shoes, Cody comes swaggering down the stairs — fresh shirt, hair perfect, keys twirling around his finger.
He shoots us a grin. "Well, well, if it isn't the lovebirds. Care—please tell me you're here to make us another one of those God-tier dinners?"
Before I can answer, Zach smacks him on the back of the head.
"Hey!" Cody yelps, rubbing the spot. "Violence against your teammates is illegal."
"She's not your personal chef," Zach grumbles. "Feed yourselves."
Cody leans forward, squinting at Zach. "Relax, man, all I said was—" He pauses, eyes sliding to me with theatrical suspense. "I like your girlfriend—"
"You like my girlfriend?"
Zach fully scowls, one step away from tackling him into the drywall.
Cody grins like a gremlin. "I like your girlfriend's cooking, genius. Relax." He slips past us toward the door. "Still...Care, if you ever get sick of him, you know where to find me."
Zach flips him off. Cody cackles, victorious.
I snort, shaking my head. "Sorry, Code. Not cooking tonight."
Honestly, I have cooked for them pretty often.
It started as a one-time thing, then turned into my unofficial role as team morale booster—especially on nights when the Warriors took another heartbreaking loss.
Nothing heals a bruised hockey ego faster than baked ziti or chicken parm.
I'm about to say something else when the air shifts.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Elijah steps into view at the landing, wearing a fitted black shirt. He pauses when he sees us.
Zach goes still beside me.
The warmth drains from his face. His smile fades, jaw tightening—not explosive, just cold, controlled, the way a storm looks right before it breaks.
Elijah gives me the faintest nod. "Hey, Care."
"H...hey."
He doesn't spare Zach a single glance.
The guys on the couch stop playing, eyes darting between them, their bodies going weirdly still—like they're afraid even breathing too loudly will set someone off.
He walks past us into the kitchen, opens the fridge, grabs a bottled water... and walks straight out to the patio. without another word.
No acknowledgment. No truce. No attempt at even pretending things aren't a mess.
Zach watches him go, muscles rigid, fists curling once before he forces them to unclench. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the tension rolling off him is unmistakable—quiet, sharp, burning under the surface.
Yeah. It's that bad.
It's been two weeks.
Two weeks since the punch heard across the entire Pond.
Two weeks since Zach told Elijah to stay away from Sam.
Two weeks of the coldest, quietest war I've ever seen.
And the team? They're barely holding it together.
They won't say it out loud, but it's obvious. Plays fall apart. Their timing is off. Zach and Elijah on the ice look like two strangers forced to skate in the same direction. No chemistry, no trust, no spark.
You can't rip apart the chemistry between your captain and your alternate captain and expect the team to magically thrive.
Sam tried to get them to talk again—of course she did.
She begged Zach to apologize, called him dramatic, said Elijah didn't mean what he said. But Zach refused.
In his mind, Elijah deserved the punch. Some words you just can't take back—he'd know, he made that same mistake with me once—and the only person who can fix this now is Elijah himself. He has to man up. Be honest.
But that's the problem.
Elijah doesn't admit things.
Especially not feelings.
Especially not when they involve Sam.
So here we are—two stubborn men, one broken friendship, one silently suffering team, and a house full of people pretending this isn't all slowly killing them.
I squeeze Zach's hand gently.
His fingers tighten around mine, almost imperceptibly, but enough for me to feel how exhausted he is beneath the anger.
Yeah... this isn't getting better on its own.
And something tells me it's about to get worse before it does.
A part of me wants to believe the holiday break might give everyone some breathing room. A reset. A chance to cool the tempers and the pride and the stupid, stubborn feelings clogging everything up.
God, I just hope they find their jive again after Thanksgiving.
CHAPTER fifty
CAROLINE
Ipush the front door open with my hip, kicking my shoes off lazily.
"I'm home!" I call out, walking into the silent living room. No answer. "Hello? Anyone alive?"
Nothing—until I reach the back of the house.
Through the glass of the sliding door, I spot them on the terrace.
Mom is curled up on the outdoor sofa, blanket over her lap, and Dad is beside her, a giant blueprint spread across the coffee table.
He's doing that thing where he gets way too into explaining something—hands slicing the air, eyebrows doing choreography—while Mom nods like she's following along even though we both know she's probably not.
It's a crisp Florida-cold kind of day—sunny, but the breeze is cool enough that Mom's wearing a cardigan.
I slide the door open.
"I'm home..."
Their heads snap up so fast I almost laugh.
"Baby!" Mom's on her feet instantly.
Dad gets up, too, and they both pull me into one of those warm, squishy, full-body hugs that only parents can give. Mom's arms wrap around me easier now without the cast, and I feel her squeeze—light, but solid.
Dad kisses the side of my head and pulls back first, looking me over like he's checking if all my limbs are still attached.
"I thought you weren't coming until later," he says. "Didn't Zach still have morning skate today?"
"They did," I nod. "But they started practice at like six so everyone could get on the road early. They wanted the guys home before traffic got crazy."
Mom smiles. Dad nods—then both of them peek behind me at the open doorway like they're expecting someone to appear.
"Where's Zach?" Mom asks.
"Oh." I shrug casually. "He went straight home."
Dad levels me with the look. The one where his eyebrow goes up like he's Sherlock Holmes about to expose me.
"Are you trying to hide your boyfriend from us?" he asks, hitting the word like a hammer. "Don't think for a second, young lady, that I've forgotten you still haven't properly introduced that boy to us."
He tries to sound reprimanding but failing.
"Dad, you already know Zach," I laugh. "There's no introduction needed. Besides, you saw him the last time we came home."
"No introduction needed?" He gasps—full theatrical chest expansion. "Did you hear that, darling?" He throws Mom a look of exaggerated betrayal.
Mom giggles, clearly delighted. She looks like she's waited her entire life for this exact moment — Dad freaking out over his daughter's boyfriend.
"You see, princess," Dad says, holding up a finger, "I know Zach the neighbor."
He lifts another. "Zach the best friend."
A third. "And sure, I know Zach the hockey player."
All pronounced with painful seriousness.
"But Zach the boyfriend?" He crosses his arms. "Nope. Don't know that guy."
I snort. "Oh my God."