CHAPTER fifty-four #11
"Yeah," Liam adds, pointing at me. "Punishment for being a massive simp."
"And for smiling at your phone like a Disney prince every five minutes," Luke says.
The rookies snort behind me. Traitors.
I keep retreating, palms out. "Guys. Seriously. Don't—"
The crowd is losing it—phones out, people chanting.
The twins start swinging me gently between them like I'm some oversized toddler.
"One!" Reese shouts.
"Two!" Jasper yells.
"Don't you fucking—!"
"THREE!"
And they launch me.
I hit the pool with a splash big enough to baptize the entire backyard.
Cold water punches the air out of my lungs, and when I surface, sputtering, everyone is cheering.
I shove my wet hair back, water dripping into my eyes, and swim toward the edge. Those two idiots are still doubled over laughing, practically wheezing.
"Oh, you're dead," I warn, hauling myself out of the pool.
Yeah. No way in hell I'm letting that slide.
I storm toward them, and their grins instantly falter.
"Uh-oh," Liam mutters, backing up.
"Nope. Nope. Absolutely not," Luke says, hands up like surrendering will save him.
Too late.
I grab each of them by the back of the neck — one in each hand — and before they can squirm away, I yank them forward and launch us all right back into the pool.
A splash explodes upward, drowning out the twins' startled yelps as all three of us go under. I keep my hands on their heads a second longer, shoving them under just to hear the muffled chaos before they burst up coughing, sputtering, and cursing at me between laughs.
"YOU ASSHOLE!"
"You dragged us down!"
"Worth it," I say, slicking my hair back.
Around us, the backyard erupts — cheers, whistles, people yelling "DO IT AGAIN!" like this is peak entertainment.
And apparently it is, because one idiot jumps in, then another, then suddenly half the party is cannonballing into the pool like lemmings on spring break.
Chaos. Pure, stupid, perfect chaos.
Exactly how Pond parties are supposed to be.
I haul myself out of the pool, water streaming off me as the whole backyard roars. My clothes cling to me, heavy as hell, and I shake my head, laughing because I cannot believe those idiots actually got me that good.
I strip off my soaked shirt, twisting it in my hands until water pours out like I just wrung out a fucking sponge. I rake a hand through my dripping hair and start walking toward the dorm to grab a towel—and that's when a petite body suddenly steps right into my path.
"Heeere's a towel for you, Zach..."
Her voice drops into some kind of breathy purr that makes me blink in confusion.
I look up.
Unfamiliar face.
Red bikini.
And she is very clearly arching her back to make her boobs front-and-center like she's offering them as a peace treaty. I flinch back a whole step because Jesus Christ, she's practically weaponizing them.
"No, thanks," I say immediately, trying to sidestep.
She sidesteps with me.
"So you're Zach Westbrook, right?" she asks, twirling a strand of hair like she's in a shampoo commercial. "I'm Maya. I, um... don't usually do this, but—"
I don't even let her finish. "Look, Maya... I'm sure you're nice, but I'm taken. Very taken. Hopelessly. Pathetically. Devotedly taken. So if you don't mind—can you please move so I can go?"
I gesture vaguely toward the dorm.
In my head, she nods, apologizes, and scurries away.
Reality?
She just smirks.
Her arms cross under her chest—which somehow pushes her boobs up even more. I jerk my eyes upward so hard I'm surprised my neck doesn't snap.
"Really?" she says, cocking her hip. "Because I don't see your girlfriend anywhere."
My jaw ticks.
She leans in, voice dropping. "If I had a boyfriend as hot as you, I wouldn't leave you unattended. Someone might steal you away..."
She drags her eyes down my torso, slow as hell. "Finders keepers, right?"
I inhale sharply, ready to shut this down with nuclear force—but a voice behind her cuts through the air like a blade dipped in honey and venom.
"Why don't you turn around," Caroline says, "and meet the girlfriend."
My head snaps up.
And there she is.
My mouth—yeah, it fucking grins. Wide.
Because Caroline is standing in the doorway.
Her hair is in loose waves, sun-kissed and messy in the sexiest way. She's in a white, off-shoulder tie-front top and high-waisted denim shorts showing off miles of legs.
And God... she looks lethal.
Hot.
Not trying.
Not competing.
Just effortlessly, stupidly, catastrophically beautiful.
My brain short-circuits.
The red-bikini girl could be naked right now and I wouldn't notice—Caroline walks in wearing a sweater and shorts and looks like every fantasy I've ever had.
She steps toward us with the kind of slow, lethal confidence that makes men reevaluate their entire life choices.
The bikini girl's fake smile falters.
Caroline steps toward us—slow, deliberate, predatory—her eyes locked on the girl like she's choosing which bone to break first. When she reaches me, she slides her hand around my forearm, fingers wrapping in a claiming grip that says: mine.
I automatically hook an arm around her waist, pulling her snug against me.
Then she turns to the girl with the kind of smile cheerleaders give right before they push someone off the pyramid.
"Oh honey," she purrs, "I'm guessing you don't go to Ridgewater, right?"
The girl blinks. "H-How'd you know?"
Caroline tilts her head, lashes low, dangerous.
"Because if you did? You'd know this man—" she jerks her chin toward me, still pressed to her side "—the one you've been practically trying to flash your tits at? IS MINE."
Her voice dips dangerously sweet.
"And trust me—nobody is 'stealing' him from me. Ever."
The girl tries to muster a smirk, but Caroline keeps going, even cooler, even deadlier:
"You said you don't see his girlfriend around?" She tilts her head. "Well... open your eyes. I'm right here. And I don't leave him 'unattended,' sweetheart. I just don't see threats where there aren't any."
Then — because she's going to be the death of me — Caroline drags her hand slowly across my wet chest, fingers gliding over every line of muscle.
Heat punches straight through me.
Great. Fantastic. I'm absolutely getting a boner right here. Not my fault. Not at all.
Caroline's gaze snaps back to the girl, razor-sharp.
"So unless you're here to say 'excuse me,' move. You're in our way."
The girl finally steps aside—muttering under her breath—and Caroline tugs me with her as we walk toward the doors.
From the corner of my eye, I see Liam, Luke, and half the team giving her a slow, impressed clap.
I pull her even closer, my mouth brushing her ear.
"You have no idea how hot you just were," I murmur. "I swear to God, babe, you just gave me a full-on, aggressive boner in front of the entire team."
"Shut up," she mutters, elbowing me—but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"This is your fault for being too hot for your own good. One of these days, I swear, I'm putting a damn collar on you that says PROPERTY OF CAROLINE PENNINGTON. Don't tempt me."
"Woof." I bark loud and playful. "By all means, baby. I'll wear it proudly."
She bursts out laughing, biting her lip like she's trying (and failing) to stay annoyed, and I tug her even closer as we step inside—both of us grinning like idiots who can't believe we get to love each other this much.
CHAPTER fifty-four
CAROLINE
Hell Week always sounds dramatic until you're actually living inside one. Then you realize "hell" is honestly a cute understatement. This entire week has been a blur of chaos:
Late-night full runs.
Early-morning spacing rehearsals.
Endless line rewrites because someone keeps forgetting the transitional dialogue.
Costume adjustments that involve Tracy stabbing pins way too close to my kidneys.
Professor Callahan shouting about blocking like she's directing a Broadway revival instead of a college capstone.
And Adam stress-eating granola bars at a pace that should qualify as a sport.
By the time Saturday rolls around, it's carnage.
I'm pretty sure my soul has permanently detached from my body and taken up residence somewhere in the rafters of the Mainstage.
Not just me but my entire class too. We've been living here.
Eating here. Cat-napping on prop benches and ugly velvet couches that probably have their own ecosystem by now.
Our schedule has been a nightmare masterpiece.
Today — Saturday — is our full rehearsal day.
The "fix everything or die trying" run.
Tomorrow — Sunday — is our final dress rehearsal.
The last time we'll touch the stage before the showcase on Wednesday, when the curtain rises and all of this chaos is somehow supposed to look intentional.
Which means Monday and Tuesday are technically rest days, but in reality?
It's everyone panic-memorizing lines at home, practicing blocking in their kitchens, sending each other frantic voice notes.
Hell Week has a way of swallowing your entire life whole — schedules, sleep, sanity — and spitting you back out as a half-functioning artistic gremlin who survives on caffeine and sheer delusion.
Lights. Blocking. Sound cues. Costume mishaps.
Script rewrites. Last-minute choreography fixes.
Tech notes layered on top of tech notes.
I've been running on fumes and adrenaline for so long that even my adrenaline is starting to ask for a sick day.
And the worst part? It's Saturday.
Saturday means game day.
Saturday means Zach on the ice.
And it's an away-game Saturday — the kind where I should be there in the stands, screaming myself hoarse like I always do — like I want to do — but instead I'm stuck under these theater lights, feeling like the world's worst girlfriend.