CHAPTER fifty-four #13
Professor Callahan raises his coffee mug like a toast. "Fine. Thirty-minute break. If any of you vanish for longer than that, I will find you."
Nobody needs to be told twice.
People swarm the table, piling plates high, and I can feel myself turning pink when the comments from the girls start:
"Caroline, your boyfriend is a saint."
"Seriously, he bought food for all of us? He's so sweet, Care! I'm jealous!"
"Girl, marry him. Right now."
"He's so perfect!"
I try to hide my face behind a sandwich the size of my head.
Sam laughs and tugs me toward the corner of the stage, where we sit cross-legged on the floor with our plates. "C'mon. Let's eat before the vultures go back for seconds."
While we eat, I pull out my phone and open the broadcast of Zach's game.
I take a bite of my sandwich and keep the phone angled toward both of us, eyes glued to the screen as Ridgewater flies up the ice. It's already the second period, and they're still holding the lead — 5 to 3 against Saint Ignatius.
A quiet wave of relief settles in my chest.
The team has been playing so well the last two weeks... surprisingly well, considering their captain and alternate captain still aren't speaking to each other. No yelling, no fights — just this cold, stubborn silence that hasn't thawed since the night everything blew up.
Despite all that, they somehow keep winning... well, minus the four games they lost, but we don't talk about those. The important thing is they're winning now.
I glance sideways, subtle, pretending I'm just shifting my plate.
Sam's sitting beside me on the floor, legs tucked under her, eating quietly while watching the game. She doesn't say a word — hasn't since we sat down — but every now and then, when the broadcast camera pans over the bench and lingers on Ridgewater's number 78, I catch her looking away.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for the ache to slip through her armor.
She thinks she hides it well. And maybe she does around everyone else.
But I know her.
I know how much she loved Elijah. How long she loved him — since she was ten, scribbling "future Mrs. Deveraux" on her notebooks and swearing she'd marry him someday.
Zach told me the other day that Sam said she's staying away from Elijah for good.
At first, I didn't believe it.
How do you walk away from the person you've loved half your life?
But as days passed, I realized she meant it.
She doesn't visit the hockey dorms anymore. Doesn't show up to their practices. Hasn't attended a single game — not one — even though she used to live for this.
Instead, she's been going out every night with her friends. Laughing. Dancing. Partying. Filling her evenings with anything that isn't him.
She's really trying. She's really moving on.
And I'm happy for her — truly. So is Zach.
We're both rooting for her, both hoping that somewhere in this messy, complicated process, she finds the happiness she's always deserved.
Watching her now — quiet, composed, pretending she's just focused on the game — I just hope she eventually finds someone who loves her the way she's always loved Elijah.
I nudge her lightly with my shoulder. "So... where are you and your friends heading after this?"
Sam straightens a little, slipping on her cheerful mask like it's second nature. "Oh! We're going to the football house later. They're throwing a huge party tonight. The QB invited us."
I widen my eyes, grinning. "Look at you. Miss Social Life. You've been going out a lot lately."
She gives a half-laugh, toying with her straw. "Well... yeah. It's been fun."
I raise a brow, teasing. "Uh-huh. And have you met any guys?"
Sam rolls her eyes, but the smile stays. "I've met some. A few are nice. And a few are just—"
She waves her hand vaguely. "—your typical dumb jock. Cute, but the brain cells? Questionable."
I snort into my drink, waiting.
She keeps going, chattier now that she's comfortable. "Some of them try so hard it's kind of adorable. But they're nothing like E—"
Her words choke off instantly.
A tiny slip.
Barely a second. But it's enough.
She clears her throat so fast it's almost painful and flips her hair over her shoulder like she can physically redirect the conversation. "Anyway! Whatever. It's fine. It'll be a fun night. The girls want to dance."
I don't push. I don't say a word.
But God... I hope she knows she doesn't have to pretend with me.
Sam suddenly sits up straighter, plastering on an extra-bright smile like she's trying to outshine every fluorescent light in the Mainstage.
She starts talking faster, hands gesturing animatedly as she describes the party, the music, the outfits her friends picked out, the ridiculous amount of glitter someone plans to wear.
And she sounds so... fine.
So bubbly. So perfectly okay.
But I can hear the strain beneath it — the thin, wobbly thread holding her together. The kind of over-cheeriness that feels like running from something you're not ready to look at.
My chest aches.
She thinks she's fooling me, but I've known Sam my whole life. I know her real laugh, her real sparkle, her real excitement.
And this?
This is a girl trying her absolute hardest not to crumble.
I smile at her anyway — warm, steady, the least pushy version of myself — because sometimes loving someone means giving them the space to hold their own pieces together.
And maybe that's enough for now.
Just being here beside her, sharing food, sharing silence, sharing a tiny, stubborn hope that someday she won't have to pretend anymore.
*****
When I finally get back to my dorm, it's already close to midnight.
The hallways are quiet, lights dimmed, the whole building humming with that dead-tired, post-weekend exhaustion. Sam's shoes aren't by the door, her jacket's missing from the hook — she's definitely still out with her friends.
I drop my bag on my desk, peel off my sweat-soaked rehearsal shirt, and head straight for the shower.
The hot water feels like heaven on my spine, melting away eight hours of stage lights and stress.
By the time I towel off and slip into one of Zach's oversized tees, all I want is my bed. .. and him.
I reach into my bag for my phone — and freeze.
It's dark.
Completely off.
"Oh, shoot."
I forgot to charge it. Of course I did. My brain lives in a permanent fog this week.
The battery probably died hours ago.
My stomach twists as I fumble to plug it in and mash the power button.
It vibrates weakly, screen lighting up... and then—Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
A flood of notifications fills the screen, all from one person.
Zach.
ZACH
Hey babe, game is over — we won! I WISH YOU WERE HERE!
ZACH
I miss you.
ZACH
Text you when I get back to my hotel room.
ZACH
Went out to a bar with the boys to celebrate. Just got back.
ZACH
God, I miss you like crazy.
ZACH
I want to go home so bad.
ZACH
Text me when you're back at your dorm.
ZACH
Can't wait to FaceTime you. I need to see your beautiful face.
ZACH
Babe?
More messages keep loading — sweet ones, clingy ones, the kind of mushy texts that turn my stomach into a full-on butterfly rave. The kind that make me feel so loved-up it's feeding my dangerously high girlfriend ego.
Like... sir, calm down. My heart can only handle so much. But please, give me more.
Anyway, we agreed we'd FaceTime as soon as I got back from rehearsal, so now I feel terrible that it's this late and he probably fell asleep waiting for me.
I quickly type out a reply:
ME
Babe, I'm so sorry. I'm back at the dorm. Rehearsal ran long again and my phone died. I just charged it. Are you still awake?
I hit send.
The message turns blue. Delivered.
I sit on my bed, legs crossed, staring at the screen.
One minute passes.
Then five.
Then ten.
Nothing.
My heart sinks a little.
By twenty minutes, there's a full ache blooming in my chest — the warm, lonely kind.
I lie back against my pillows, clutching my phone to my chest.
God, I miss him.
I wanted to see him tonight — even if only through a screen.
It's stupid how much one person can miss someone after not seeing him for, what, two days? Two. Days. And yet it feels like decades have passed. Honestly, I think I need to get myself checked. There's no way this is medically normal.
I'm mid–self-diagnosis spiral when my phone suddenly rings, vibrating so hard it nearly flies out of my hand. I jolt upright, heart launching into my throat.
It's Zach calling.
I swear I tap "accept" faster than any human reflex should allow.
And then he appears.
God.
He's lying in his hotel bed, hair a little tousled, like he's been running his hands through it — that perfect messy look that should be illegal. The screen is filled with bare chest, because of course he's shirtless, because why would the universe give me a break tonight?
His smile hits instantly — bright, warm, the kind that lights up every pixel on my phone.
"Hey, beautiful," he says, voice low and velvety, like he's been saving it just for me. "Miss me?"
Miss him?
I'm two seconds away from licking the screen.
"I missed you," I admit, cheeks warming. "And—congratulations, by the way."
A lazy grin spreads across his lips. "Yeah? You watched?"
I shift onto my back, propping pillows behind me so my upper body's lifted a little. "Of course I watched. I'm very loyal," I tease. "You were insane tonight."
His grin widens. "Yeah? What part?"
"Oh, I don't know," I say dramatically, "maybe the part where you lifted that guy's stick so cleanly—when he was literally about to take a shot—that he lost it completely. It went flying, and you just scooped the puck like it was nothing."
Zach tries to bite back a smile. "I wasn't sure if the ref was going to call something on that."
"No, it was clean," I say. "Sam and I cackled watching that."
He nods, replaying it in his head. "That one felt good actually."
"And the score you made before the second period ended?" I continue. "That was crazy. The way you pulled the puck in tight and slipped between both defensemen? You barely had space, but you still kept control and got the shot off before anyone could get to you."
He lets out a small laugh. "I honestly thought I was about to get sandwiched."
"You almost did," I say, chuckling.
He stretches an arm behind his head, smirking. "I really like it when you talk hockey to me."
I blink. "What?"
"It's kind of..." His eyes drop to my lips before sliding back to mine. "I don't know. It's like... when you talk hockey like that, it feels like you're talking dirty to me."
He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, then bites it lightly, completely unapologetic.
"And I start thinking about your mouth doing other things than talking hockey."
My face heats instantly. "Zach!"
He grins wider, absolutely shameless. "What? I'm just being honest."
"Please stop," I groan, covering my face with my hand.
"Why would I stop?" he teases, voice dropping a little—playful, warm, dangerous. "You breaking down my plays with that serious little voice? Do you know what that does to me?"
"Zachary Westbrook," I warn.
"Yes, Pennington?" he replies, sweet and sinful.
I drop my hand and glare at him—except I'm smiling too hard for it to land properly.
He laughs softly, eyes warm and mischievous. "Don't pretend you don't like it."
And unfortunately... he's right.
We talk a little longer about the game and then he shifts the phone slightly, lying back against the headboard, his messy hair falling over his forehead.
"Anyway," His eyes soften. "How are you feeling? How was your day, your rehearsal?"
"Dead," I say. "Absolutely dead. I think I lost three of my nine lives during rehearsal."
His laugh is so warm it practically crawls under my skin. "Yeah, you sound tired. You're probably so sore. I just want to give you the best massage of your life. Work out every knot in your shoulders, your neck... all of it."
I giggle, hiding my face. "You're the one who got slammed into the boards tonight. You're probably more bruised than I am."
"I'm fine," he says, smirking. "I run on spite and muscle memory."
"Oh my God."
"I'm serious," he replies. "I could barely breathe after that hit, but then I saw you in the stands—"
"You did not see me in the stands."
He grins. "Okay, fine, in my imagination. But still."
I laugh, warmth in my chest. "You're such a dork."
"And you love it."
...Yeah. I do.
He shifts a little on his pillow, his voice softening in that way it always does when he slips into Caretaking Boyfriend Mode.
"Hey," he murmurs, "don't forget to soak your feet in cold water, okay? Ten minutes. You always pretend you're fine and then I find you limping the next morning."
I roll my eyes, smiling. "I'm not limping."
"Yet," he says, raising a brow. "Do it before bed. And put something warm on your lower back. I know it's killing you after all that work."
My heart squeezes.
He's not done.
"And stretch your shoulders," he adds, lifting his hand like he's physically ticking a list in the air. "Especially the right one. You always tense that one without realizing."
"Zach—"
"And drink water," he finishes, giving me that soft, bossy glare he thinks is intimidating but is actually adorable.