CHAPTER fifty-eight #2
"I wasn't missing your showcase for anything, babe." he says simply.
Then he leans in and kisses me.
I expect a quick, sweet, calming kiss.
It isn't.
He kisses me like he's been holding it in all day — lips deepening, hands tightening their grip on my waist, pulling me flush against him as he devours my mouth like he needs the taste of me to function.
My breath catches, my fingers instinctively rising to curl around his neck, pulling him closer.
Every nerve in my body sparks awake.
The kiss feels like someone pouring confidence straight into my bloodstream — like I could walk onto that stage and lift the whole set with my bare hands if I had to.
If reassurance were something physical, tangible, alive... it would feel exactly like this kiss.
When we finally pull back, we don't go far.
Our foreheads press together, both of us breathing a little harder, small smiles tugging at our lips.
"You're gonna be amazing," he whispers, brushing the tip of his nose against mine. "You're going to go out there and own that stage. Not 'do well.' Not 'get through it.' You're going to be unforgettable."
His thumb strokes my hip, gentle and sure.
"You have something no one else has, babe.
It's not just talent. It's... you," he murmurs, "You pour your whole heart into every single performance.
You don't hold back. You put so much of yourself into every role.
.. People forget you're acting because you make every emotion real.
That's what makes watching you feel different. "
His eyes soften, tracing my face like he's memorizing every inch.
"And I'm so damn proud of you. I love you."
My heart squeezes.
"I love you so much," I murmur, letting the words settle between us like warmth.
He wraps me in a hug then — arms fully around me, holding me tight in that way that makes the world tilt back into place. I soak in his scent, his warmth—how he has this uncanny ability to pull all the chaos out of my chest with just a hug.
When we pull away just enough to see each other's faces, his mouth curves into a boyish grin.
"Oh," he adds, "and I brought backup."
I blink. "Backup?"
"The team," he says, nodding like it's obvious. "They're all here."
My jaw drops. "You brought the whole team?"
"Yep."
I narrow my eyes playfully. "Did you threaten them to come?"
Zach huffs a laugh. "Please. You think I need to? They've been preparing for this day for weeks."
I snort. "Right."
"I'm serious," he says, grin stretching.
"Cody said it's the least they could do after all the times you fed them—especially on those nights we were losing game after game and acting like the world was ending.
And Liam told me—direct quote—'Tell Care she kept the team alive and emotionally stable during our flop era. '"
I choke on a laugh. "Stop."
"Oh, and don't freak out," Zach adds, amused, "but there might be a giant banner involved. The boys spent an entire afternoon working on it. Paint everywhere. Zero artistic talent. It looks like a preschool art project gone feral."
He checks something on his phone, swipes through his album, then turns the screen toward me.
"Here," he says. "Prepare yourself."
The photo nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.
The banner is sprawled across the floor—wrinkled, crooked, and obviously made with zero adult supervision. Half the team is kneeling around it, Sharpies and paint markers in their hands.
Someone drew a hockey stick the size of a tree trunk.
Someone else attempted a puck, except it looks more like a lopsided potato.
There's glitter glue. God help me, there is glitter.
Glitter on the floor. Glitter on the banner. Glitter on them.
I cannot believe these giant athletes voluntarily opened a bottle of glitter. It looks like a craft store sneezed.
And right in the center, they plastered a massive cutout of my face on top of a cartoon body wearing a princess dress and combat boots, like they couldn't decide between fairy tale and fight club.
Across the top, in aggressively uneven letters, it says:
GO CARE!! brEAK A LEG!
And on the bottom, in violently bright neon paint:
RIDGEWATER HOCKEY TEAM LOVES CLARA & CAROLINE (WE'RE CONFUSED BUT WE SUPPORT BOTH)
I completely lose it.
My hand flies to my stomach as I double over laughing, actual tears gathering in my eyes.
"Oh my God—" I wheeze, still staring at the phone. "What—what is this?!"
Zach's shoulders shake as he laughs too. "Art," he says dryly. "Pure, unfiltered art."
I'm still laughing so hard my vision blurs. "My face—why am I wearing combat boots?!"
"Ask Cody," Zach snorts. "He said it 'felt powerful.'"
I can't stop. I'm wiping at my eyes, still clutching the phone like it's the funniest thing I've ever seen. My stomach hurts. My cheeks hurt. My soul hurts in the best way.
Zach watches me, grin softening into something tender beneath the humor.
"But they tried their best..." he says, amused, "and it earned my official seal of approval."
He nods like he's deeply proud... which is concerning, because he absolutely shouldn't be.
I laugh even harder, practically choking, and Zach chuckles with me—quiet, warm, the sound melting straight into my bones.
"God, I love them," I manage between breaths.
Zach immediately scowls and hooks an arm tighter around my waist, yanking me back against him.
"Absolutely not," he says. "Take that back. I didn't sign up for sharing."
I snort. "They made me a banner—"
"I bought the materials and supervised," he counters. "So technically I get the credit."
I choke on a laugh. "Babe—"
"Nope," he insists, tugging me even closer. "You can be fond of them. You can be grateful. But love?" He levels me with the most dramatic offended look. "I'm the only one you're allowed to love."
"You and your possessiveness..."
"What?" He twists his mouth into a pout and looks away like a five-year-old pretending he isn't sulking.
A laugh slips out of me.
I cup his cheeks and gently make him face me. He does, but he keeps that ridiculously cute mock scowl like he's committed to the bit.
I lean in and give him a quick kiss. "For the record," I murmur against his lips, "I happen to love it when you get all possessive."
The transformation is instant.
His scowl melts.
His whole face lights up.
A slow, beaming smile spreads across his mouth — warm, boyish, devastatingly cute.
"Yeah?" he says, voice dropping with that soft, smug happiness he can't hide.
Before I can answer, he leans in and kisses me — sweet, slow, completely undone by my words. His hands slide up my back, pulling me into him like he can't help it, like he needs to.
And God, he looks so happy it makes my chest ache in the best way.
*****
ZACH
The house lights are still up, warm and golden across the mainstage.
The velvet curtains are drawn, hiding everything Caroline's been losing sleep over for the past month.
Musicians in the pit are tuning instruments — a scattered violin note here, a cello line there — and the soft buzz of the audience fills the whole theater.
Programs are rustling. People are settling in. The air's got that backstage-magic tension, the kind where everything feels like it's vibrating, waiting.
My mom and Sam are with them — though Sam's seat is empty at the moment. I saw her slip out a few minutes ago, probably to the bathroom.
Mom is leaning in toward Esther, the two of them chatting. Franklin sits there quietly... trying — and failing — to look composed. The man's knee hasn't stopped bouncing for the last ten minutes.
It's kind of adorable, honestly.
He's usually this put-together, all-business type of guy in public, but when it comes to Caroline?
He turns into the softest, proudest dad on earth.
He has never missed a single performance she's ever had — not one — and tonight he's practically vibrating with nervous excitement, his gaze fixed on the stage like he can already see his little girl shining out there.
I'm a few rows back with the guys — smack in the center aisle because apparently that's where Cody decided we "needed to be for optimal viewing of our girl."
Yeah. Our girl.
It's... a whole circus right here.
Two of our teammates, Reese and Jasper, are on the balcony rail trying to hang the banner, and somehow they're still screwing it up. And by "banner," I mean the most offensively ugly piece of fabric ever crafted by human hands. It looks like a kindergarten group project gone wrong.
The letters aren't even straight. The paint is still suspiciously wet in some parts. And the spacing? Horrific. The letters are uneven, the paint's blotchy, and the whole thing looks like it was made by sleep-deprived toddlers — but hey, effort counts.
People in the audience are staring — some chuckling, some outright laughing — and honestly? I don't blame them.
Cody and the twins are shouting instructions like drill sergeants.
"No—other way! OTHER WAY. Dude, that's left. I said right!"
Luke chimes in, exasperated, "Bro, lift your side. YOUR side. Why are you lifting his side?"
"Dude, it's STILL crooked! Higher—no, LOWER—no, what are you even doing?!"
"STOP PULLING, YOU'RE MAKING IT WORSE!" Reese barks at Jasper.
Reese adjusts it two centimeters.
"JASPER, STOP MOVING! WHY ARE YOU MOVING?!"
Cody stands in the aisle like a useless foreman, nodding proudly. "Yup. Perfect. Little more to the right though—no—okay stop—WAIT, back."
I rub a hand down my face.
Cody stands in the aisle, hands on his hips like a proud, useless supervisor. "STRAIGHTEN IT! No—STRAIGHTEN IT STRAIGHTER!"
"STRAIGHTER?" I murmur. "That's not even a direction."
Cody ignores me.
After like... ten tries and two near-death slips over the balcony rail, the banner finally sits halfway decent. Not perfect — not even good — but readable-ish.
Cody throws his arms up. "YES! NAILED IT!"
The guys up there cheer and start coming down the stairs, chest-bumping each other.