Chapter 11
Elijah
Happiness is a dangerous drug. It makes you careless. It dulls your survival instincts. It convinces you that the ice won't crack under your weight, even when you can hear the spiderweb fractures spreading with every step.
For three days, I had been high on it.
I sat in the team film room, the lights dimmed, watching tape of our upcoming game against Michigan. On the screen, players moved in grainy, stop-motion chunks. The sound of Coach Miller’s laser pointer clicking against the whiteboard was rhythmic, hypnotic.
Usually, this room was my sanctuary. I dissected plays. I memorized tendencies. I lived in the geometry of the game.
Today, I was staring at the screen, but all I could see was Angela.
I saw the curve of her spine in the morning light. I felt the way her legs wrapped around my waist. I heard the specific, breathy catch in her throat right before she fell apart.
I smiled.
It was subtle—a twitch of the corner of my mouth—but in the sterile, aggressive environment of the film room, it was practically a billboard.
"Vance," Coach Miller barked.
My head snapped up. The smile vanished instantly, replaced by the mask.
"Yeah, Coach?"
"You find Michigan’s penalty kill amusing?" Miller asked, pacing in front of the screen. "Because I don't see anything funny about a ninety-two percent success rate."
"No, sir," I said, my voice flat. "Just thinking about how their defenseman opens up his hips too early on the forecheck. We can exploit that."
It was a lie, but it was a good one. I had noticed that tendency two weeks ago. I was banking it for an emergency.
Miller narrowed his eyes. He studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Right. Stay focused, Captain. You look..."
He paused, searching for the word.
"Soft," Jax whispered from the seat next to me.
I kicked him under the table. Hard.
"You look distracted," Miller finished. "Get your head in the game. We’re three weeks from the playoffs."
"Yes, Coach."
The lights came up. The meeting adjourned.
As the team filed out, shuffling and joking, Jax lingered. He waited until the room was mostly empty before leaning against the table, crossing his arms.
"You’re terrible at this," he stated.
"Terrible at what?" I gathered my notebook, avoiding his gaze.
"Existing as a human being who is getting laid," Jax grinned. "You’ve been humming, Elijah. Humming. You don't hum. You brood. You glare. You emit a frequency that kills small birds."
"I wasn't humming," I grunted, shoving my tablet into my bag.
"You were. And you’re texting." He pointed at my phone, which was currently buzzing in my hand. "You never text. You call, give an order, and hang up. Who are you texting? Is it the ballerina? Or did you hire a life coach to teach you how to feel joy?"
I looked down at the screen.
Angela: I bought groceries. Real food. Not just protein powder and sadness. Also, Chloe is asking why I’m sleeping at 'the library' three nights in a row. I told her the wifi is better.
I fought the urge to smile again.
"It’s personal," I said to Jax, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
"It’s Moretti," Jax said, falling into step beside me as we walked out into the hallway. "Look, man, I get it. She’s hot. In a terrifying, 'she might stab me' kind of way. But be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"The noise," Jax said, his voice losing its joking edge. "The scouts are watching. Your dad is watching. If they think you’re losing your edge... if they think you’re prioritizing a girl over the draft..."
"I’m not losing my edge," I snapped.
I stopped walking. I turned to face him. The hallway was crowded with athletes, but I created a bubble of tension around us.
"I put up four points last game with a bone bruise in my hand," I said quietly. "My edge is fine."
Jax held up his hands. "Okay. Just looking out for you. You know how the vultures are. They smell blood."
He clapped me on the shoulder and walked away toward the training room.
I stood there, the warning echoing in my head.
They smell blood.
I looked at my phone again. Angela had sent a follow-up text.
Angela: PS. I’m wearing the green panties. The ones you didn't rip.
The blood rushed south so fast I nearly got dizzy.
I typed back with my left hand, my right thumb still taped and useless.
Me: Be ready at 5. I’m picking you up.
I shoved the phone in my pocket.
Let them smell blood. Let the scouts watch. I was going to have my cake and eat it too. I was going to be the Captain and the Lover. I was Elijah Vance. I could control two worlds.
Couldn't I?
Angela
Hiding a relationship with the most famous person on campus was like trying to hide an elephant in a dorm room. You could throw a sheet over it, but everyone knew something big was taking up space.
I stood in the aisle of the campus grocery store—"The Bodega"—staring at a display of pasta sauce.
Marinara or Alfredo?
Elijah liked protein. He liked clean eating. But last night, after... everything... he had mentioned he missed his mom’s lasagna.
I grabbed the marinara. I grabbed ricotta. I grabbed a box of lasagna noodles.
"Cooking for an army?"
I jumped, nearly dropping the jar of sauce.
Chloe was standing at the end of the aisle, holding a basket full of Red Bull and gummy worms. She was looking at my cart—which contained actual vegetables, lean ground turkey, and enough eggs to feed a family—with deep suspicion.
"Hey, Chlo," I said, trying to sound casual. "Just... stocking up."
"Stocking up for who?" Chloe asked, walking closer. "You eat ramen and yogurt. This cart screams 'I am feeding a man who lifts heavy objects.'"
"I’m expanding my culinary horizons," I lied. "Self-care. You know."
Chloe narrowed her eyes. She was an Art History major. She was trained to look for subtext in brushstrokes. She was currently looking for subtext in my ground turkey.
"You haven't slept in our room since Tuesday," she noted.
"The library," I repeated the lie. "Midterms are brutal."
"The library closes at 2 AM, Ange. Where do you go after?"
"I... I nap in the 24-hour study lounge."
"You nap in a lounge, and yet you show up to morning class looking glowing, smelling like expensive cologne, and wearing... are those diamond studs?"
She pointed to my ears.
I froze. I touched the small, elegant diamonds Elijah had given me yesterday morning. "Just a trinket," he had said. "It goes with your eyes."
"They’re cubic zirconia," I said quickly. "Claire’s Boutique. Ten bucks."
Chloe stared at me. She knew I was lying. I knew she knew. The air between us was thick with the unspoken truth.
"Look," she said, her voice softening. "If you’re seeing someone... that’s great. Really. You deserve to get laid. You deserve to be happy."
"I am," I whispered. "Happy."
"But," she continued, "if it’s who I think it is... just be careful. Those hockey guys... they live in a different world. They use people. And when they’re done, they don't even say goodbye."
"He’s not like that," I defended instantly.
Chloe’s eyebrows shot up. "I didn't say a name."
Dammit.
"I have to go," I said, pushing my cart past her. "I have a... study group."
"Right," Chloe called after me. "Study group. Make sure you use protection. Textbooks can be dangerous."
I hurried to the checkout, my face burning.
It was getting harder. The lies were piling up. Every time I looked at Elijah, I wanted to scream from the rooftops that he was mine. That the "Iceman" brought me coffee in bed. That he let me trace his scars.
But I couldn't.
Because if people knew the truth—the real truth, not the 'fake dating' cover story—they would dig. They would find the contract. They would find the money trail. And Elijah would be ruined.
I paid for the groceries with the black credit card Elijah had given me. The cashier looked at the name—Vance Equity—and then at me.
"Is this yours?" she asked, skeptical.
"I’m his assistant," I lied smoothly. "Personal shopper."
She handed it back, unimpressed.
I walked out into the crisp afternoon air, clutching the grocery bags. A black Aston Martin pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down.
Elijah was wearing sunglasses. He looked like a movie star. He looked like trouble.
"Get in," he said.
I got in. I tossed the bags in the back.
"Did you get the cheese?" he asked as I buckled up.
"I got the cheese. I got the sauce. I’m making lasagna."
He smiled. It was a real smile, one that reached his eyes behind the shades. He reached over with his left hand and grabbed the back of my neck, pulling me across the console for a kiss.
It wasn't a peck. It was a deep, hungry claim.
We were parked in a loading zone. People were walking by.
"Elijah," I mumbled against his mouth. "People can see."
"Let them," he growled. "I don't care."
He pulled back, but he didn't let go of my neck. His thumb stroked my pulse point.
"I missed you," he said. "It’s been four hours."
"You saw me at lunch."
"Across a cafeteria," he dismissed. "I couldn't touch you. It was torture."
"You’re dramatic," I teased, but my heart soared.
"I’m honest." He put the car in gear. "Let’s go home. I want you on the kitchen counter before the lasagna goes in the oven."
"We have to cook first," I laughed. "Or we’ll starve."
"I’ll feed you later," he promised darkly.
As we drove away, I looked in the side mirror. I saw Chloe standing on the sidewalk, watching us. Her expression wasn't angry. It was sad.
A pang of guilt hit me. I was losing my best friend to keep my lover.
It’s temporary, I told myself. Just for the season.
But as Elijah’s hand found my thigh, warm and solid, I knew I was lying again.
I didn't want this to be temporary. I wanted it to be forever.
Elijah
The lasagna was burning.
I could smell it—the distinct scent of charred cheese wafting from the oven. But I couldn't move to fix it. I was currently occupied.
Angela was sitting on the kitchen island. Her legs were wrapped around my waist. My face was buried in her neck.
"The timer," she gasped, her hands gripping my hair. "Elijah... the timer went off."
"Let it burn," I murmured, biting gently on her collarbone.