Chapter 5
SAM
It's five in the morning, which means I'm already awake for one reason and one reason only.
Making my beloved's favorite Mean Green Monster morning elixir.
Around this time every day for the past couple of weeks, my body goes on autopilot. No alarms needed. Just me, floating through pre-dawn darkness like some kind of kitchen ghost, hoodie draped over my unwashed hair, twisted into what can only generously be called a bun. Lights dimmed because my retinas deserve better than fluorescent assault before sunrise.
This is the part of the day I don't rush. You don't rush things you make out of love. You treat them gently. With care. Like they might sense impatience and retaliate by tasting worse.
I move through the kitchen quietly and line up the ingredients on the counter.
The greens go in first, leaves brushing my fingers, followed by everything else. And then—of course—the most important ingredient of all. The one that does the real heavy lifting.
Love.
Because without it, this thing tastes like blended lawn clippings soaked in regret. It's a flavor so aggressively virtuous it feels like punishment disguised as wellness.
I screw the lid on, take a breath, and hit the button.
The blender screams to life like a demon being exorcised.
Loud. Merciless. Inappropriately enthusiastic for this ungodly hour.
I wince automatically, glancing toward the bedroom area even though I already know how this goes.
Sorry, Care.
Yeah, I know—it's early. And yes, I've absolutely woken Caroline up with this thing before. But she never complains. Maybe she does internally. Maybe she sighs dramatically into her pillow. But she loves me. And she knows exactly who this shake is for.
Besides, she's usually up around five-thirty or six for her morning run anyway. At this point, my smoothie ritual is basically her alarm clock.
You're welcome.
The blender finally smooths out, the contents settling into a deep, unsettling green. I lift the lid and lean in for a cautious sniff.
...Yeah.
My nose wrinkles on instinct.
I dip a spoon in and take the smallest sip possible.
Instant regret.
It's thick. Bitter. The kind of flavor that sits heavy on your tongue and refuses to apologize for itself. Not subtle. Not friendly. Very much committed to being healthy at all costs.
And yet.
My lips twitch into a grin.
Because this—this—is exactly how he likes it.
I pour the shake into the shaker bottle, watching it fill to the top, then screw the lid on tight, wiping a stray drip off the side with my sleeve.
Perfect.
This is the one.
The good batch.
Today's their opening game.
Which means Eli needs to be in his best mood. Focused. Sharp. Powered up like the emotionally constipated hockey god he is. And somehow—against all logic and reason—this awful green monstrosity of a shake is what does it for him.
I shake the bottle once, twice, then hug it to my chest like it's precious cargo.
"Go crush it," I whisper to absolutely no one, giggling quietly to myself.
A light tap lands on my shoulder.
I flinch so hard I nearly drop the bottle.
"Good morning, Sammy."
"Jesus—Care." I clutch my chest with my free hand, heart racing. "You can't just do that. A warning would be nice."
"I did. You were just... in your bubble." She nods at the shaker bottle still hugged to my chest. "Fully trapped in your happy Elijah bubble."
She's already grinning, hair a total mess, eyes still sleepy—except they're not just sleepy. They're puffy and red-rimmed, like she went a few rounds with a swarm of angry bees. An obvious tell of how much she cried after her confrontation with Zach last night.
And guilt pricks at me, because I was partly to blame—the key I gave my brother, the emergency code I used just to get her back to the dorm. Yeah, I know. Bad move. I've already yelled at myself plenty after watching her fall apart last night.
I huff a laugh, embarrassed, and finally set the bottle down on the counter.
"Sorry. Did I wake you up again?"
Caroline gives me a look. The kind that answers the question without a single word. Then her lips curve into a wider grin. "It's fine. I'm used to it."
She opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of cold water, and drinks straight from it while I wipe down the counter, cleaning the small splatters I left behind. I can feel her watching me.
"So," she says casually, leaning against the counter, "are you really going to keep waking up at the crack of dawn every day just to make that shake and take it to him?"
"Yep." I pop the p, not even hesitating.
She squints at me, concern threading through her tone. "Sam... you were never a morning person. And now you're up before sunrise just to make a smoothie."
I shrug. "If I don't make it, he'll just drink whatever the team provides. He hates the taste, and it puts him in a mood all day." I glance at the bottle. "This one just... works. It's the only one he actually likes."
That part's true.
Ridgewater's hockey program has a full nutrition team—dietitians whose entire job is to keep the players fueled, hydrated, and functional. They design meal plans, recovery snacks, pre-practice and post-game nutrition. There are team-approved shake recipes, protein blends tailored for muscle recovery and endurance, plus ready-to-drink bottles stocked in the dorm fridges and at the rink.
Elijah has tried all of them.
For years.
No matter how many recipes they tweak or rotate in, none of it ever sits right with him. Some leave him sluggish. Some give him headaches. And on bad days, he goes quiet and sharp-edged—the kind of mood Zach warned me about weeks ago, like he's carrying a storm around under his skin.
That's how this started.
I asked questions. Read articles. Cross-checked ingredients that made sense for early-morning workouts—complex carbs, healthy fats, iron-rich greens, anti-inflammatory add-ins. There were... a lot of failed attempts. Way too many "absolutely not" looks from him.
But eventually—one recipe stuck.
One got his approval.
I glance back at Caroline, who's still studying me like she's deciding whether to lecture or hug me.
"I don't mind," I say quietly. "If this makes his mornings easier... then it's worth it."
She shakes her head, smiling despite herself. "You know that's ridiculous, right?"
I smile back.
"Yeah," I say softly. "I know."
Caroline twists the cap back onto her water bottle, watching me for a beat longer than necessary.
"But is it really worth it?" she asks quietly. "You keep giving, Sam. And you don't get anything back. Not even a thank-you."
I let out a soft breath, leaning my hip against the counter.
"That's because he doesn't know I make it," I say with a small laugh. "So how exactly is he supposed to appreciate it? And if he ever finds out, he'll just throw it away."
"Sam..."
"Besides, this is a labor of love, Care," I say, lifting a shoulder. "I don't need anything in return. I'm already happy seeing him drink it. Seeing his day start a little better because of it."
Okay, fine. That sounds dramatic. But it's true.
She exhales through her nose, shaking her head. "You say that like it doesn't cost you anything."
Her eyes lift to mine. Careful. Protective.
She exhales slowly, like she's choosing her next words carefully. "Don't you think it's time you stop chasing Elijah?" she asks gently. "It's been years, Sam. And he still doesn't like you."
Ouch.
Yeah. I know that.
Still doesn't mean it doesn't sting every time someone says it out loud.
I don't straighten or bristle. Instead, I tilt my head and give her a small, knowing smirk. "You're really the one telling me that?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You were in love with my brother for what—almost two decades?" I say lightly. "Tell me, Care. When did you stop?"
Her mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up her cheeks as she looks away.
"And look how that ended," she says quietly. "That's why I'm saying this. I don't want you getting hurt the way I did. I don't want you breaking yourself for someone who won't choose you."
"You know what you and Zach had was different. You both loved each other. You were just too scared to say it."
She scoffs, shaking her head. "Sam—"
"No, listen," I cut in. "You didn't fall apart because there was nothing there. You fell apart because neither of you had the courage to speak up. And the only reason you drifted apart in the first place was because of a stupid misunderstanding." I roll my eyes. "One careless thing my idiotic big brother said—and instead of asking him about it, you ran."
Her lips part, but no words come out.
"If either of you had even an ounce of my courage," I add quietly, "you both would've been spared years of heartache."
"Please," she mutters. "Zach didn't love me."
I meet her eyes. "Do you really believe that?"
She laughs, hollow at first. "If he did, then why was he screwing half the female population the entire time?"
"Okay, first of all—have you ever considered that maybe he was just that stupid?"
That earns a real laugh from her. Short, surprised. Genuine.
"I'm serious," I say, smiling despite myself. "Zach has always been emotionally illiterate. But only he can explain his side. And he can't do that if you won't even stand in the same room with him."
I hesitate, then soften. "Come to the opening game with me later tonight. Just come. Talk to him."
Her shoulders tense immediately.
"Ha. Yeah, no." She pivots toward the bathroom. "I need to pee. Like, urgently."
The door closes a little too fast.
I stare at it for a moment, then glance down at the shaker bottle still sitting on the counter.
Coward.
Some of us chase. Like me.
Some of us run. Like Caroline.
And somehow, we all end up hurting the same way.
Thirty minutes later, I'm in the Pond's kitchen, standing at the island with my big brother Zach, who is actively helping me commit what can only be described as performance art.
The goal: make it look like someone—him, specifically—has been making a morning shake here.
Which is why the perfectly good shake I made in my dorm is now being ceremoniously transferred into their blender.
Gosh.
The things I do for love.
The things I do to make sure Eli never finds out I'm the one making his precious morning shake.
If this ever comes out, I will deny everything. Lie under oath. Fake my own death.
Zach tips the shaker a little too aggressively, and a splash of green hits the counter.
"Careful," I hiss. "It needs to look natural. Not like a crime scene."
He squints at the mess. "This is natural. This is what happens when a guy makes a shake at five in the morning."
"That is absolutely not true."
He smears a bit of it with the back of his hand. "See? Thoughtless. Sloppy. Masculine."
I stare at him. "You are enjoying this way too much."
"Hey," he whispers, grinning, "I've been pretending I make this thing for weeks. I'm committed to the bit."
And he has. Since the start of the semester, Zach's been selling this whole thoughtful co-captain act—telling Eli he's just being considerate, looking out for team morale, whatever excuse sounds believable before sunrise. Thankfully, Eli's never questioned it.
Which is good.
Because if he knew it was me?
Straight into the trash.
Zach reaches for the lid, and I glance at the time on my phone. We're supposed to be done before five-thirty. That's the plan. Enough time for him to finish the shake, set it out like he's always the one who made it, and for me to slip out of their dorm like I was never here at all.
At five-thirty, the drink should be ice-cold and ready. That's usually when Elijah comes down to the kitchen. By then, I should already be gone.
I look at the screen again.
It's five-forty.
"Shit—it's already five-forty, Zachy. We're late," I mutter. "We're late. We're so late."
Zach winces. "That one's on me. Sorry. It took forever to wake me up. I didn't exactly fall asleep early."
Yeah. No kidding.
"It's fine, Zachy," I say, already moving. "Let's just hurry."
He nods.
We screw the lid on, Zach gives the blender a quick pulse, then deliberately leaves it slightly off-center on the counter. He wipes his hands on a towel like he's just completed a manly task.
"Done," he whispers dramatically.
"Perfect," I whisper back. "I'm out."
I turn to make my very speedy, very quiet escape—and slam straight into a wall.
A very solid wall.
I yelp. "Oh—!"
"Oof—sorry," a low voice says at the exact same time.
Strong hands catch my shoulders before I can even think about falling back. My face presses into a hard chest, warm and solid and very much him.
Then the scent hits.
Fresh soap—pine and eucalyptus, sharp and clean—but underneath it is something warmer. Aftershave, woody and deep, like cedar and sandalwood, still clinging to his skin from a shower taken minutes ago. It clings to him, mixed with clean cotton and the faint heat of his skin, unmistakably fresh, unmistakably him.
It smells dangerously good.
Good enough that my breath hitches before I remember myself. Before I remember the time. Before I remember I'm standing way too close, breathing him in when I should already be halfway out the door.
I should move. I should absolutely move.
This is the part where a normal person steps back, says something coherent, remembers the plan. Instead, I close my eyes. Just for a second.
Because why would I move when I'm exactly where I want to be?
I breathe in again, savoring his scent, like I'm trying to memorize it—pine, eucalyptus, clean heat, all of it wrapping around me like this is some once-in-a-lifetime experience and not me standing in the middle of their kitchen so early in the morning, risking everything for a whiff of Elijah Deveraux.
My brain is screaming leave.
My body is saying stay very still.
I let it settle, let myself have this—this rare, too-close moment I never get.
Just one breath.
Any second now.
Right after one more breath.
Zach makes a choking noise behind me, and that's what finally snaps me out of it.
Even then, I still don't move.
I probably would've stayed right there a second longer if Eli hadn't taken matters into his own hands.
His finger presses lightly—but firmly—against my forehead, nudging my head back just enough to break contact. My chin tilts up, and suddenly I'm staring straight at his face.
The scowl is already there.
His signature one. The kind he saves exclusively for me.
If this were anyone else, they'd probably back away immediately. Maybe apologize. Maybe run. But I've been on the receiving end of that look for ten years now. I know it by heart. I've survived it. Built immunity to it.
So instead of flinching, I grin at him. Wide. Bright. Unbothered.
"Good morning, Eli!"
A normal person might say it back.
Elijah just keeps pushing me away with his finger and glares down at me like I've personally offended the sun for rising.
"What are you doing here this early?"
Oh no.
My brain scrambles. Too many thoughts. None of them usable.
What should I say?
What should I not say?
His finger finally drops from my forehead, but his gaze doesn't let up. It flicks from me... to Zach... to the blender on the counter... then back to me again.
My heart starts pounding.
Oh god.
He's going to figure it out.
"Uh—"
Zach clears his throat loudly, cutting in before I can completely self-destruct.
"Your shake's ready, Cap."
I glance at my brother just in time to see him pour the green sludge into Elijah's usual shaker bottle like this is the most normal thing in the world. Casual. Unbothered. A professional liar.
I exhale—slowly, carefully—as he gives Zach a short nod and reaches for the bottle.
"Thanks, man."
He flips open the cap and takes a long pull.
Zach's face immediately twists in visible disgust, like he's witnessing a crime against humanity.
I have to bite down hard on the proud grin trying to surface, because if I let it show—even for a second—it'll give me away.
And I can't afford that.
It doesn't matter that he doesn't know it's me who made it for him. I didn't do this for credit. I didn't do it so he'd thank me, or look at me differently, or suddenly realize something he's never been willing to face.
That was never the point.
The point is this.
Right here.
I watch him drink it like it's instinct.
And I watch him enjoy it.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly as he swallows. The slight lift of his brows. The way his posture straightens a fraction, like something just clicked on inside him. Like the fog cleared. Like he just got plugged into a power source he didn't realize he needed.
He closes the cap with that look on his face—the one that says yeah, that hit the spot—and for a second, he looks fully awake. Charged. Ready.
That's enough.
Knowing I'm the reason his day starts like that. Knowing I'm the first thing that puts that look on his face every morning—even if he'll never connect it back to me.
That's the win.
That's the thank-you, multiplied by everything I never say out loud.
And I keep my face neutral, my hands still, my secret safe—because this moment is mine, whether he knows it or not.
Eli looks at me again.
Whatever flicker of enjoyment crossed his face a few seconds ago is gone. Erased. Replaced with that familiar cool stare, like smiling at me was an accident he already regrets.
"So, what exactly are you doing here this early?" he asks again.
I don't let it dent my mood. Not even a little.
I perk up, stepping closer to the kitchen island, like I'm perfectly entitled to be here. "I just came to wish you guys luck," I say easily. Finally coming up with the perfect excuse.
"I've got back-to-back classes all day, so I won't be able to swing by later."
His eyes narrow, like he's deciding whether to believe me.
I grin mischievously. "But I'll be there tonight. Dressed up real nice." I tap my chest. "Your jersey, obviously. Gotta represent. Number one cheerleader duties and all."
Nothing.
No reaction. Not even a flicker.
Classic Elijah.
He takes another drink of the shake instead, letting out a small appreciative moan.
I smirk. "Is it really that good? I bet I could make one ten times better than whatever Zach whipped up."
"Wouldn't matter," he says flatly. "I wouldn't drink it."
"Why not?"
"Who knows what you'd put in it. Probably some love potion or something."
My inner voice snaps to attention. Well, honey, that's not entirely wrong.
Because if love potion means waking up before sunrise, memorizing his preferences, tweaking ratios until it stops tasting like grass and punishment—then yeah. Guilty.
And fine, maybe there's a touch of desperation in there too. Maybe a dash of hope. Maybe a reckless amount of caring for someone who pretends not to notice.
Sue me.
Out loud, though, I just roll my eyes and scoff like he hasn't hit uncomfortably close to the truth. "Please. If I were going to poison you, it wouldn't be with something green."
He doesn't smile. Of course he doesn't.
He takes another swig of the shake.
That sound again—soft, approving, completely unconscious—and my chest tightens in that familiar, stupid way. Like my heart wants to stand up and clap while my brain begs it to sit back down and behave.
I look away before my face gives me up.
Because he doesn't need to know.
He never does.
The shake's already done its job. And so have I.