Chapter 6
SAM
I step into the arena and feel it before I hear it—that electric current running through the place.
The air vibrates with a collective buzz that seeps into your bones like a fever. Ridgewater season openers aren't events; they're mass hysteria disguised as school spirit.
Navy and white banners flutter overhead like battle flags. The ice below—pristine, untouched—gleams with possibility. The speakers blast some generic pump-up anthem, but it's barely audible beneath the tribal roars and synchronized foot-stomping that makes the bleachers tremble beneath me.
This isn't just a hockey rink. It's a cathedral.
I squeeze into my self-assigned just as they emerge for warm-ups. The scrape of blades against ice makes my heart flutter in that pavlovian way that probably requires therapy.
And then— there. HIM.
Elijah Deveraux. Number 78. God's gift to college hockey and my vision board. He glides across the ice like he's doing it a favor by touching it.
I smooth down my jersey—his jersey—for the fourteenth time since putting it on. The Ridgewater Warriors logo snarls from my chest: a battle-ready alligator that somehow looks both menacing and weirdly seductive in that reptilian way.
My hair is yanked into what I call my "game day ponytail"—so tight it gives me a temporary face-lift. Both cheeks decorated with his number and initials in navy face paint that took forty-five minutes and three attempts to get symmetrical. Same look I've worn to every one of his games since the day I met him.
Yes, I'm aware I'm Zach's sister.
Yes, I'm aware I should technically be wearing my brother's jersey.
But listen—Zach accepted a long time ago that when he and Eli are both on the ice, loyalty goes straight out the window. I support my brother in spirit. Emotionally. Silently. From a respectful distance.
This jersey?
Non-negotiable.
He once tried to argue about it. Once.
Didn't go well for him.
My snacks are arrayed beside me like I showed up ready for a Hollywood blockbuster marathon. A mountain of popcorn—already streaming butter all the way to my fingertips. A big pack of Watermelon Sour Patch. A drink I definitely paid too much for. I don't even wait for puck drop before reaching for the popcorn—I'm already inhaling popcorn like a vacuum, eyes glued to the rink as if warm-ups were the teaser trailer for my life's greatest obsession.
Then he bends forward, hands braced on his knees, back arching under his jersey in a way that makes my heart do somersaults.
Oh.
Ohhh.
I downshift my chewing speed so I can savor each kernel in reverent silence.
Time for hydration, I think, stabbing at my drink. I need the relief. But the second that candy-colored liquid hits my tongue, I realize: hydration is a myth when Elijah Deveraux is on ice.
My mouth is Sahara-dry, my throat a deflated balloon. I gulp again, hoping for a miracle. Nada. My body's decided that thirst is an acceptable sacrifice for witnessing hockey royalty.
He pushes off the boards and suddenly he's gliding backward—so smooth it's like the ice rolled out a red carpet just for him. One hand holds his stick loose like it's an extension of him.
He intercepts a pass, flicks his wrist, and Thunk—the puck rockets toward the net, a one-way ticket to goal city. Clean shot. Precise as Cupid's arrow. I practically swoon.
Another stretch. Another shot.
This is absurdly entertaining.
I shove more popcorn into my mouth, eyes glued to him like I paid admission specifically for this part.
He looks like one of those Greek gods who tried to blend in with mortals but failed spectacularly. Like someone took a hockey god straight from Olympus, handed him skates, and said act human, and he went, I'll try, while glowing just a little too bright to pull it off.
The way his thighs tense when he stops—strong, solid, unfair. The way his jaw sets when he focuses, lips pressed together like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. He shakes out his arms, loose and ready, like he's warming up for war and not a college hockey game.
I shovel popcorn into my mouth like I need sustenance to survive this.
My crunch-sip-crunch rhythm intensifies, but I'm still parched. How does this happen?
I drink again. Still dry. My body has apparently decided hydration is optional when faced with Elijah Deveraux in motion.
God, how is this still warm-ups.
If anyone asked, I'd say I'm here for the team.
For the sport. For school spirit.
But honestly?
If Eli were standing still, staring at the ice for ten minutes straight, I'd still be locked in. Because when it's him, everything is entertaining. Stretching? Cinema. Skating laps? Art. Drinking water? Don't even get me started.
I pop another handful of popcorn into my mouth, eyes never leaving the ice.
He skates past the glass, close enough that I can really see him now. The set of his jaw. The focus in his eyes—sharp, locked in, already somewhere ahead of the puck. He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, breath fogging the air like he's pacing himself before a storm.
This is the look.
He wears it every game. Every single one. That fierce, unshakable intensity that settles over him the moment he steps onto the ice. Not nerves—never that. It's control. Power held tight. Determination pressed into every line of his face like he's carrying the weight of the team without letting it show.
Because he's the captain.
Because he has to look like this.
Commanding. Unbeatable. Like nothing touches him once the helmet goes on. Like he's already decided how this game is going to go—and the rest of the rink just hasn't caught up yet.
It's the kind of presence real hockey players have on big nights. Opening night. Packed arena. All eyes watching. The kind where leaders don't smile, don't joke, don't waste energy. They sharpen. They focus. They become something else.
And Eli does it so effortlessly, it's maddening.
Like he was built for this. Like the ice recognizes him the second his skates touch down.
I swallow hard, suddenly aware that not even the world's entire snack supply can quench this thirst. Because what he's serving up here isn't just hot. It's positively dangerous—like watching a supernova happen in slow motion, and somehow, I'm front-row center.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out right away, already expecting Caroline's name—some last-minute I changed my mind, I'm coming, save me a seat text. I did try to convince her again to watch the game with me before I left the dorm. Gave it one more shot.
But Caroline is nothing if not stubborn.
She did have a valid excuse, though. She said she'll be hanging out with some of her new friends tonight for their The Life of a Showgirl themed listening party. Even though it doesn't start until midnight.
Still.
I glance at my screen.
It's not Caroline.
It's my mom.
MOM
Has the game started yet?
Another buzz.
MOM
I can't believe I'm missing your brother's opening game! I should have been there!
I chuckle, shaking my head.
Of course she's upset. Our mom has never missed a single one of Zach's games. Well—except those awful, brutal months almost three years ago, and I immediately shove that thought away because absolutely not. We're not going there.
She was supposed to drive down to Miami tonight to watch Zach's game. But a last-minute, very important seminar out of state ruined the plan, and now she won't be back until next week.
Zach told her it was fine. That he understood and it's not a big deal.
Which, obviously, means nothing.
Because with our mom, everything is a big deal when it comes to her kids.
I type back quickly.
ME
Game hasn't started yet. Warm-ups just finished. Zach looks great.
Please don't feel bad—go crush your seminar like the powerhouse you are.
I pause, then grin and add:
ME
Also... since you're out of town anyway, you should totally go out tonight.
Who knows. You might meet a hot guy at a bar. (wink emoji)
The response is instant.
MOM
SAMANTHA!!!!!!!!
Followed by approximately seventeen horrified emojis.
I laugh so hard I have to clamp a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking as the crowd around me roars again. Worth it. Completely worth it.
I tuck my phone away, still smiling, just as the announcer's voice booms through the arena, calling both teams to center ice for the opening faceoff.
By the time the game hits the halfway mark, the arena is on fire.
The score's tight. The pace is brutal. Skates carve into the ice like blades, bodies slam into the boards hard enough that the glass rattles, and the crowd reacts to everything—every missed shot, every clean pass, every questionable call.
The refs have been busy.
A tripping penalty sends one of their defensemen to the box, and the place explodes in boos. Not thirty seconds later, Luke gets called for interference after a hit that was maybe a little late but definitely not worth that much drama. He slams the door to the sin bin shut, ripping his helmet off like he personally plans to haunt the refs in their dreams.
Then Cody joins him after an unnecessary roughness call that starts with a shove and ends with both benches screaming.
The sin bin is suddenly very full.
I'm on my feet more than I'm sitting now, yelling until my throat burns, clapping so hard my palms sting. Every shift feels heavier. Faster. Like the ice itself knows this is an opening game and refuses to let anyone ease into it.
Elijah's line hops over the boards again.
And something shifts.
I see it before it happens—the way Zach circles back with the puck, eyes up, calm in the chaos. The way Elijah adjusts his position, drifting just enough to create space. They don't even look at each other.
They never have to.
Zach cuts left, drawing a defender with him. Then—clean, sharp, perfect—he threads the puck through traffic.
Straight to Elijah.
Time slows.
Elijah doesn't hesitate. He snaps the shot so fast it's almost invisible.
The puck hits the back of the net with a sound so satisfying it feels like it echoes inside my chest.
Goal.
His second of the night.
The arena detonates.
I scream—actually scream—jumping straight up, popcorn flying everywhere as I clap and shout and lose all sense of dignity. The crowd is on its feet, noise crashing down from every direction, chants rolling through the stands.
"SEVEN! EIGHT! SEVEN! EIGHT!"
On the ice, Elijah turns just as Zach skates into him, shoving him lightly, laughing, pointing at him like that's my guy. They bump gloves, effortless, unstoppable. The duo everyone talks about for a reason.
I'm shaking. Smiling so hard my face hurts.
Because that pass? That finish?
That's years of chemistry. Trust. Instinct. My brother and the man I love reading each other like second nature, owning the ice like it belongs to them.
I clap until my hands hurt.
This game is everything.
And it's not even over yet.
I don't even realize I'm yelling until the words are already flying out of me.
"LET'S GO, WESTbrOOK!" I shout, pointing wildly at the ice. "THAT'S MY brOTHER!"
A guy two rows down laughs. I do not care.
"And LET'S GO, DEVERAUX!" I add immediately, louder. Way louder. "THAT'S MY—"
I stop myself just in time.
"...MY FAVORITE PLAYER!" I amend, absolutely lying through my teeth.
I clap so hard my hands sting, bouncing on the balls of my feet like sitting is no longer an option. "COME ON, ELI! AGAIN! YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE IN YOU!"
Zach skates past the bench and I yell his name again, proud, obnoxious, probably embarrassing him on a cellular level.
And then some idiot on the opposing team decides it's a great idea to take a run at my brother—stick tangling, skates clipping his heel as he drives toward the boards.
I'm already on my feet.
But Eli's there in a heartbeat.
He comes in fast and hard, shoulder dropping just enough to make it clean, legal—and devastating. The guy goes down against the boards with a solid thud, the sound echoing through the arena as the crowd explodes.
I lose my mind.
"YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT!" I scream, pointing at the ice. "YOU SEE NUMBER SEVENTY-EIGHT? THAT'S MY MAN RIGHT THERE!"
People around me cheer louder. Someone laughs. I don't care.
"SERVES YOU RIGHT!" I add, absolutely unfiltered. "TRY THAT AGAIN AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!"
Elijah doesn't even look back. Just skates off like nothing happened, jaw set, focus locked, like flattening someone for touching my brother is just part of the job description.
Zach pops back up, totally fine, gives a quick nod—and I swear Elijah angles his stick toward him like I've got you.
I clap like a lunatic, adrenaline buzzing through my veins.
"THAT'S HOW YOU PROTECT YOUR LINE!" I shout. "OH, ELI YOU ARE THE BEST! YOU'RE THE MAN! YOU'RE MY MAN!"
My chest feels too full.
I love cheering for Zach. I really do.
But cheering for Elijah?
That hits different.
It's instinctive. Possessive. Like my voice knows exactly who it belongs to. Like claiming him out loud—even in a crowd this loud—feels natural.
That's my man out there.
And I'm not subtle about it at all.
I'm just about to sit down when an irritatingly familiar voice cuts in behind me.
"Well, look at that," she drawls. "Elijah Deveraux's obsessed little stalker, right on schedule."
I roll my eyes before I even swivel around.
Of course it's Izzie McAllister—her tone as irritating as her neon-pink hair extensions. She's decked out in a Deveraux jersey—number 78 in fluorescent teal—like she's trying to convince the world she's his one true fan. Makeup layers her face so thick it's practically sculpted; I swear I can see foundation caking under her jaw. That trademark sardonic smirk? As fake as her loyalty.
I flash her a saccharine smile. "Oh. Hi, Izzy. Big game today, huh?"
She saunters over, two yes-girls flanking her like backup dancers. Lips curling, she arches a brow. "Following him wherever he goes like a lovesick fool. Even enrolling in Ridgewater U..." She clicks her tongue. "That's so typical stalker behavior. You need to be committed—it's a disease."
Her laugh is all hollow caverns and bad intentions, loud enough to earn a few curious glances. One of her sidekicks nods so eagerly it looks painful.
I swear, girls like her never travel alone.
It's always a trio. Like the universe issued them a starter pack.
I tilt my head, unimpressed. "That's funny coming from you."
"Excuse me?"
I gesture lazily between us. "You're calling me obsessed while you're wearing his jersey too. Same arena. Same game." I smile sweetly. "Careful, Izzie. You're starting to sound like you're projecting. Or did you convince yourself your version was 'supportive' and mine was stalking?"
"Please," she snaps. "I'm not the one chasing him across states."
I shrug. "Really? Because last I checked, I'm actually from Florida." I glance at her. "You're from Virginia. So if we're counting state lines..." I let the sentence trail.
"And let's not pretend you didn't follow him around just fine in high school—or pick RU to stay close to him," I add. "Don't make me sound like the only desperate one here."
Her squad squirms; one friend scoffs, all faux bravado. I can practically see the wheels turning in Izzie's head. Good.
"Did you come to our school to spread another one of your little stories again? Tell people you're Elijah's fiancée or whatever insane title you've given yourself now? Anything to keep your claws in him, even when it's obvious he doesn't want you. God, it's embarrassing."
"Oh," I say lightly, like we're reminiscing. "You mean like the time you lied about dating him in high school?"
Her mouth opens—then snaps shut.
"Because you were such a sore loser back then," I add, head tilting. "Or maybe you still are."
Her jaw tightens, the muscle ticking like she's grinding her teeth.
"You only tried that after I beat you at the National High School Arts Collective Showcase. You came in second—unless we're counting the meltdown category, which you clearly won."
Her face goes from porcelain to paper red, and I amuse myself imagining steam billowing from her ears.
That competition still lives in my bones.
It was a nationwide high school painting contest—one of those annual juried things with a ridiculously long name and an even longer submission process. Digital preliminaries. Blind judging. Finalists announced weeks later. Hundreds of entries from schools all over the country, narrowed down to a handful that actually mattered.
Mine placed first.
Izzie placed second.
I already knew who Izzie was back then. She went to the same high school as Elijah in Richmond, Virginia, and they were part of the same group of friends. And because of that, she knew things—knew me. She knew I'd been in love with Elijah for years.
So when she found out I won instead of her, it didn't sit well with her. At all.
And like any sore loser with a mean streak and too much time, she went straight for the one place she knew would hurt the most.
She used Elijah.
She started the rumor in one of those high school hockey fan communities online. A niche place—mostly kids obsessed with junior leagues and rising players. Elijah already had his own following there. Threads. Edits. Stats. Clips. And yeah, I was a member too. Because if it involved Elijah Deveraux in any form, chances were I'd found my way into it.
She said they were dating.
Just like that.
Elijah Deveraux had a girlfriend.
I was sixteen. Head over heels. And absolutely wrecked—especially because the news came out of nowhere. I still remembered my brother telling me Elijah didn't do girlfriends. He never had.
So hearing that he was suddenly dating someone—her—felt like the ground dropping out from under me.
Being an immature, heartbroken sixteen-year-old, I did something impulsive.
I drove to Virginia.
A thousand miles with no plan beyond needing to hear the truth straight from him.
Except—I never found Elijah.
I found Izzie instead.
She laughed when I asked if it was true. Mocked me for driving a thousand miles away because I couldn't stand the fact that my "precious Elijah" had finally chosen someone who wasn't me. Called me obsessed.
And then it escalated.
She said she was only "dating" him because she knew it would hurt me. That it was fun. That she was just toying with him since he wasn't someone you took seriously anyway.
Then she went after his family.
She talked about his father—how he failed in the NHL, drank too much, ended up broke. About how his mother left for another man. About how broken families raise broken men. Said no sane woman would ever commit to someone like that. That Elijah wasn't worth bringing home. That he didn't deserve to be introduced to her distinguished family.
I'm not a violent person. I never have been. But standing there, listening to her talk garbage about my Eli and his family—something I would never tolerate—I snapped.
I slapped her. Hard. And damn if it wasn't satisfying.
And because the world has a sick sense of timing, Elijah walked in right then.
He'd never really had a reason to think highly of me, so when Izzie started crying and blabbering—claiming I was harassing her, telling her to stay away from him, saying I'd been telling people I was his fiancée and even "showing proof"—he believed her.
I wasn't lying, by the way. I'd never shown anyone an engagement photo. It just so happened that my phone wallpaper at the time was a picture of me and Elijah from that fake wedding we did before my dad died.
But of course, none of that mattered.
He saw her holding her cheek.
Saw me standing there.
And made up his mind.
To him, I was just the girl with a petty, obsessive crush who finally went too far. Someone who got violent over jealousy. Someone he didn't want anything to do with.
After that, he avoided me. Ignored me. Went out of his way to keep distance, like I was something unstable he didn't want anywhere near his life.
I didn't find out the truth until months later—that Izzie had lied. That they were never dating.
By then, it didn't matter.
The damage was already done.
And yeah.
I still curse her for it.
"That's not why—"
"Sure," I cut in smoothly. "Whatever helps you sleep."
I pat the seat, purring, "Well, Ms. McAllister—shall we settle in for the show? Or do you need another therapy session to get over losing at everything?"
She opens her mouth—then closes it. Her posse shifts uneasily, having caught more shade than they'd bargained for.
I slide into my seat with perfect grace as Izzie storms off, gathering her entourage like a wounded peacock.
And somewhere behind me, I swear I can hear her muttering, "She's so delusional..."
Yeah, Iz. Keep telling yourself that.