Chapter 8
SAM
My Ethics class hasn't started yet, which means the lecture hall is still in that awkward in-between state—low chatter drifting through the rows, backpacks thumping against seats, chairs scraping as people shuffle in and out looking for their friends.
There are still a few empty seats on either side of me, which is honestly ideal. No elbows encroaching on my space. No nosy glances. Just me, my notebook, and the terrible life choices that led me to taking this class at eight in the morning.
Which means I'm sitting here pretending to be a functioning academic while doing what I love to do best.
Stalking Elijah Deveraux's social media.
I'm slouched in my seat, one leg tucked under the other, phone angled low enough that if anyone looks my way it could pass as me reviewing notes. My notebook is open on the desk, pen resting across the page like a carefully placed decoy.
I hate this class for a reason.
And Professor Percy is the reason.
The man doesn't just cold-call; he hunts. He has a literal stack of index cards with our names on them, and every time he shuffles through them, the entire lecture hall collectively holds its breath like we're awaiting a verdict. You can feel the fear ripple through the room.
Unfortunately, I don't get to escape him. This class is a prerequisite, and skipping it would just prolong the inevitable. Future Me already hates Present Me enough—I don't need to add more fuel to that fire.
I unlock my phone, typing in my passcode: 0721.
It's the date Eli and I had our very small, very private engagement ceremony.
I blush automatically when my phone unlocks and the wallpaper appears—me in a simple white dress, a soft floral wreath in my hair, Eli standing beside me in a navy suit.
My arm looped through his. My head resting on his shoulder. Both of us smiling like the world was quiet and kind and giving us that moment just because.
That picture has been my wallpaper ever since. Locked in permanently.
Fake engagement, the rational part of my brain reminds me, completely unhelpful as always.
Yes. Fake. I know. Relax.
I'm not that delusional.
I fully acknowledge that it wasn't legally binding, that it was symbolic, that it was just something special we did for my dad—his last wish, to walk me down the aisle before he passed. Elijah was kind enough to agree to it.
He didn't have to—he chose to.
That choice alone made it impossible for my heart not to love him harder.
And honestly? There's nothing wrong with letting myself pretend sometimes. Daydreaming that it was real. That maybe, someday, it could be. Manifestation is a thing. I've read about it. Probably. Somewhere.
Also—and this is important—I love that photo for another reason.
It's incredibly useful.
Especially when certain puck bunnies get a little too bold.
I can't even count how many times I've casually flashed my phone screen when girls start clinging to him at parties or post-game events, all lashes and lip gloss and zero shame. The word fiancée tends to work wonders. Some of them back off immediately, suddenly very interested in literally anything else.
Others?
Oh, some absolutely do not care.
There are girls out there who see taken as a challenge instead of a boundary, and those are the ones who really test my patience.
And yes—before anyone says it—I know I'm not exactly the poster child for boundaries either. But there's a difference. I don't grab him. I don't hang off his arms like he's a life raft. I don't slide my hands where they don't belong or cling to him like a leech every time he walks past in a jersey. I don't treat him like a prize to be won or a notch to collect.
I genuinely love him. Everyone knows I love him. I've never been subtle about it, never pretended otherwise.
Loud love is still real love, right?
And I don't touch him without permission.
...Okay, that's mostly true. There have been rare exceptions. Like hugging him after a big game last week. Or that time years ago when he left for college and I cried into his chest like the world was ending. But those were emotional emergencies. Extreme circumstances. They don't count.
And I don't corner him.
I mean—define corner.
Watching his practice from the stands isn't cornering. That's public property. So is the rink.
And the Pond—okay, fine, maybe that's debatable. But it's a shared space. Teammates in and out. Parties happening. Also, my brother literally lives there, so my presence isn't exactly suspicious. I'm not sneaking into his bedroom, hiding in closets or memorizing his shower schedule. I just... exist nearby.
Is it proximity? Maybe. Is it dedication? Absolutely. Is it cornering? I'm calling that a stretch.
Anyway, I click on the app and swipe over to Eli's profile. Nothing.
I let out a slow, disappointed sigh, my shoulders dropping a fraction. Whatever. I can work with crumbs. Old posts slide past my screen—plates of gourmet food that look too pretty to eat, scenic shots from various places.
Oh. There it is.
A workout video.
I straighten in my seat like someone just called my name, lips pressing together as if that might help me behave. It doesn't.
He's shirtless. Obviously. Skin damp with sweat, muscles moving in slow, deliberate rhythm as he lifts—arms flexing, shoulders rolling, veins faintly visible like his body is showing off on purpose. His hair is pushed back, jaw clenched in concentration, eyes focused on something just out of frame like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
I swallow.
Why does he look like that while doing something as criminally unfair as breathing?
My brain stops being useful. All higher thinking shuts down. Ethics, logic, Plato—gone. Reduced to dust.
I tilt my phone slightly, like that'll somehow make the view better, and bite back a grin as I keep scrolling. Another photo. Same gym. Same dangerous amount of sweat. He's leaning forward, forearms braced on his thighs, veins standing out like they're personally offended by the workout. His chest expands and falls slow and heavy, sweat tracing the lines between muscle like it knows exactly where to go.
I giggle.
I rest my chin in my hand, scrolling slower now, savoring it like this is a limited-time exhibit. My lips curve into a grin I don't bother hiding.
I'm mid-scroll, comfortably absorbed, when a sound cuts through my little Eli-induced trance.
A throat clearing.
I jump so hard my soul nearly ejects.
I let my gaze travel and then I see the smirk. That cocky, infuriatingly charming smirk that always looks like it knows a secret.
Khol Carter.
Ridgewater's golden boy quarterback, standing there like he owns the lecture hall, a baseball cap worn backward over tousled blond hair, eyes bright and amused, gleaming with the kind of confidence that doesn't ask for attention—it assumes it.
"Hey, sunshine," he says, voice warm and easy as he gestures toward the aisle seat beside me. "This seat taken?"
I shake my head. He takes that as an invitation and slides into the seat beside me, dropping his bag onto the desk with a soft thud.
He shifts toward me immediately, elbow propped on the desk, chin resting against his knuckles.
"So," he says, smile widening just a fraction. "We meet again. Isn't this destiny?"
I roll my eyes, hard, but my lips betray me with the slightest curve because unfortunately, this is very on brand for him.
"It's not destiny," I tell him dryly. "It's called having the same philosophy class every Wednesday, Khol. Try not to romanticize the syllabus."
"Yeah? Funny how it only ever feels like destiny when you're around."
I roll my eyes. "Careful, Khol," I smirk. "If anyone from your fan club hears you say that, they might get jealous."
He huffs a laugh. "They'll get over it. Besides, I can't help it. Whenever I see you, I start thinking it means something."
"If you keep it up, you're gonna leave a trail of broken hearts across campus." I duck my head toward him, lowering my voice, half-laughing. "And then it'll be really hard for you to get laid."
"You wound me," he says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, lips pulling into a dramatic pout. "When you put it like that, it makes me sound like I'm out here sleeping around all the time."
I reach for my caramel br?lée crème frappuccino and take a long sip, watching him over the rim.
"Aren't you?" I ask, pointed.
Because let's be honest—Khol Carter is cut from the same cloth as Cody and the Archer twins. Different teams, different sports, same energy. Always surrounded. Never lacking company. There's a revolving door of girls who know his name, his number, and exactly where to find him on Friday nights, who drift in and out of his orbit like it's a schedule instead of a coincidence.
His lips twitch into a guilty grin.
He lifts both hands in surrender. "Okay. Fine. Guilty as charged. But I've been trying to clean up my image since I met you."
I snort mid-sip, the ice-cold drink going straight down the wrong pipe, and I start coughing, laughing despite myself—which only makes his boyish grin widen, dimples popping like he's proud of the damage.
"Riiight," I say once I recover, wiping my mouth. "And tell me—when exactly was the last time you got laid?"
He exhales, suddenly sheepish, tugging off his cap and raking a hand through his soft, tousled hair before settling it back on, eyes dropping as he mutters, "Last night," like it pains him to admit it.
"Clean up my image, my ass." My lips twist as I shake my head.
"Well," he shrugs, unbothered, "I did say trying. Which, by the way, is really hard."
"Oh, I'm sure," I nod, deadpan.
He hesitates then looks at me again, something a little more earnest slipping into his expression. "If I swear to stop sleeping around... will you finally grab coffee with me? You know. Like a date."
I keep my eyes on my notes, humming thoughtfully. "Wow. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet."
"So that's a yes?" he asks, hopeful.
"That's a no."
"But why not?" he says. "I'm only asking for one date, sunshine. I'm fun, I buy good coffee, and I don't bite."
"That's not it."
"Then what? You don't trust me to actually stop sleeping around?"
"No, silly." I chuckle, shaking my head. "It's because I'm already spoken for."
"What? By who?"
"Elijah Deveraux."
"The—" He stops, recalibrates. "The captain of the hockey team? That Elijah? Your brother's best friend?"
"Mm," I hum, completely unbothered. "That's the one."
Khol leans back in his seat, processing, eyes flicking to the front of the room like the chalkboard might explain this to him. "You're telling me," he says slowly, "I'm getting shut down for him."
"Looks that way."
Whatever Khol is about to say next never makes it out.
Because Professor Percy has arrived.
He strides in with the same unhurried authority as always, black briefcase slung over his shoulder like a weapon, a thick stack of index cards clutched in one hand. The cards. The infamous cards. Every single one of them with a name on it. Every single one a threat.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than it should.
He sets the briefcase down on the desk with deliberate care.
He begins to pace slowly at the front, shoes clicking against the floor, fingers idly thumbing through the cards. Shuffle. Pause. Shuffle again. It's theatrical in the most terrifying way.
A girl two rows down visibly sinks lower in her seat. A guy near the aisle suddenly finds the floor fascinating.
Someone else whispers, "Here we go,".
Khol leans back, lips twitching. "Showtime," he murmurs.
I'm already flipping through my notes at lightning speed, eyes darting across the page like if I absorb enough information fast enough, it might manifest into knowledge. I nod to myself like, Yes. Yes. I remember this. Definitely read this.
I did not read this.
Professor Percy finally stops pacing. He looks up, scans the room once, expression unreadable.
"Good morning," he says, voice calm. Too calm.
"Good morning." We all say.
He smiles faintly. Which is somehow worse.
"Let's begin."
*****
The week flies by in a blur of classes, and suddenly it's Saturday night, and I'm wedged into a loud bar with sticky floors and bad lighting, celebrating Ridgewater's second away-game win of the weekend.
Four straight wins this early in the season.
Which is... kind of a big deal.
Zach is grinning like he personally manifested the streak, already halfway through his second drink, leaning back in the booth with that satisfied, smug glow he gets when things are going his way. Eli's sitting across from us, talking and laughing with the guys, looking just as relaxed.
I'm sitting here, watching them laugh and talk over one another, when it really hits me how tired I am.
Not the I need sleep kind of tired — the I've been on a plane since early morning, screamed myself hoarse at a hockey game, and lived on arena fries kind.
Caroline didn't come with us.
She and Zach still aren't back to what they were before everything blew up three years ago. They talked last week — a real conversation, from what I gathered. She heard him out. He finally cleared the misunderstanding. But trust doesn't magically snap back into place just because someone explains themselves.
And honestly? I don't blame her.
Still... I know my brother. I know her, too. They've loved each other since they were kids — just two idiots waiting for the other to say it first. I've never doubted they still do. It's only a matter of time before they stop fighting what's been inevitable all along.
I really wish she were here tonight.
I could use someone familiar to talk to, someone who'd sit beside me and provide commentary instead of letting me spiral in my own head.
Zach's next to me, technically, but right now he's deep in conversation with the guys, and I don't want to interrupt.
I should probably head back to my own suite. It's late and I'm exhausted.
But I don't.
And it's not because I'm being stubborn.
It's because of her.
The woman currently glued to Eli's side like she paid extra for the seat.
I tighten my grip on the mocktail in my hand as I watch her work — because that's exactly what this is. Work. Strategy. A full performance. Her fingers keep finding his bicep, like she's testing the firmness of a mattress. Then they trail across his chest in slow, deliberate lines, the kind of touch that says I'm not subtle, but I'm confident you won't stop me.
She leans in, lips brushing his ear, whispering something that makes him chuckle.
Every time she whispers something else, her hand gets bolder — tracing, squeezing, claiming territory like she's planting a flag. I half expect her to start drawing a map and labeling it Future Hotel Room.
My jaw tightens.
Then Eli glances up.
Right at me.
My heart stutters — and then promptly shatters when his hand drops to her thigh, thumb brushing back and forth like it belongs there.
He's been doing it all night.
Every time he catches me looking.
I feel it slice through me every single time.
But I don't let it show.
I just lift my glass and give him a syrupy-sweet smile — the kind that says I'm fine even when I'm very much not.
If he thinks this will make me back off, he's dead wrong.
Because I don't back down.
Zach leans closer to me, lowering his voice. "Bathroom," he mutters, already sliding out of the booth. "I'll be right back."
I give him a quick nod and wait until he disappears into the crowd before I move.
I slide out of the booth and walk over to where Eli is sitting.
The woman barely notices at first — too busy draping herself over him like a decorative scarf. So I plant myself right beside them, "Hey," I say lightly, eyes on him.
He looks up, unimpressed almost immediately. Like he already knows I'm about to pull something.
I press my fingers to my forehead and sway just slightly. Not dramatic. Just enough.
"I think I might be feeling lightheaded," I say, letting my voice dip. "Do you think you could take me back to my hotel room upstairs?"
"Ask your brother," he says flatly.
I sigh, exaggerated but soft. "He just went to the bathroom."
"Then wait for him to come back."
His eyes don't leave mine. They're sharp. Assessing. Like he's watching a magic trick he's already figured out.
So, naturally, I ramp up my acting to make it believable.
I let my knees buckle just slightly — not enough to be obvious, just enough to be convincing — and the next thing I know, I'm tipping forward.
Eli's reaction is instant. His hand snaps around my waist, steadying me before I can hit the floor, and I end up collapsing straight into his lap instead.
The woman jerks back, finally unlatching her grabby little hands as she's pushed aside by the sudden shift.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
"I don't think he'll be back anytime soon," I murmur, breathless, like this is all very unfortunate. "He said his stomach's been... acting up."
I lower my voice even more, trying — very generously — to preserve Zach's dignity.
Then I let my head tip toward Eli's shoulder and groan quietly. "Please, Eli. I don't feel good."
For a split second, he still doesn't move.
So I wiggle like I'm trying to get up, bracing my hands against his chest. "It's fine," I say quickly. "I get it. I'll just— I'll walk."
His grip tightens.
"Don't," he mutters, jaw set. "It's fine. I'll take you."
I want to punch the air.
He rises slowly, lifting me with him like I weigh nothing, one arm sliding under my knees, the other securing my back. Bridal-style.
I wrap my arms around his neck without hesitation, pressing closer, breathing him in as if this is exactly where I'm meant to be.
And honestly?
It is.
Five minutes later, we stop in front of my suite, only one floor above where the team is staying.
"We're here," Eli says. His voice is flat. All business. No warmth whatsoever. "You can open your eyes now."
I don't.
I stay tucked against him, eyes still closed, fully committed to the performance. But not because I'm acting anymore.
Mostly because I don't want this to end.
I wish my room were miles away instead of just a few steps down this quiet hallway. I wish the walk took longer. I wish time would stretch and slow the way it never does when I need it to. In his arms, everything feels suspended — the noise, the jealousy, the ache that's been clawing at my chest all night.
His hold is firm, steady, like he knows exactly how much pressure to use so I won't slip, won't fall. My cheek rests against his shoulder, my body fitting against his in a way that feels unfairly natural.
Being here feels... right. Too right.
I breathe him in slowly, memorizing it — the warmth, the faint sandalwood and bergamot and something distinctly him — knowing I'll replay this later when I'm alone and missing it already.
If I open my eyes, it ends. So I don't.
"Performance is over, little devil," he says. "Open your eyes or I'll drop you."
I crack one eye open. Then the other. He's looking down at me with that hardened expression — all sharp angles and control — and my heart does a stupid little flip anyway.
"You knew?"
"Of course I knew."
He sets me down carefully, hands lingering just long enough to make the loss sting before they're gone. Just like that, my happy place disappears, replaced by Elijah Deveraux in full scowl mode.
"Then why did you—"
"Because," he cuts in, "I know you wouldn't stop with the theatrics unless I walked you back. Unless I physically removed myself from Evie."
Oh. So that woman has a name. Evie, I repeat in my head, tasting it with immediate distaste.
A grin I've been fighting all night finally escapes. Because despite knowing I was acting — fully, shamelessly acting — he still carried me all the way here.
Isn't that... kind of sweet?
Clearly, he has a soft spot for me. He just refuses to admit it. And honestly? I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted an excuse to get away from Evie, too. He's just too much of a gentleman to say it out loud.
"Seriously, Sam," he says, rubbing a hand down his face like he's already exhausted. "You've got to stop this. It's becoming a real problem."
"Stop what?"
"Stop cockblocking me all the time. You have no idea how long it's been since I got la—"
He freezes mid-word.
It's almost impressive, how fast his expression changes — like his brain just slammed straight into a wall, finally catching up to what his mouth was about to confess. His eyes widen. His jaw tightens.
He clears his throat hard.
"...damn it," he mutters under his breath.
I bite my lip immediately, fighting the grin threatening to break free. My cheeks heat up, warmth rushing in fast and uncontrollable, like I've just been handed information I absolutely should not be this happy about.
Because the realization hits all at once — bright and stupid and deeply inappropriate.
The idea that he hasn't been with anyone in a long time settles in my chest like a secret little sun, glowing quietly to itself. Unwarranted. Unreasonable. Completely unearned.
And yet.
It fills me with this ridiculous, buoyant joy, like my heart just found something to cling to and refuses to let go.
It's delusional. I know that.
But knowing doesn't stop it from blooming anyway.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly shy and bold all at once. "Well," I say lightly, "if you really, really need it that badly... I mean, I could help wi—"
"Oh. God. Stop."
He steps back like I've physically threatened him, throwing a palm up between us. "No. Stop. You are not about to suggest that I— that you— that we— oh, fuck."
He drags both hands down his face and buries them in his hair, pacing once before turning back to me.
"Whatever you were trying to insinuate? No. Not happening. Ever."
I blink at him. "But what is so wrong about me?"
"Everything!"
I gasp. "Wow. I'm really trying not to be offended by that."
"You are Zach's little sister," he snaps. "For fuck's sake. And given that you've been pining for me since you were ten—which, yes, I am painfully aware of—you are still wildly inexperienced. And I'm not attracted to you. So you and me—"
He points at himself. Then at me.
"—are never going to happen."
The words hit like a hard slap to the face.
Eli turns sharply and stomps down the hallway, his steps heavy and clipped, like every stride is burning off the irritation he won't let himself voice. Like the conversation is over and he's already filed me away as something he's done dealing with for the night.
Panic curls low in my chest.
Because if he's walking away, that means he's going back downstairs. Back to the bar. Back to Evie and her grabby hands and whispering mouth and— "Eli," I call out quickly.
My voice betrays me, trembling despite my best effort to keep it steady. "Are you... are you going back to the bar?"
He stops but doesn't turn around.
For a heartbeat, he just stands there, shoulders rising with a slow breath.
"No," he says finally, voice flat and tired. "I'm going to my room. I'm exhausted."
And then he keeps walking.
Relief crashes into me so hard my knees almost give out.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, my chest loosening, my heart finally unclenching from the worst-case scenarios it had already written in vivid detail.
I fumble in my purse for the key card, hands still a little shaky, and slide it over the sensor. The lock clicks open, merciful and final.
Inside the room, I close the door behind me and lean against it for a second, staring at the ceiling.
Tonight, at least, I won.
I peel off my shoes, crawl into bed, and let myself sink into the sheets, a small, guilty sense of satisfaction settling over me.
Because whatever else he said... Whatever lines he drew...
I know one thing for sure.
He's not ending the night with her. And that's enough to let me sleep easy.