Chapter 10
SAM
It's past ten o'clock, and I should've been back in my dorm hours ago—especially considering I've barely slept these last ten days, running myself ragged and exhausted for a reason I willingly signed up for.
The Callaway Hope Foundation Fundraiser Exhibit—one I never would've said no to.
Two weeks ago, Elizabeth Callaway herself called me. Elizabeth—the same warm-voiced, silver-haired woman who's known me since I was eight, who watched me learn how to hold a paintbrush with shaky fingers and far too much optimism for a kid with an IV taped to her arm. The director of the foundation. A gentle force of nature in her seventies who somehow still remembers everyone's birthdays and favorite colors.
She asked if I had a piece I'd be willing to donate. Or maybe even create something new. All proceeds from the exhibit would go directly to the foundation, funding treatment assistance, support programs, and resources for cancer patients and survivors.
I didn't even hesitate.
I said yes before she even finished the sentence.
Which is how I ended up locking myself away in my art studio for almost two straight weeks. And when I'm like this—when I'm working on something that matters—I turn into a different kind of creature altogether. Some sort of paint-splattered hermit with a caffeine dependency and a sworn oath against distractions.
Which means, there's no going to the hockey house, to the rink, to the places where I'll see Eli.
Because if I see him—just once—my brain and my heart will immediately fuse into one useless, organ whose only thought is Elijah Deveraux.
So I made myself a promise.
No Eli until the painting is finished. Which has been... brutal.
Being cut off from the love of my life feels like my sanity might implode at any moment. I can physically feel my sanity wobbling, like it's balancing on one leg and asking me to make good choices. Every day it takes actual strength not to cave and go find him—even just for a glimpse. The only thing keeping me semi-functional is Zach.
My brother, patron saint of enabling.
Every day, without fail, he sends me exactly one photo of Eli. Just one. Like a controlled dosage of something addictive. Some days it's Eli mid-workout. Other days it's Eli eating, Eli drinking his morning shake, or a mirror selfie of Zach with Eli lingering somewhere in the background.
And in every single one of them—without exception—Eli is scowling.
Not because of the camera itself, but because he knows. He always knows. Knows exactly who that photo is for. Knows Zach didn't suddenly develop an artistic interest in documenting his daily life. The expression is pure resignation mixed with mild irritation, like, Of course you're doing this for your sister. I should've expected nothing less.
But here's the thing—he never tells Zach to stop.
And as long as Zach keeps sending them—and Eli keeps allowing it—I let myself live on that. Those photos dull the ache just enough to get me through the day. Temporarily. Barely. But enough.
Until tonight. Tonight broke the rules.
Because earlier this evening, Zach picked me up from my studio. Apparently, he'd decided I was one skipped meal away from melting into a pile of half-finished canvases and dried-out brushes, so he showed up in person and strong-armed me into dinner just to make sure I actually ate something. That's my brother—overbearing, dramatic, deeply annoying.
But I love him.
We went to a restaurant downtown and I saw Eli.
And when I say saw, I mean my entire nervous system lit up like a Christmas tree. My fingertips tingled. My stomach dropped as if I'd just plummeted down the first hill of a roller coaster. Heat crawled up my neck, and I swear my heartbeat was visible through my sundress.
Normally, I would've been halfway out of my seat before my brain could talk me out of it. Instinctively gravitating toward him. That pull has never been subtle.
But I didn't.
Because he wasn't alone.
He was sitting with his parents—and the air around that table felt wrong in a way you don't need context to recognize. Their voices kept climbing. Words snapping back and forth, clipped and loaded. The kind of conversation where every sentence is really about ten other things no one's willing to say out loud.
Eli sat between them like a fault line, shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He's absorbing their words. Taking hit after hit, the way he always does, like if he stays quiet long enough maybe it'll burn itself out.
It didn't.
He pushed back from the table so abruptly that even his parents stopped mid-argument. After calling them out on their bullshit, he walked out of the restaurant.
And that's how I ended up here. At the rink.
I stay tucked near the entrance, half-hidden behind the concrete barrier where the shadows pool thicker, where anyone looking from the ice would see nothing but darkness and empty seats. The rink is mostly shut down for the night.
Only a few lights are on. Not enough to brighten the place, just enough to make the ice visible—pale and ghostly, like it's glowing from its own cold breath. Everything else fades into gray and black.
And then there's him.
The sharp cut of blades against ice—fast, aggressive, unforgiving—echoes through the rink and bounces back at him like the building itself is bracing for impact. Each stride lands hard, powerful, like he's trying to carve something out of the surface.
Eli skates from one blue line to the other, then back again, pushing harder each time. His shoulders are tense, posture tight, every movement driven by something burning just beneath his skin. When he reaches the end, he doesn't slow—he pivots sharply, digs in, explodes forward again.
Suicide drills, but not the controlled kind.
This is punishment skating.
He fires a puck toward the net mid-stride. THUNK.
The sound cracks through the rink, loud and violent, like a door being slammed in a storm. The puck ricochets off the boards, and he's already chasing it, breath fogging in the cold air, jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscle jumping from here.
Another sprint. Another shot. Another thunderous impact. THUNK.
He's wearing his practice jersey—dark fabric clinging to his back, damp with sweat despite the cold. His hair is plastered to his forehead, curls escaping every time he snaps his head around. Even from this distance, I can see his eyes when he turns toward the boards—burning with fury.
He skates harder. Faster.
Like if he stops moving, everything inside him might break loose all at once.
And my resentment toward his parents only grows.
I hate how they walked into that restaurant tonight thinking only of themselves, like their unresolved issues deserved center stage just because they happened to share DNA. Like they couldn't pause it—just once—for the son they barely get to see.
One dinner. One normal moment. One night where Eli didn't have to sit there absorbing the fallout of a marriage that's been broken longer than it was whole.
Is that really too much to ask?
He doesn't see them often. They know that. They know how packed his life is, how rarely schedules line up, how fleeting those moments are. And still—still—they chose to argue. To raise their voices. To turn a family dinner into another battlefield.
I watch him cut across the ice and I think about how unfair it is that he's learned how to pretend it doesn't bother him.
Because that's his trick.
Eli acts like he doesn't care. Like he's above it. Like their absence, their silence, their inconsistency never touched him. He shrugs it off with that detached calm, that whatever attitude he wears so convincingly it fools almost everyone.
Almost.
But I know better.
That indifference is armor. Carefully built. Reinforced over years of disappointment and missed moments and empty seats where parents should've been. It's easier to say you don't need something than to admit how badly it hurts when you don't get it.
Under all of that—under the muscles and the discipline and the control—he's still that kid. The one who wanted his parents in the stands. The one who wanted them to clap too loud, embarrass him a little, brag about him to strangers. The one who wanted someone to pull him into a hug after a bad game and tell him it was okay to lose sometimes.
He deserved that.
He deserved a family that showed up. A family that knew when to stop talking and start listening. A family that could put him first for one goddamn evening.
The puck slams into the boards again—THUNK—and my chest tightens painfully.
Instead, he's here. Alone. Burning himself into the ice because it's easier than letting the hurt surface. Easier than standing still long enough to feel it.
I swallow hard, eyes never leaving him as he circles the rink again, faster than before.
You shouldn't have to be this strong, I think fiercely. You shouldn't have to carry all of this by yourself.
But here he is.
And I'm here too—even if he doesn't know it yet—watching, worrying, loving him, wishing I could take even a fraction of that weight off his shoulders without breaking the walls he's spent so long building.
My fingers curl around the strap of my bag without me realizing it. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs, matching the pace of his strides, each one making my stomach twist tighter. He's pushing himself too far. I can see it in the way his turns get sharper, sloppier, in the way his balance teeters just slightly when he stops short.
One wrong edge. One misstep. And there's no one else here.
No trainer. No teammates. No one but me—standing in the dark, watching the man I love tear himself apart one lap at a time.
I shouldn't be here. I know that. He wouldn't want me here, not like this, not when he's raw and burning and unraveling. But the thought of him collapsing alone on this ice, of him falling hard with no one to notice, no one to help—I can't leave.
So I stay quiet. Still. Hidden.
I let him run himself ragged while I watch from the shadows, counting his laps, tracking every sharp stop and explosive start, praying silently that he'll slow down before his body gives out.
Because if something happens to him out here—I don't think I'd ever forgive myself for not being close enough to stop it.
After he finally burns it out of his system—chest heaving, sweat darkening his practice jersey—Eli skates off the ice and disappears down the tunnel toward the locker room. I take that as my cue to slip out quietly. Pretend I was never here.
Because if he catches me lingering, he'll accuse me of stalking him again, and I really don't have the emotional bandwidth for that tonight.
I'm already close to the exit when I hear it.
Voices. Female voices.
They're muffled, coming from somewhere near the corridor that leads deeper into the rink. I slow instantly, instincts flaring. Something about the tone—the breathless thrill threaded through their whispers—sets off every alarm in my head.
I angle myself closer to the wall, moving without sound, sneakers barely lifting from the floor. Two girls slip into view under the dim security light—first their silhouettes, then their faces.
One of them has short, wavy hair and keeps glancing over her shoulder, nerves buzzing just beneath the surface. The other is shorter, hair pulled into a messy bun, practically vibrating with anticipation as she clutches her phone.
"I swear, I saw him," the second girl whispers, barely containing her glee. "He just went in. Like—right now."
"The captain, right?" the first one asks.
"Yeah. Him. Deveraux." She giggles, pressing her hand to her mouth.
A spike of dread slices through me.
"But what if someone sees us?" the first girl murmurs. "We'll get in so much trouble."
"Relax," the other one says, dismissive. "Nobody else is here. We'll just take one picture. One. No one will even know."
And just like that—I see red.
Absolutely not.
They inch closer to the locker room entrance, sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor, and something in my chest snaps clean in half. Heat floods my veins, sharp and furious, and before I can talk myself out of it, I step out from where I was hiding.
"Stop. Right there."
They both shriek.
Phones jerk upward, one nearly flying out of a trembling hand as they spin toward me, eyes wide, mouths open in identical, panicked gasps.
"Oh my god!" one of them yelps. "Who are you?"
I cross my arms slowly, deliberately, planting my feet like I own the ground beneath them. My posture is relaxed, almost casual—but my gaze is anything but. I stare straight through them, cold and unblinking, like I'm cataloging every bad decision they've ever made.
"Doesn't matter," I say evenly. "What does matter is what you think you're doing."
The girl with the phone frowns, defensive instincts flaring. "W—we're not doing anything."
I flick my eyes to the glowing screen still clutched in her hand.
"Funny," I say coolly. "Because that phone says you're about three seconds away from doing something incredibly stupid."
Her friend shifts, eyes darting past me toward the locker room doors. "We just wanted a picture."
"Shut up," the first girl hisses, panic sharpening her voice.
"Of what?" I ask softly.
Neither of them answers.
"Of a half-naked guy who's exhausted and alone?" I snarl. "Of someone who didn't consent, didn't invite you, and sure as hell didn't give you permission to turn his worst night into content?"
Their confidence drains out of them in real time.
One girl's jaw tightens, a small muscle ticking near her cheek as if she's chewing back words she suddenly knows better than to say. The other's grip on her phone loosens, knuckles going pale before she lowers it halfway, like the screen itself has become incriminating.
Their eyes won't meet mine anymore. They drop instead—too fast—fixating on the scuffed floor between their shoes as if it's suddenly fascinating, as if staring hard enough might let them disappear into it.
"You don't belong here," I say. "And if you take one more step toward that door, I promise you this won't end with you laughing about it later."
The shorter girl swallows hard. "We—we didn't think—"
"Exactly," I snap. "You didn't."
I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, until the message sinks all the way in. Then I tilt my head toward the exit.
"Go," I say. "Before I report you to campus security, the athletic department, and anyone else who'd love to hear about this little plan. And don't ever pull something like this again. It's disgusting."
They immediately turn and bolt, footsteps echoing down the corridor until the sound disappears completely, swallowed by the dark.
I stay where I am for a moment longer, heart hammering, fists clenched, listening until I'm absolutely sure they're gone.
Only then do I exhale.
It leaves me shaky, relieved, and strangely proud all at once—I protected Eli from those sneaky, despicable creatures.
I take three steps toward the hallway.
Then a hand clamps around my arm—hard. Solid muscle and intent jerk me back before I can even gasp. My pulse hammers in my throat as I spin, instincts outrunning my eyes.
It's Eli.
Fresh from the shower. His damp hair plastered at his temples, dripping off the ends like he didn't bother drying it properly and water tracing rivulets down his neck. His shirt is nowhere to be found — just low-slung white towel riding his hips.
His broad chest gleams with leftover moisture. Muscles carved and tense, veins standing out like they're angry at the world.
I gulp.
My vision blurs from the sheer disorientation of him this close.
He smells like clean soap and cold air and sweat, a combination that short-circuits my brain on impact. My lashes dip without permission, eyes going half-lidded as my gaze slides downward, tracing the hard planes of his chest, the sharp ridges of muscle still tense beneath damp skin, the unmistakable proof of how hard he'd pushed himself out there on the ice.
My pupils feel blown wide, hungry and traitorous, like they've forgotten every rule I've ever made for myself.
Then I catch myself.
I force my eyes back up to his face, pretending my heart isn't pounding like it's trying to break free of my ribs.
Oh. Oh no.
That stormy, furious expression—jaw locked, eyes dark and blazing like whatever calm the ice gave him didn't last long at all.
"And what the hell do you think you're doing?" he snaps.
"Eli—"
"No." His grip tightens. Not painful, but unmistakably firm. "You don't get to 'Eli' your way out of this."
"I... I was just leaving."
"Funny," he says coldly. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you were lurking outside my locker room."
"That is not—"
"How long have you been watching me?" he cuts in, voice sharp. "Is invading my space at my dorm still not enough for you? You had to come here too? Disrupt the only place I go to clear my head?"
I shake my head hard. "I wasn't spying on you or anything. I ju—"
"You always have a reason," he snaps, not letting me finish. "Always a justification. You don't see how far you've crossed the line."
"That's not fair—"
"What, did you think I brought some girl in here to fuck? And you'd burst in to stop me again?"
He slams his hand against the door of a nearby storage room, the sound cracking through the hallway like a gunshot.
"Even if I did—what business is it of yours? You're not my girlfriend. You have no right to stop me from doing that!"
The words land with a sharp finality, cutting straight through whatever fragile resolve I had left.
They don't just hurt—they hollow me out, like something vital has been knocked loose inside my chest. My body reacts before my pride can catch up; my shoulders tense, breath stuttering as I recoil just a fraction, an instinctive flinch I can't quite suppress no matter how hard I try to stay standing.
He drags a hand through his damp hair, laughing bitterly. "What—were the pictures your brother sends you not enough anymore? You wanted more? Up close?"
Then, as if to prove a point, he hooks a finger under his towel's edge, ready to drop it and expose himself fully.
I don't think—I just slap him hard across the cheek.
He staggers back. Tears sting my eyes as I whisper, "I know how little you think of me, of my feelings. But I would never do that to you. Accuse me of chasing you. Of loving you like a damn idiot. Of being hopelessly, embarrassingly gone for you—I'll take it."
My voice trembles, but I don't stop.
"But don't you ever accuse me of taking advantage of you that way. That's something I will never do."
I suck in a shaky breath, looking away as tears threaten to spill. I bite my lip hard, then turn back to him with a smile that hurts to wear—sunshine cracked down the middle.
"Now that I know you're fine," I say softly, "I'm leaving. And no—I'm not following you back to your dorm. I'm tired. I'm upset. And yeah, I know you don't care, but I'm letting you know."
I start toward the hallway before my feet betray me, rooting to the spot as I pivot back toward him.
"You know, sometimes, it's exhausting loving you, Eli."
"Then stop," he says coldly.
A sad laugh slips out of me. "I bet you'd love that, too bad I don't have a switch I can just flip—one that lets me turn my feelings off whenever loving you gets exhausting. Life would be a lot easier, wouldn't it?"
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug, like I've already accepted the answer. "But I don't really do easy. Not when it comes to you."
I step back, putting distance between us before I lose whatever strength I have left. "I'm leaving," I say softly. "Good night, Eli."
I turn away before he can say anything else—before my face betrays me, before my voice cracks even more, before I do something I can't take back.
I walk fast. Too fast. Down the hallway, past the place where I shouldn't have been in the first place. My steps echo louder than they should, my chest tight like it's being squeezed from the inside. I keep my head down until I'm sure I'm alone, until the rink doors are behind me and the cold night air hits my skin.
That's when I break.
A shaky breath tears out of me and I tilt my face up as the tears finally spill—hot, traitorous, unstoppable. My hand comes up to my chest on instinct, fingers curling into the fabric there like I can physically hold my heart together, like pressure might keep it from splintering apart.
It hurts so damn much.
This is why I didn't want him to know I was there.
I swipe at my face with the back of my hand, breathing through it, through the shame that comes crashing in right after. The slap replays in my mind—my palm against his skin, the shock in his eyes—and my stomach twists.
God. I didn't mean to do that.
I would never hurt him. Not on purpose. Not ever. And the fact that I did—even for half a second—sits heavy in my chest, worse than his words did.
My breaths come faster now, shallow and uneven, like they can't quite find their rhythm. There's a strange pressure behind my eyes, a buzzing sensation that crawls up the back of my skull, sudden and disorienting.
I feel like the world tilts just slightly.
I blink hard, try to shake it off, but the dizziness swells instead, rolling through me in a slow, nauseating wave. My knees wobble, my balance slipping, and I instinctively reach out, fingers scraping against cold metal until I find something solid to grab onto.
I lean there for a moment, gripping it tightly, head bowed, waiting for the ground to steady beneath my feet.
"Oh, God..." I whisper, eyes squeezed shut. I just need it to pass so I can leave. I can't let him see me like this but the spinning won't cooperate.
Eventually, five minutes after or ten, it passes. I straighten slowly, wiping my face one last time, forcing my breathing to calm, to normalize. Whatever that was—it doesn't matter. Not now.
I square my shoulders, even though they feel heavy. Even though my chest still aches.
Then I walk away.