Chapter 13
SAM
It's around six when I decide to trudge back to the dorm with my bag full of dirty laundry—clothes I've worn for the last few days I've spent holed up in my private studio.
My earbuds blast pop music loud enough to drown out the sound of my dignity dying as I struggle with the weight. I need to throw this disaster pile into the washer and pick up a new change of clothes to bring with me when I go back to my artistic prison cell tomorrow morning.
Four days. That's how long I've been away from my dorm. Four days shouldn't generate this much dirty clothing, and yet here I am, carrying what appears to be the wardrobe requirements for a small theater production.
I change clothes like I'm auditioning for a quick-change act in Vegas.
I'll be spending another long weekend in my studio—Friday, Saturday, Sunday—in the hopes that I'll be able to finish my art piece for the foundation exhibit. I'm already almost done with it... I think.
The central figure needs work, and the background has this empty space that's staring at me like a disappointed parent, but otherwise, it's coming along.
If not, I still have two full days and nights to finish, which is why I'm already planning to lock myself away for the entire weekend.
Hence, the need for clean clothes and I also need to pick up my stash of snacks.
My "artist fuel" consists primarily of chips, chocolate, and enough watermelon sour patches to give my dentist nightmares. I've already demolished the stash that my brother Zach gave me the other day, but he texted earlier to let me know he'd dropped off the snacks with Caroline in our dorm before he went to practice.
Zach's flying out tonight after practice for an away game tomorrow and Saturday. It's a ritual of ours—whenever he has away games, he always buys me extra packs of watermelon sour patches because he knows I go through them faster than a woodchipper through paper.
It's not that I can't buy my own. I mean, I'm technically an adult who can operate a vending machine, but Zach loves buying them for me.
It's his way of saying "I love you" without having to suffer through the emotional trauma of actually saying it. Brothers, right?
Maybe I should feel embarrassed that my 21-year-old brother still buys me candy like I'm seven, but I've decided that dignity is overrated when free sugar is involved.
I glance at the time on my phone: it's almost 6:30 PM.
The hallway to my room is quiet, most people either at dinner or tucked away studying. I've got my key card ready this time, determined to enter my room with at least a shred of grace, when the door swings open from the inside.
Caroline stands in the doorway, dressed in black tights and a navy French long sleeve ballet top that makes her look like she just stepped out of a dance magazine. Her silver hair is pulled back in a perfect bun that probably required more bobby pins than I've owned in my lifetime. Her dance bag is slung casually over one shoulder, and she somehow manages to look elegant while wearing what are essentially fancy pajamas.
"Hey, stranger," she greets me with that radiant smile of hers as she slips on her shoes by the door.
I sling my bag onto the hook where we usually put our things and remove my shoes, trying not to wince at the loud thump my laundry makes.
"Hey, leaving already?"
"Yep," Caroline says, then pauses as her eyes travel to the bulging monstrosity that is my laundry bag.
The hook strains under its weight, and I swear I can hear it whimpering.
"Wow, Sam. Did you pack for an expedition to Antarctica, or is that just your laundry from... how long were you gone again?"
"Four days," I mumble, feeling heat creep into my cheeks.
Caroline's eyebrows shoot up. "Four days? That bag looks like you've been stockpiling clothes since freshman orientation."
"I'm an artist. We're temperamental about our wardrobe choices," I defend, straightening my shoulders. "The wrong shirt can completely throw off my creative flow."
Yes, that sounds much better than 'I spilled paint on everything I own and also I'm a disaster human.'
Caroline laughs as she steps aside to let me fully enter our shared space. "Your brother dropped off your candy, by the way. I put it on your desk. I swear, he bought enough sour patches to put you in a sugar coma until next semester."
"He understands my needs," I say solemnly. "My blood is approximately sixty percent watermelon sour patch at this point. Doctors are baffled."
"I bet they are," Caroline says, checking her watch. "I'd love to stay and watch you reunite with your candy stash, but I'm already running late."
"Ballet practice tonight?"
"Yep," She adjusts her dance bag. "I swear, Professor Callahan is trying to kill us all with these rehearsals. I've got calluses on my calluses."
"The price of being graceful, I guess," I say, thinking of my own paint-stained hands. "At least your art doesn't leave permanent evidence all over your skin."
"No, just permanent damage to my joints," she quips back. She steps closer and gives my arm a quick squeeze. "Anyway, let's catch up soon?
''Sure.''
"Good luck with the painting. And don't forget to eat."
"I won't," I say. "I have Sour Patch Kids. I'll survive."
Caroline laughs as she heads out, waving over her shoulder. "Love you, Sammy."
"Love you," I call back.
The door clicks shut behind her, and the dorm falls quiet again.
When I'm finally left alone, I wander over to the desk and connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker. Music spills into the room—soft pop at first, then something a little louder, a little moodier—filling the dorm with sound so it doesn't feel so empty all of a sudden.
I peel off my clothes with zero ceremony and wrap myself in a towel, already annoyed at the way the air feels thick and sticky against my skin.
God, Florida.
I swear the humidity today is personally attacking me. It's like the air decided to crawl inside my pores and set up camp. I'm not even sweaty in the normal way—I feel collected, like my body has been harvesting moisture against my will. This is what I hate most about living here. You shower, step out, and somehow you're already damp again.
What's the point? Seriously, what is the actual point?
I dump my dirty laundry onto the floor and start feeding it into the washer-dryer combo tucked under the sink in our mini kitchen. Socks, leggings, oversized hoodies, paint-stained tees—honestly, the volume is offensive. It's like I've been changing outfits every time I blink.
Studio Sam. Dorm Sam. Existential-crisis Sam.
Once the machine starts humming, I escape to the bathroom and finally shower.
When I come back out, wrapped in a clean towel, the washer is still working through its mission. I flop onto my bed, hair damp, limbs loose. I reach for my phone and open the Uber Eats app, scrolling through options.
I'm not hungry, but that means nothing. I will be hungry by the time food arrives. That's just how my body operates—dramatic, delayed reactions only.
I scroll through the menu, my eyes widening at the possibilities. "Hello, yummylicious," I whisper to a photo of tonkatsu ramen that's steaming seductively from my screen. The broth looks rich, little green onions floating on top like delicious confetti celebrating my imminent food coma.
And then—there they are.
Takoyaki. Little round balls of octopus heaven. When I first tried them few years ago, I texted my mom that I'd finally found my soulmate, and it had tentacles. She was concerned until I explained it was food.
I add the tonkatsu ramen in my cart, an order of takoyaki, gyoza because I deserve it, and even a green tea mochi ice cream for later.
My finger hovers over the "Place Order" button, already imagining the salty, savory paradise that awaits me, when my phone buzzes with an incoming call.
It's Zach.
That's... weird. He should already be boarding. Or in the air. Or somewhere above the clouds, eating pretzels and pretending turbulence doesn't bother him.
A small knot forms in my chest even before I answer.
"Zachy?" I say, swiping to pick up. "Shouldn't you be on the plane right now?"
"Hey, angel." There's something in his voice—tight, strained—that makes me sit up instantly. "Uh... Coach Hopper and I are taking a later flight. The rest of the team already went ahead of us."
"Why? Zach, what's going on?"
"We're at the hospital right now, angel."
"What?" My voice shoots up, panic flooding my chest so fast it steals my breath. "What happened? Are you okay? Which hospital? I'm coming right now—"
"Hey, hey..." His tone is gentle, clearly trying to calm me down from across a phone line, which is about as effective as trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol. "I'm okay. It's not me. It's... Elijah."
*****
ELIJAH
I slowly flutter my eyes open when muffled voices penetrate the fog in my brain. My eyelids feel like they're weighted down with sand, and a dull throb pulses behind my temples. A groan escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I realize I'm not sure where I am.
The antiseptic smell hits me first—sharp and chemical, mingled with the faint scent of industrial cleaning products and that peculiar blend of sterilized fabric and rubber that seems to hang in the air. There's the distant beeping of monitors and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on polished floors.
Hospital. I'm in a fucking hospital.
But why?
I try to piece together what happened, but my thoughts are like scattered puzzle pieces floating in murky water. I remember skating. Ice time with the team before our flight to New York. Our away game tomorrow against Hudson Valley.
I was going fast—too fast probably—cutting across the ice like I owned it. The team was watching, Coach was shouting something, and I was pushing harder, faster.
Then Ben appeared in my path, seemingly out of nowhere. He had his back to me, focused on the drill he was running, completely unaware I was barreling toward him at full speed. If I hit him at that velocity, I'd send him flying, probably break something—his bones, not mine.
In that split second, I made the choice and swerved hard. Too hard.
I lost my edge and went down, but the momentum didn't stop. I remember the sensation of sliding, my body a projectile across the ice, unable to brake. The wall was coming up fast—too fast—and I couldn't get my hands up in time. There was a crack, a flash of pain that exploded behind my eyes, and then...nothing. Just darkness swallowing me whole.
When I finally manage to pry my eyes all the way open, I see Coach Hopper standing a few feet from the bed. He's talking in low tones with a man in a white coat—a doctor, presumably. Coach's usual commanding presence seems subdued in this sterile environment, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward as he nods at whatever the doctor is telling him.
To my right, Zach is slumped in a chair beside my bed, scrolling through his phone. His dark hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it—something he does when he's stressed.
"What's going on?" I ask, my voice coming out rough and gravelly.
I try to push myself up to sitting, but the movement sends a sharp pain shooting through my skull.
Zach's head snaps up, relief washing over his face. He jumps to his feet, phone forgotten as he moves to help me.
"Whoa, take it easy, man," he says, his hand on my shoulder as he adjusts the pillows behind me. "You scared the shit out of us."
Coach and the doctor turn at the sound of my voice, their conversation halted mid-sentence.
"Hey, how you feeling?" Zach asks, worry etched into the lines around his eyes. He's trying to sound casual, but I can hear the tension underneath.
"Other than the fucking jackhammer in my head, I feel fine," I reply, wincing as another throb of pain pulses behind my eyes. "How long was I out?"
Zach glances at his watch, his expression grim. "Almost three hours."
"What?" The word comes out sharper than I intend.
My hand immediately goes to my pocket, searching for my phone, but I come up empty. I scan the room frantically until my eyes land on the wall clock facing my bed. 7:52 PM.
"Shit!" I jerk upright, ignoring the pain that spikes through my skull. "Our flight! It was supposed to leave at seven! We're late—we gotta go!"
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the movement making my vision swim. There's an IV in my arm that I hadn't noticed before, and I tug at it impatiently.
"Whoa, dude, stop!" Zach says, putting a hand on my chest to keep me from standing. "You need to chill. You're not going anywhere."
"The hell I'm not," I protest, trying to push his hand away. "We have a game tomorrow. I need to be on that plane."
Coach Hopper approaches the bed, his face set in that stern expression we all know means there's no room for argument. "Deveraux, lie back down. Now."
"But Coach—"
"That wasn't a suggestion, son."
The doctor steps forward, a man in his sixties with steel-gray hair and glasses that sit low on his nose. He has a clipboard in hand and a stethoscope around his neck—every inch the TV medical drama character.
"Young man, you need to lie down immediately," he says, his tone firm but not unkind. "You shouldn't be moving around yet."
I throw a sharp glare at him. "With all due respect, I feel fine enough to catch a flight. I can't miss this game."
The doctor sighs, like he's heard this a thousand times before. "Mr. Deveraux, you suffered a concussion when you hit the wall during practice. Your brain essentially slammed against your skull, causing trauma. The fact that you were unconscious for nearly three hours is concerning, and while your CT scan didn't show bleeding, you need to be closely monitored for at least the next 24 to 48 hours."
"A concussion?" I repeat, as if saying the word might make it disappear. "Look, I've had those before. It's not a big deal."
The doctor's eyebrows rise. "Multiple concussions are precisely what make this a very big deal. Each subsequent concussion increases your risk for long-term neurological damage. This isn't something to brush off."
"But we have a game tomorrow," I say, hating how pathetic I sound. "I need to be there. I have to play. Coach, tell him."
Coach Hopper and the doctor exchange a look, and I see Zach pull a grimace. My stomach drops, knowing what's coming before Coach even opens his mouth.
"I'm afraid you have to sit this one out, kid," Coach says, crossing his arms over his chest. "We can't let you play with a concussion. That's not negotiable."
I stare at him in disbelief, eyes widening.
"But I feel fine, Coach! I can play, I swear. Just let me get on that plane with the team."
My eyes bounce between the doctor and Coach, searching for any sign of wavering, any hint that one of them might change their mind. I find none.
"Mr. Deveraux," the doctor says, adjusting his glasses, "let me be very clear about the risks here. Playing contact sports with a concussion significantly increases your chance of second-impact syndrome, which can cause rapid and often fatal brain swelling. Even without contact, the physical exertion and stress could worsen your symptoms and prolong your recovery."
"He's right, Elijah," Coach adds, using my first name—something he rarely does, which tells me how serious this is. "You need to stay here and rest. This is for your own good—and the team's. We need you healthy for the long run, not just tomorrow's game."
I want to argue, to fight against this verdict, but deep down I know they're right. It still doesn't sit well with me though. I've never missed a game—not since freshman year.
The team is counting on me. I'm counting on me.
"Fuck," I mutter, falling back against the pillows in defeat.
The doctor clears his throat. "You have a couple of options for your care over the next two days. You can remain here in the hospital for observation—"
"No," I interrupt immediately. "No way I'm staying here."
"—or," he continues, seemingly unfazed by my interruption, "you can return to your dormitory, but only if you have someone who can stay with you and monitor your condition. They'll need to wake you every few hours to check your neurological status and watch for warning signs of complications."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"Actually, you do," the doctor counters. "Someone needs to be with you to watch for symptoms like worsening headache, nausea, vomiting, slurred speech, or confusion—all signs that would require immediate medical attention. They also need to wake you every 2-3 hours during the first 24 hours to ensure you're able to be roused and are coherent."
Zach shifts uncomfortably beside me. "I, uh, tried calling your parents earlier, but they didn't pick up. I left them a voicemail explaining what happened."
I huff out a laugh that holds no humor. Of course they didn't pick up. I've learned not to count on them for times like this—or any times, really.
"Don't worry about it," I tell Zach, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "They're busy. Always are."
"Still, someone needs to be with you," the doctor insists. "I cannot discharge you unless there's a responsible adult who can monitor your condition."
"I'm twenty-one," I argue. "That makes me the responsible adult. I can set alarms to wake myself up or whatever."
The doctor shakes his head firmly. "That's not acceptable. You may not wake up to alarms in your condition, and you wouldn't be able to properly assess your own symptoms. I'm sorry, but either someone stays with you, or you stay here."
I glare at the ceiling, trapped between two equally shitty options. The team will be gone, Zach included. My parents are useless. And there's no way I'm calling anyone for this kind of favor.
"I can watch him!"
Everyone's attention swivels to the doorway where a girl stands with her arm raised high in the air like she's answering a question in class.
Sam—with her wheat-colored hair twisted into a careless knot on top of her head, drowning in an oversized hoodie that hangs off one shoulder. Her sweatpants are bunched at the ankles, and on her feet are two completely different slippers—one a fuzzy blue monster face, the other a worn leather moccasin—like she'd grabbed whatever was closest in her mad dash out the door.
"Oh hell no," I groan, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Sam ignores my protest completely, "I will watch over Eli," she announces to the doctor. "I'm gonna stick to him like glue, don't worry. I've done this before. I know all about the wake-up calls and checking for warning signs."
"Absolutely not," I say immediately. "No way!"
She beams wider. "See? He's already responsive."
Zach presses his lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. Coach sighs like he's aged ten years in the last minute.
The doctor nods approvingly. "Excellent. I'll go over the care instructions with both of you before discharge, and I'll need you to sign some paperwork. You'll also need to follow up with your primary care physician in three to five days."
As the doctor walks away to prepare the paperwork, Coach Hopper gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. "Rest up, son. The team will be fine. You focus on getting better."
My best friend looks torn, glancing between me and his watch.
"Go," I tell him, waving a dismissive hand. "Someone's gotta be there to score, since I can't."
"I'll text you updates. And hey," he nods toward Sam, who's now chatting animatedly with a nurse, "could be worse, right?"
"How exactly?" I mutter.
He just smirks and grabs his jacket. "See you in a couple days. Don't die of boredom—or from whatever my sister has planned for your 'recovery.'"
As he leaves, I sink back into the pillows and close my eyes, the throbbing in my head a dull reminder of how spectacularly this day has gone to shit.
When I open them again, Sam is standing at the foot of my bed, practically bouncing on her toes.
"Don't worry, Eli. You'll be in excellent hands." She pats my arm.
I close my eyes.
"I'd rather stay in the hospital," I groan.
For a brief, insane moment, I consider it—the hospital might actually be less torturous than 48 hours alone with Samantha Westbrook, the human embodiment of a sugar rush.
But it's too late now. I'm stuck with her until the team comes back on Sunday.
God help me.