Chapter 16
SAM
I spot Eli by the door, workout attire hugging his annoyingly perfect physique, duffel bag casually tossed over one shoulder like he's heading out for a light jog instead of a full-blown concussion-induced disaster waiting to happen.
Does he think I wouldn't notice his little escape attempt?
Not on my watch, Deveraux. Not on my watch.
"And where do you think you're going?" I ask, folding my arms.
"To work out. Obviously." He gestures at his outfit, like the compression shirt and basketball shorts weren't a dead giveaway.
I march over and snatch his duffel bag, which he surrenders with surprising ease. Either he's still weak from yesterday's incident, or he knew this confrontation was inevitable. I'm betting on the latter. Eli might be stubborn, but he's not stupid.
"Are you insane?"
"Sam, I'm fine."
"Oh, you're fine?" I repeat, stepping closer and jabbing a finger at his chest. "You nearly passed out earlier, Eli. Do you want to black out mid-rep and have a barbell crush your ribcage? Because that's how people die. Very macho. Very tragic."
He rolls his eyes. "You're being dramatic."
"Dramatic would be me screaming. This is me preventing your untimely death."
He exhales, long and frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair. "I can't just sit here all day. It's been two days. I'm bored out of my mind. If I stay here any longer, I'm actually going to die."
"Oh my God," I scoff. "Now who's being dramatic?"
He glares at me.
"Give it back, Sam,"
"Nope." I pop the 'p' with extra emphasis, just to annoy him. "But I have an idea."
His eyes narrow immediately. "I don't like that tone."
"Anyway, we've got about—" I check the time on my phone. "three hours before the RU's second game starts."
"So?"
"So," I beam, "we're having a movie marathon."
Eli scoffs, his lips twisting into that half-smirk, half-sneer that does absolutely nothing to my pulse rate. Nothing at all. "Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because whatever you want to watch is guaranteed to be some cringey romantic nightmare where people cry in the rain and whisper about destiny."
"Wow," I gasp. "Judgmental much? You don't even know what movie I'm picking."
He crosses his arms. "Enlighten me."
"It's set during World War Two."
That seems to pique his interest. His shoulders straighten slightly, eyes narrowing with consideration. "Okay, go on, tell me more."
"There are soldiers involved," I continue, trying not to smile as I lay my trap. "Volunteers to fight the war..."
"Interesting." He nods slowly. "What's the title?"
I purse my lips, fighting a grin that threatens to betray me. "The Notebook."
Eli squeezes his eyes shut, his brow twitching in irritation. "You said it's a World War Two movie," he accuses, eyes flashing open.
"I said it's set in the World War Two era," I correct, raising a finger. "And it is."
"I know what kind of movie that is, Sam," he says. "And that is one of the cringiest movies that you girls love to sob over. I am not gonna watch that shit!"
"Oh come on, Eli," I plead, clasping my hands together. "It's a classic film where young love gets separated and there's lots of yearning and pining and kissing in the rain!" I twirl dramatically around the room, arms outstretched.
"Just hit me in the head, why don't you?" Eli groans, sliding down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, knees pulled up. "It would be less painful than watching two hours of... that."
"Oh please, Eli?"
"No, you can't make me watch that crap," he says firmly.
But half an hour later, Eli and I are perched on the sofa with the 75-inch flat screen TV currently displaying Ryan Gosling's chiseled jaw as he gazes longingly at Rachel McAdams. I'm sitting cross-legged, a smug smile plastered across my face, while Eli slumps beside me, massaging his temple like he's fighting off a migraine. The coffee table in front of us is loaded with snacks—both popcorn and chips because I'm nothing if not a gracious winner.
How did I get him to watch it?
Well, I just cashed in my first favor. And now, I'm on a movie date with Elijah Deveraux, which I've been fantasizing about for years. I don't care that he's just doing it as a favor; a movie date is still a date, right?
"This is psychological torture," Eli mumbles as Noah and Allie share their first dance.
"Shh," I hiss, throwing a piece of popcorn at his head. "You're ruining the ambiance."
"The what now?" He looks at me like I've grown a second head.
"The romantic atmosphere," I explain with exaggerated patience. "You know, the thing that's happening on screen that you're destroying with your commentary?"
"There's nothing romantic about a guy basically stalking a girl until she agrees to go out with him," Eli points out, gesturing at the screen. "In real life, that's a restraining order waiting to happen."
I gasp in mock horror. "You take that back! He's persistent, not creepy."
"Same difference," he mutters, reaching for more chips.
"I need a drink," Eli announces suddenly, pushing himself up from the couch. "If I have to endure this, I'm not doing it sober."
I follow him to the kitchenette, "The doctor said no alcohol," I remind him, leaning against the counter as he opens the fridge.
"The doctor also said rest, not subject yourself to emotional manipulation disguised as entertainment," he retorts, eyeing the beers on the bottom shelf. "If you want me to watch your corny show, I need beer to be able to tolerate it, or else I'm gonna throw up from all the saccharine dialogue."
"You're being overly dramatic again," I say, but I reach past him and grab two cans anyway. "Fine, but you get two. That's it. These are the only two you're gonna get, so savor them like they're the last beers on Earth."
"You're a tyrant, you know that?" But he's smiling slightly as he takes the can from me.
"A benevolent tyrant," I correct, grabbing a beer for myself too. Surprisingly, my palate has gotten used to the disgusting taste of beer after attending a bunch of parties and going clubbing with my friends.
We settle back onto the couch, and I press play to resume the movie. I'm hyperaware of Eli beside me—the way he takes up space, the slight scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from his body.
"So he's writing letters now?" Eli asks. "Didn't they have phones in the 1940s?"
"Not everyone had phones then," I explain. "Besides, letters are romantic."
"They're inefficient," he counters. "What if there's an emergency? 'Dear Allie, my leg got blown off. Should know if I survive in 6-8 weeks when you get this letter. XOXO, Noah.'"
I snort-laugh, nearly choking on my beer. "You're the worst."
"I'm practical."
The movie continues, and so does Eli's running commentary. When Noah and Allie reunite and kiss in the rain, I sigh dreamily while Eli makes gagging noises beside me.
"They're going to catch pneumonia," he observes dryly. "Very romantic. Nothing says 'I love you' like a high fever and antibiotics."
"It's symbolic," I insist. "The rain represents the washing away of time and separation."
"The rain represents poor decision-making and impending illness."
I throw another piece of popcorn at him. "You have no soul."
"I have common sense," he corrects, catching the popcorn in his mouth with irritating precision. "Something these characters apparently checked at the door."
"Oh my God," I groan, shoving his shoulder. "Can you just enjoy the romance for two seconds?"
"I'm enjoying picking it apart," he says with a grin that absolutely does not make my stomach do a little flip. "It's way more entertaining."
As we reach the scene where elderly Allie briefly recognizes Noah before slipping back into confusion, I feel my eyes getting misty. I try to discreetly wipe away a tear, but of course, Eli notices.
"Are you crying?"
"No," I lie, sniffling. "I have... allergies."
"To what? Fictional old people?"
"To your cynicism," I retort, but there's no heat in it.
He hands me a napkin from the coffee table, his fingers brushing mine. I feel a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless.
"It is kind of sad," he admits quietly, so quietly I almost think I imagined it.
"Did you just admit that something in this movie affected you emotionally? Should I call the doctor? Are you having a relapse?"
"Shut up," he mumbles, taking another swig of his beer. "I'm just saying, dementia is sad. The rest is still trash."
"Uh-huh," I say, unconvinced.
As the credits roll, I stretch my arms over my head, feeling oddly satisfied despite Eli's constant commentary—or maybe because of it. There's something intimate about watching a movie with someone, even if they spend the entire time criticizing it.
"Admit it," I say, turning to face him. "It wasn't as bad as you thought it would be."
"It was exactly as bad as I thought it would be,"
I shift in my seat, turning my entire body toward Eli like I'm about to conduct an interrogation. The beer in my hand is just warm enough to be gross but not warm enough to justify getting up for a new one—the eternal dilemma.
Eli's profile is all sharp angles in the dim light of the living room, and there's something about the way he's staring at the TV that makes me want to crack him open like a stubborn walnut. Time to poke the bear.
"Why are you so... weird about love?" I ask, watching his face carefully. "No, seriously. I want to know. Does it have something to do with your parents?"
Ah yes, Sam. Excellent conversation starter. Why not just ask him about childhood trauma while we're getting comfy on the couch?
Eli stares at his beer. His thumb traces the rim in slow, methodical circles. I've already resigned myself to the fact that I've crossed some invisible line. I almost regret asking. Almost expect him to brush it off, shut down, throw up another wall.
"It has everything to do with them."
Holy shit. He actually answered.
"I grew up watching what love does to people," he continues, his voice lower than before. "I've seen the good part—and I've seen the damage. And for me? The damage always won."
He's looking at the can like it contains the script to this conversation. I stay perfectly still, afraid that any sudden movement might spook him back into his cave of brooding silence.
"They loved each other once. I'm not denying that," he says. "They loved each other so much. So expected so much from each other. They got jealous so much and they fought so much." His lips twist into something that's not quite a smile. "So when that love got tested, it didn't save them. It trapped them. It was like watching two people get pulled under by the same wave—too busy clinging to the idea of what they used to be to realize they were drowning."
Something in my chest tightens. I want to make a joke, lighten the mood, but my usual arsenal of witty deflections seems wildly inappropriate.
"Because they had so many expectations toward each other, everything just started falling apart as soon as my dad lost his NHL career." He takes another drink. "Mom was a housewife and depended on dad financially, but that wasn't the issue really. We still had enough money to sustain ourselves. More than enough."
I can't help but notice how his shoulders goes rigid, knuckles white around the beer can. It's like he's physically bracing himself against the weight of these memories.
"The problem started when dad fell into depression and started drinking and gambling," he continues. "Whenever he drank and gambled, it distracted him from facing the fact that his career was over. The more he did that, the faster he was burning our money, and there was no way to replenish what he lost since he was unemployed. Mom too. And there were so many bills to pay..."
He takes a breath, and I realize I'm holding mine.
"We were lucky my dad's parents were still alive then and supported us financially. Even so, my parents..." He shakes his head. "They were miserable. They fought every day. They resented each other. And still, they stayed together. Year after year. Not because they were happy—because they were too fucking afraid to let go."
The F-bomb lands hard in the quiet room. There's a raw edge to his voice that makes me want to reach out and touch him, but my hand stays stubbornly in my lap.
"Because it's not easy to walk away from years of memories. From a life you built with someone."
His head snaps toward me, eyes flashing.
"Exactly. That's the problem." Eli's voice breaks a little. "Love made them stupid. It made them justify staying when they were already destroying each other. It convinced them that suffering was noble—as long as it came with history and memories attached."
He huffs a humorless laugh, his face hardening as he stares blankly past me. "Then one day, dad found out mom cheated on him. I think that's when they realized there was no way saving their marriage after that. The hate after that?" His jaw clenches. "It was... suffocating. I don't think my dad ever moved past it."
The hurt etched into his expression is so raw that I almost flinch.
God, the alcohol is really making Eli open up like this—something he's probably kept locked away since middle school. And here I am with my stupid questions.
I almost reach for his hand, almost say sorry. But Eli wouldn't want that. So I just sit with him, our shoulders almost touching in the dim light.
"They could've walked away sooner," he says after a moment. "They could've healed sooner. But that so-called love kept telling them 'just a little longer' while everything around them burned." His eyes find mine, challenging and wounded all at once.
"So no—I don't buy into it. I don't want something that blinds you, traps you, or makes you mistake pain for loyalty. If that's what love does, I want nothing to do with it."
"I don't get people," he mutters, almost to himself.
"What do you mean?"
"What's the point of investing emotionally if you're eventually gonna lose that one day and end up miserable? Love. Commitment. It's all overrated." He scoffs. "Arguments. Fighting. Breaking up. It always ends in pain."
I bite my lip, weighing my words. The urge to counter his bleak view is overwhelming, even though I know he'll probably dismiss whatever I say. But I can't help myself.
"Arguments are normal," I say, leaning forward slightly. "They're not the enemy. They're how two people learn each other. How they grow. It's not about winning or losing—it's about discovering how to exist together despite being, you know, entirely separate human beings with different brains. You don't fight because you don't care—you fight because you do. Because you're invested enough to want to fix what's wrong instead of walking away."
He glances at me, unimpressed.
I tuck my legs underneath me. "Think about it—you never truly know someone until you see how they fight, how they apologize, how they make up. How they stop expecting someone to be perfect and start seeing them as human."
Eli smirks bitterly as he side-glances at me. His eyes are slightly unfocused from the beer, but his guard is already climbing back up brick by brick.
"That's just a bunch of crap," he mutters.
Before I can formulate a sufficiently snarky comeback, he's reaching for the remote and changing the channel to ESPN. Our university's hockey team game is just starting, the announcer's enthusiastic voice filling the sudden conversational void.
And just like that, we're done talking. Classic Eli maneuver—open up just enough to make me think I'm getting somewhere, then slam the door shut. Part of me wants to grab the remote and demand we finish this conversation, but another part recognizes that he's given me more tonight than he probably has to anyone in a long time.
I settle back into the couch, sipping my now-definitely-too-warm beer and stealing glances at his profile. The blue light from the TV flickers across his face, and I wonder if his parents ever look at each other now and see the wreckage of what they once were, or if they've forgotten they were ever anything else.
He catches me looking and raises an eyebrow, the mask firmly back in place.
"What?" he asks. "You look like you're plotting my murder."
"Just calculating how many more beers it would take to get you to admit you secretly love romantic comedies," I retort, the moment effectively broken.
He rolls his eyes, but there's the ghost of a real smile there. I'll count that as a win for tonight.
The game roars into its second period, and I'm pretty sure my vocal cords have already surrendered. Eli leans forward, elbows on knees, the blue light from the TV washing over his face like he's some kind of intense hockey-watching gargoyle.
I take another swig of beer—my third, I think—and try to follow the puck as it pinballs across the screen. There's something intoxicating about watching this with him, like his intensity is contagious. I catch myself mimicking his posture without meaning to, and I wonder if beer-by-proxy is a thing.
"Another penalty? Are these refs blind or just severely underpaid?" Eli shouts at the screen, gesturing with his beer bottle so violently I'm afraid it might become a projectile.
I squint at the TV, where a Ridgewater player is being escorted to the penalty box. "Which one is that? Number twenty-something? He looks like he's about to murder someone with his stick."
"Dylan. He's usually more disciplined than this," Eli mutters, his forehead creasing with concern. "This game is getting ugly."
Ugly is an understatement.
The ice looks less like a hockey rink and more like the set of a very cold production of Fight Club. Players from both teams keep getting sent to the sin bin.
The living room has transformed into a miniature arena. Empty beer bottles stand like sentinels on the coffee table, pizza boxes lie open and ravaged, and half-eaten cinnamon rolls sit abandoned, their frosting congealing.
"GO! GO! GO!" Eli suddenly springs to his feet, nearly upsetting what's left of his fourth beer as our team breaks away with the puck.
I jump up beside him, screaming encouragement at pixels on a screen. "MOVE YOUR FROZEN BUTT, TWENTY-THREE!"
The player—whose name I still don't know but Eli probably has tattooed on his soul somewhere—zips across the blue line and fires. The puck slams into the net, and the living room erupts like we've personally scored the goal.
"YES!" Eli's hand comes up, and I high-five him so hard my palm stings. "DID YOU SEE THAT SHOT?"
"IT WAS BEAUTIFUL!" I yell back, though honestly, it looked like every other shot to me—a black dot moving too fast to track properly. But his excitement is infectious, and I find myself jumping up and down.
Eli does a ridiculous victory dance that involves a lot of elbow movement and what I can only describe as aggressive hip thrusting. If someone walked in right now, they'd think we were two best friends who'd known each other forever, not a girl nursing a hopeless crush and the object of her affection.
My inner monologue is interrupted when Hudson scores, tying the game 2-2.
"No, no, NO!" Eli collapses back onto the couch like someone cut his strings. "That defense was softer than those cinnamon rolls."
I sit down next to him, closer than before. Not on purpose. Definitely not on purpose. "There's still time, right?"
His foot has begun a persistent tap-tap-tap against the floor.
"Eight minutes and forty-three seconds," he says without checking, because of course he knows exactly how much time is left. His thumbnail finds its way between his teeth, and he gnaws at it, his eyes tracking every movement on the screen with laser focus.
His profile in the flickering light is all sharp angles and shadows. The tension in his jaw makes a little muscle jump just below his ear, and for some incomprehensible reason, I find that absolutely fascinating.
"You wish you were out there, don't you?" I ask quietly.
Eli doesn't look away from the screen, "Every second."
The naked longing in his voice catches me off guard. I've never wanted anything the way he wants to be on that ice. My greatest ambition at the moment is for him to look at me the way he's looking at that hockey game—like I'm the only thing that matters in the universe.
God, I'm pathetic. And slightly drunk. Beer number three was definitely a mistake.
The game intensifies as the clock winds down. Hudson is pressing hard, and our goalie is working miracles to keep the puck out. Eli has progressed from nail-biting to a full-body stress response that includes leaning forward so far I'm afraid he might fall face-first into the pizza box.
"Come on, Zach," he mutters, as my brother gains control of the puck.
My brother weaves through defenders like they're standing still.
"Thirty seconds," Eli whispers, his voice tight. "Come on, Zach. Find the opening."
The clock ticks down. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. The room feels electric, charged with Eli's intensity and my proximity to him. Our shoulders are touching now, both of us perched on the edge of the couch like birds about to take flight.
"Ten seconds," I count down, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
Zach crosses the blue line, dekes past a defender.
"Five!"
He pulls back his stick.
"Four! Three!"
The shot launches.
"Two! One!"
The puck slides into the net just as the buzzer sounds, and the horn blares to signal the end of the game. Ridgewater 3, Hudson 2.
The room explodes. I'm on my feet without remembering standing up, and Eli is jumping and screaming like he's won the lottery. Before I can process what's happening, his arms are around me, lifting me off the floor in a bear hug that squeezes the air from my lungs.
"THEY DID IT!" he roars, spinning me around once before setting me down. "DID YOU SEE THAT? THAT'S WHY ZACH IS GOING PRO!"
I'm laughing and breathless, not from the spin but from the feel of his arms around me. My whole body is tingling, and I'm light-headed in a way that has nothing to do with the beer. "That was amazing!"
And then, as suddenly as it started, the moment shifts. Eli seems to realize he's still holding me, his hands warm against my waist. He steps back, giving my shoulder an awkward pat that feels like a consolation prize after that hug.
"That was..." He clears his throat. "Great game."
"Yeah," I agree, my voice sounding unnaturally high to my own ears. "Great... hockey... sports... thing."
He's looking at me strangely, his eyes moving over my face like he's trying to memorize it. Or like I have something embarrassing on it.
Oh god, do I have something on my face?
"What is it?" I ask, feeling suddenly shy under his scrutiny.
His lips twitch. "You got cream, I mean some cinnamon frosting in there," he gestures to the corner of my mouth.
"Oh." My voice comes out as a wobbly whisper. Great!
Instead of wiping it away with my finger like a normal person, some demon possesses me and I slip my tongue out, slowly licking the corner of my mouth where the frosting has apparently been staging a sit-in.
I glance up at Eli, a self-deprecating joke ready on my lips, but something in his expression stops me cold. His pupils have dilated, gaze fixed on where my tongue had just been, and I swear the temperature in the room climbs several degrees. My lungs seem to forget how breathing works, and the space between us suddenly feel like both too much and not nearly enough.
My heart is doing a drum solo that would put any rock band to shame. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-DUM, ba-DUM. It's so loud I'm sure he can hear it. He has to hear it. It's like there's a percussion section where my ribcage should be.
"E...Eli?" My voice shakes. "Are you—"
His mouth crashes against mine, cutting off whatever ridiculous thing I was about to say. For a second, I'm too shocked to respond.
Eli is kissing me.
ELI IS KISSING ME!
This has to be a beer-induced hallucination. But his lips are warm and real against mine, slightly chapped but so, so perfect.
It takes my brain a moment to catch up with what's happening, but when it does, I close my eyes and kiss him back, fingers trembling as they find purchase in his shirt. The cotton bunches in my grip as I pull him closer, needing to feel his heartbeat hammering against mine.
I have no idea what I'm doing—my first kiss, and it's with Eli, and I'm probably doing it wrong—but I don't care.
I follow his lead, mimicking the gentle pressure of his lips.
"Is this okay?" he whispers against my mouth, his breath hot and ragged.
"God, yes," I manage, surprising myself with how certain I sound. And damn, do I like the taste of him. The sweetness of his lips is addictive, and I want more.
So I take it. My hands slip to his hair, tangled in those light strands as I deepen the kiss. His sandalwood scent fills my senses, and for a moment, I'm weightless. Floating on a wave of desire that overwhelms me entirely.
His hands slide to my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of bare skin where my shirt has ridden up. The contact sends electricity arcing through me. When I gasp, he groans—a primal sound that vibrates through his chest into mine.
His tongue slides against mine, and I taste beer and possibility. Heat pools low in my belly, making me arch against him. I hear myself make a sound—half whimper, half moan—that I've never made before.
"You're killing me," he murmurs, voice rough as one hand cradling my face like I'm something precious even as his body tells me I'm something desired.
I don't know how long we stand there like that—too long for propriety but not long enough for sanity—before Eli pulls away with a groan. His face is flushed red now, and so is mine, and my heart feels like it's doing acrobatics in my chest. He looks like he's fighting for breath.
"Sorry," he mutters against my mouth before stepping away from me completely and running a shaky hand through his hair. "I—I shouldn't have done that."
There's a heavy silence between us as the aftermath of our kiss settles around us like mist. But the regret that etches into his features feels like I've been doused with a bucket of ice water. Eli turns to his side, one hand on his waist, the other pinching his mouth. His brows pull together in what looks horribly like remorse.
"El—" I begin, not even sure what I'm going to say. Thanks for the kiss? Sorry I moaned like a weirdo? Can we do that again, preferably forever?
"I'm sorry,"
Before I can respond, he's moving away, hurriedly leaving the living room and taking the stairs two at a time. A moment later, I hear the loud thud of his door closing.
I stand alone in our mess of pizza boxes and beer bottles, the taste of him still on my lips, wondering how we went from celebrating to kissing to... this. My fingertips touch my mouth, tracing where his had been moments before.