Chapter 20
SAM
I thought Eli was finally showing clear signs—like he was slowly admitting he felt something for me, especially after that stunt he pulled at the barbecue last week. Because that? That was him being jealous.
So what if he insisted he wasn't? His actions said otherwise.
Why else would he put a hickey on me just so I'd cover up my bikini—because he hated the way his teammates were eyeing me? Wasn't that jealousy? Wasn't that a clear sign of him being possessive?
I really thought that after that day, things between us would get better.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
Because the days that followed were worse.
Eli didn't just grow distant—he turned glacial. If before he could at least pretend I didn't exist, now he acted like proximity itself was a contagion. Like if I stood within a two-mile radius of him, he'd catch something incurable. He snapped more. Spoke bluntly. Carelessly.
As if my feelings were collateral damage he didn't even bother accounting for anymore.
And when ignoring me wasn't enough, he made sure to shove it in my face like how deliberately he showcases his interest in other women when I'm around. Like I'm supposed to get the message through some sort of primal display of his desirability.
Last week was the pinnacle of his "look how much I don't want you" campaign. My brother Zach threw this incredibly sweet surprise for Caroline—recreating the prom they never attended in high school. Twenty-one years of them dancing around their feelings for each other, and Zach finally gets the girl with a gymnasium transformed into teenage dream central, complete with streamers and a disco ball.
I asked Eli to dance with me.
He didn't even hesitate before saying no. Said he doesn't dance. And then when another girl asked him, he said yes.
Not just yes—he looked at me when he did. A deliberate glance. Like he needed me to understand that he does dance. Just not with me. Like he was drawing a line in front of everyone and daring me to pretend it didn't hurt.
It did. It still does.
Adam stepped in before the humiliation could fully bloom, asked me to dance, smiled like he was doing me a favor without making me feel like one. It was kind. It was sweet. And I hate that kindness sometimes feels like pity when it comes too late.
Because all I could see was Eli.
His hands on her waist. Her body fitting against his like it belonged there. The way he leaned in, relaxed, effortless—like this was normal for him. Like this was easy.
Like I could never be.
Dancing with Adam felt like standing in the rain while watching someone else take shelter. Warm music, moving lights, someone holding me—and still, I was freezing.
Because no matter who asks me to dance, no matter who wants me, it's never the one person I keep choosing.
And watching him choose someone else—right in front of me—felt like confirmation of the thing I've been trying not to believe.
That there are places in his life I will never be allowed to stand.
Despite Eli's theatrics, the night was beautiful for Zach and Caroline. The look on Caroline's face when she walked in—pure shock melting into joy—was worth every streamer I'd tangled myself in while decorating. Twenty-one years those two circled each other, both afraid to ruin a friendship that was always meant to be more.
It gives me this ridiculous hope that maybe—just maybe—Eli and I have our own twenty-one year plan in the works. The universe's most elaborate slow burn.
Except the only burn I feel is the sting of rejection every time Eli dodges into another room when I enter.
The fundamental difference, of course, which my brain helpfully reminds me of approximately every three minutes, is that Zach and Caroline had mutual feelings they were too scared to confess. Eli and I have... well, me loving him and him treating that love like a communicable disease.
What makes it worse—because of course there has to be something worse—is that I keep seeing him with Izzie lately. Which is extra irritating because I genuinely thought they weren't that close anymore.
Apparently, that was wishful thinking on my part.
And she knows I notice. She always does.
She'll catch me looking and flash this smug, gloating little grin, like she's won something I didn't even know was a competition but somehow still lost.
God, I hate her. Hate is a strong word, but I'm feeling generous with it right now.
"You're a certified fool," I tell my reflection as I brush my teeth that evening. "Grade-A idiot with a PhD in hopeless causes."
My reflection doesn't argue. She knows I'm right.
Any self-respecting person would have packed up their heart and moved on by now. Filed Eli under "lost causes" and swiped right on someone new. I've tried explaining this to myself in numerous pep talks, usually delivered while stress-eating my watermelon sour patch.
"Time to move on, Samantha," I've told myself. "There are plenty of fish in the sea who don't actively swim away when they see you coming."
But then I remember the day I met him, and all my well-reasoned arguments dissolve like sugar in hot tea.
I was ten years old, and everything was black.
Not literally black—the world still had its colors, technically. But when you're ten and you've spent two years being poked with needles the size of drinking straws (a slight exaggeration, but they felt that way), when your hair keeps falling out in clumps on your pillow, when you've memorized every crack in the hospital ceiling... the world loses its vibrancy. It becomes a dull, muted version of itself.
The adults thought I didn't understand. They spoke in whispers outside my door, used words like treatment options and prognosis like I wouldn't know what they meant. But I wasn't stupid. I knew that normal kids didn't spend more time in hospital beds than their own. I knew that when nurses gave my mom tissues before the doctor came in, it wasn't good news.
I was tired. So tired. Tired of fighting, tired of the metallic taste of medicine, tired of pretending to be brave when my mom cried in the hallway where she thought I couldn't hear her.
The worst part wasn't the sickness itself. It was watching everyone pretend. The fake cheeriness of You'll be running around in no time! The forced smiles that never quite reached their eyes. The way my brother Zach brought me comics but couldn't look directly at me, like my illness might jump from my eyes to his.
At night, when the hospital quieted except for the beeping of monitors, I stared at the ceiling and thought how easy it would be to just... stop. Stop fighting. Stop taking the medicines that made me throw up. Stop pretending I believed I would get better.
I never told anyone these thoughts. How could I? My mother was already praying herself hoarse every night. My father's shoulders had permanently curved inward, as if bearing an invisible weight. Telling them I wanted to give up would have broken them completely.
But I was broken too.
"Let's get you some fresh air," my dad said one Saturday, unusually insistent. The doctors had given me a weekend pass—a brief reprieve from the antiseptic prison.
"I don't want to," I mumbled, not looking up from my book—a story about kids having normal adventures that made my chest ache with wanting.
Dad thought I needed a change of scenery. That's what adults called it when they dragged you somewhere boring because they couldn't stand the sight of your miserable face anymore. I got it—I wasn't exactly Miss Sunshine these days. The hospital gown fashion show and the all-you-can-eat pudding cups had lost their charm. But a hockey game? Really? Like watching a bunch of kids chase a puck was going to make me forget I was dying.
"Come on, Sammy," Dad said, holding up my puffy winter coat like it was some kind of prize. "Zach's championship game. It'll be fun."
I stared at him from my nest of blankets on the couch.
"Define fun," I muttered. "Is it the part where I sit on hard bleachers for two hours, or the part where I catch a cold and end up back in the hospital?"
Dad's smile flickered, but he didn't give up. "I'll bring extra cushions. And hot chocolate. The good kind, with the tiny marshmallows."
"You fight dirty," I said—but I was already untangling myself from the blankets.
The ride to the rink was quiet. Dad kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, probably making sure I hadn't evaporated. I'd gotten so thin lately, it seemed possible.
When I was little—I mean, littler—I'd wanted to be a ballerina or an astronaut or sometimes both at the same time. Now, at the ancient age of ten, I just wanted to make it to eleven. It was funny how your dreams shrank when your white blood cell count did.
The hockey rink was packed with parents clutching coffee cups and shouting encouragement that sounded suspiciously like threats. MOVE YOUR FEET, brANDON! screamed a woman whose hairspray could have single-handedly destroyed the ozone layer. Brandon—whoever he was—had my sympathies.
Dad found us seats near the bottom of the bleachers, close to the action but far enough from Hairspray Mom that I wouldn't get high off fumes. He wrapped me in a blanket until I looked like a burrito with eyes.
"Too tight?" he asked.
"Only if I need to breathe," I replied, and he loosened it a little, laughing. Dad's laugh had been rare lately. I'd missed it.
The teams skated onto the ice—tiny warriors in oversized pads. I spotted Zach immediately, number eight, skating like his blades were on fire. My brother had always been fast, but on ice, he was practically a blur. He still didn't know about the cancer—Mom and Dad thought it would distract him from hockey. To him, I was just his sick little sister who sometimes had to stay in the hospital, where he brought me dinosaur drawings that looked more like angry potatoes with teeth.
But it wasn't Zach who caught my eye.
It was number nine.
He sat alone on the bench, shoulders slumped like he was carrying invisible weights. While the other boys laughed and shoved each other, this kid looked like someone had just told him ice cream had been permanently canceled.
"Who's number nine?" I asked Dad, surprising myself with my interest.
Dad squinted. "That's Elijah."
Elijah. The name fit him somehow—biblical and serious. His helmet sat crooked on his head, and even from here, I could see his face was set in a frown too heavy for someone our age.
The game started, and I tried to follow the puck, but my eyes kept drifting back to Elijah. When he was finally sent onto the ice, he skated with surprising grace, like the sadness weighing him down on land disappeared when he moved across the frozen surface.
"He's good," I murmured.
"Who? Zach?" Dad asked, clapping as Zach narrowly missed a goal.
"No. Number nine."
Dad looked at me curiously, probably thrilled that I was showing interest in something besides which food items I planned to refuse at dinner.
Zach's team won—barely. The rink erupted in cheers, and parents flooded the ice to congratulate sweaty, red-faced boys. Dad helped me down from the bleachers, and we made our way toward the team.
"I'm going to say hi to Zach," I told Dad. Then I added, "By myself," when he started to follow me. Independence was a rare commodity in my life back then.
I navigated through the crowd, oddly energized despite the fatigue that usually settled over me like a heavy blanket. Zach spotted me and waved enthusiastically.
"Sam! You came!" He gave me a careful hug, mindful of my fragility. "Did you see my almost-goal? It was epic!"
"Totally epic," I agreed, though I'd honestly missed it. "Great game."
My eyes drifted past him to Elijah, who sat alone on the bench, unlacing his skates, that same cloud of gloom hanging over him. Before I could second-guess myself, I walked over.
"Your face is going to freeze like that," I said when I reached him.
He looked up, startled, his scowl deepening. "What?"
"Your face. My grandma says if you make an expression too long, it gets stuck that way forever. You'll be stuck with permanent grumpy face."
He stared at me like I'd sprouted a second head. "Go away."
"I'm Sam," I continued, undeterred. "My brother's number eight."
"Zach?"
"Yep! The one who keeps falling down."
Elijah didn't respond, just went back to unlacing his skates.
"You're really good," I said.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
"So what's your excuse for looking so miserable?"
"My dog died," he said simply. "Last week."
"That sucks," I replied. "Was it a good dog?"
"The best." His voice cracked a little. "His name was Copper."
I sat down beside him, ignoring the cold seeping through my jeans. "I had a goldfish once. Lived for three days. I named him Immortal—which was clearly tempting fate."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"I wanted to flush him with honors," I continued, warming to my story, "but my mom caught me trying to make a tiny sailor hat for him out of aluminum foil. She said it would clog the toilet, but I think she just didn't appreciate my artistic vision."
And then it happened. Elijah smiled.
Not a polite twitch—but a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"A sailor hat?" he asked.
"Well, he needed proper burial attire. I was also going to play Nearer My God to Thee on my recorder, but I only knew Hot Cross Buns."
And then—Elijah Deveraux laughed.
A real, genuine laugh—and I knew, with the absolute certainty that only exists in childhood, that I needed to see that laugh again. I needed to be the cause of it. Being around him, even though I'd just met him, and seeing him laugh—I felt something I hadn't felt in a long, long time.
I felt alive.
It was as if someone had adjusted the contrast on a television that had been broadcasting in grays. Everything was suddenly sharper. Brighter.
A few weeks earlier, I would have welcomed death with open arms. I was tired of the needles, the nausea, the pity in everyone's eyes. Tired of fighting for each breath when breathing hurt. But that was before Elijah. Before I heard him laugh and realized I wanted to make it happen again.
I started fighting harder after that day. I stopped rebelling against treatments. I swallowed medicines without complaint, even the ones that burned going down. I let them stick me with needles without crying.
Not because I suddenly believed I would get better.
But because I wanted to live long enough to see Elijah laugh again.
When the chemo drained me, leaving me hollow-eyed and sore, I closed my eyes and pictured his smile, holding onto it like a talisman.
And I did get better.
Against odds I wouldn't understand until years later—when I finally read my medical records—I recovered. The blackness receded. Colors returned, slowly, one by one.
And the brightest color was Eli's smile.
So no, I can't give up on him now—even when he does his best to freeze me out. Even when he dances or flirts with other women right in front of me. Even when he pretends I don't exist.
Because Elijah Deveraux once brought color back into my world when everything was black. And I know—I know—there's still a part of him that remembers a time when he didn't hate me. When I made him laugh.
We were friends once. But when I told him I had a crush on him, he backed away like I'd offered him poison instead of my heart.
It hurts more than the needles. More than the burning chemo.
But I don't regret telling him.
Even at ten, I understood what mattered.
Life is too short not to be honest about how you feel. Too precious to waste on fear and hiding. I've seen the alternative—the endless white corridors, the beeping machines measuring out the minutes of lives cut too short.
Love is love. And when you know it, there's no point pretending otherwise. No burying it without burying part of yourself along with it.
That's what cancer teaches you, somewhere between the pain and the fear—the brutal, crystal-clear truth of what actually matters.
And Elijah mattered. Still does.
If it takes twenty-one years for us to be together, so be it.
I'll wait.
*****
I'm dying. Literally dying.
My throat feels like I swallowed a cactus, my head is throbbing with the dull persistence of a bad pop song, and my nose has been running faster than I ever could on a treadmill.
But here I am, wrapped in three layers and still shivering, because apparently my heart didn't get the memo from my immune system. The things I do for love—or whatever this tragic, one-sided devotion to Elijah Deveraux is technically classified as. His jersey hangs off my frame like an oversized security blanket, sleeves swallowing my hands, the fabric warm from being buried under my coat.
And yes, I know I should be in bed. I know that.
But it's his birthday.
As in, the day he was born. The universe's national holiday. And there was no way—no fever, no sore throat, no dramatic immune system betrayal—was keeping me from being here when he steps on the ice tonight.
"You really should be in bed," Caroline says, eyeing me with that motherly concern that makes me want to simultaneously hug her and roll my eyes. "You look like warmed-up death."
"Thanks," I mumble, adjusting the high ponytail that's already giving me a headache. "That's exactly the look I was going for."
The arena lights are too bright, the crowd too loud, but I'd crawl here on my hands and knees if necessary. I check my reflection in my phone camera, making sure the "ED" and '"78" painted on each of my cheeks isn't smudged. Eli's initials on my face—how much more pathetic could I get?
"It's not pathetic," I whisper to myself. "It's supportive."
Caroline nudges me as the Ridgewater Warriors skate onto the ice for warm-ups. "There they are!"
The crowd erupts, and despite my miserable state, I feel that familiar flutter. Eli glides onto the ice with the effortless grace of someone born to wear skates, his captain's "C" catching the light. Beside him, my brother Zach does some ridiculous pre-game twirl that makes Caroline squeal.
We're cheering for our men—not that Eli is my man, but that's just semantics.
The semantics of unrequited pining. My specialty.
As the warm-up continues, Zach and Eli fall into their usual rhythm—a chemistry on ice that's made them Ridgewater's star duo. Zach scores on a practice shot and Eli playfully shoves him, both of them laughing. Eli's smile transforms his entire face, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, and I feel my heart do that stupid little squeeze.
"God, look at them," Caroline sighs, clasping her hands under her chin. "They're like poetry in motion."
"Poetry with sticks and violent tendencies," I add, but I'm transfixed too. When Eli steals the puck from one of his teammates and executes a perfect deke before scoring top shelf, I can't help the involuntary cheer that escapes my lips.
"You've got it so bad," Caroline says with a knowing smirk.
"I have a fever. My judgment is impaired."
We fall into our usual game routine—cheering, commenting, occasionally cursing when the opposing team gets too close to our goal. I'm just about to tell Caroline about the disastrous econ exam I barely survived yesterday when a familiar voice cuts through the pre-game buzz.
"Well, if it isn't my two favorite Ridgewater fans."
Adam Klein stands there with that easy smile that seems to melt every girl within a ten-foot radius. His dark hair is artfully tousled, his blue eyes bright with mischief. He gestures to the empty seat next to me.
"Hey Sam!"
"Hey, Adam! Come, take a seat with us."
"Thanks," he says, sliding in beside me. "Hey, Care."
Caroline gives him a friendly smile. "Adam. Surprised to see you here. Didn't think hockey was your thing."
"I'm expanding my cultural horizons," he says with a wink.
Adam and I became friends—real friends, which still surprises me sometimes.
It started at that party where he asked me to dance, saving me from watching Eli dancing with another girl. Since then, we've developed an unexpected friendship and we have occasional coffee study session together along with Care of course. He's easy to talk to, and unlike most guys, he actually listens—even to my embarrassingly detailed accounts of Eli-related heartbreak.
Zach, of course, hates it. My brother is convinced Adam is still secretly pining for Caroline. But I've seen how Adam acts around her—respectful, friendly, but with none of the longing gazes I'm all too familiar with from my own mirror.
"How are you doing, Sam?" Adam asks, settling into his seat. "Still recovering from the exam apocalypse?"
I groan and slump against the back of my seat. "Don't remind me. I think I sketched a tiny weeping self-portrait in the corner of my Art History exam.
Adam laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "I wrote a small farewell letter to my GPA on mine."
"You guys are dramatic," Caroline cuts in. "I'm sure you both did fine."
The lights dim, signaling the start of the game, and the crowd roars as the Ridgewater Warriors take their positions for the opening face-off. Eli skates to center ice, his posture confident and focused. For a brief, foolish moment, I imagine him looking up into the stands for me, but of course, his eyes are locked on the puck.
The referee drops it, and the game is on.
"They're on fire tonight," Adam comments, and I nod, my eyes never leaving number 78.
"Zach's going to break his scoring record this season," Caroline says proudly, clapping as my brother nearly puts one in the net.
"Not if Eli breaks his first," I counter.
A particularly cold draft blows through the arena, and I can't suppress a violent shiver. Adam notices immediately.
"You're shaking." Adam says.
"I'm not," I lie immediately.
He raises a brow, "Yes, you are." He then shrugs off his brown leather jacket—the one that makes him look like he stepped out of a movie about charming bad boys with hearts of gold. "Here, take this before you turn into a popsicle."
"I can't take your jacket," I protest weakly, even as my body betrays me with another shiver.
"You can and you will," he insists, draping it over my shoulders. The residual warmth from his body and the faint scent of his cologne envelop me. "I run hot anyway."
"That's what all the girls say," I mutter, which makes him laugh again.
The jacket does help, warming me almost instantly. "Thanks," I say, genuinely grateful.
"You're welcome," he says and wink at me.
Caroline watches our exchange with raised eyebrows but says nothing, returning her attention to the game. Adam and I fall into easy conversation about classes and plans for Thanksgiving which is only a few weeks away, and for a few minutes, I actually forget to watch every move Eli makes on the ice.
Then the crowd erupts in angry shouts, pulling my attention back to the game. Something's happening that I missed entirely. Eli is in the referee's face, his normally composed demeanor replaced by something I've rarely seen—raw anger. His gloved finger points at a player from the opposing team, his body language tense and aggressive.
"What happened?"
Caroline leans over. "That jerk from Westlake tripped Eli as he was about to shoot. Should've been a penalty, but the ref didn't call it."
I frown, watching as Eli continues to argue. This isn't like him at all. Eli's always been the level-headed one, the captain who leads by example rather than by volume. Something else must be bothering him.
"His parents must be here," I mutter, scanning the stands. His parents have a special talent for putting Eli in a mood with just their presence. But I don't see them.
The game continues, but Eli's playing has changed—more aggressive, less precise. It's like watching a different player wearing his jersey. When the TV timeout finally comes and the ice crew skates out to shovel, I see Zach and Eli heading toward the bench, which means they'll pass right by us.
My heart does that stupid little jump it always does when Eli comes near. I straighten in my seat, adjust my ponytail, and make sure his initials are still visible on my cheeks.
Zach spots us and breaks into a wide grin, waving enthusiastically at Caroline and blowing her a kiss. My brother: hockey player by day, complete sap by night.
"You're amazing!" Caroline calls to him, blowing a kiss back.
I gather my courage and wave at Eli. "Eli! Hey! You're doing great!" I call out.
Eli glances our way, his eyes sweeping over me without pause, and then deliberately looks away. The rejection stings, even though I should be used to it by now. My hand drops slowly, a familiar heaviness settling in my chest.
"Hi Elijah!" A voice calls from a few rows down. Izzie... I don't even try to stop the eye roll.
And Eli—stoic, serious Eli who just ignored me—looks at her and smiles. An actual smile, accompanied by a nod of acknowledgement.
The heaviness in my chest turns to lead, cold and dense. I feel myself deflate, sinking back into my seat as if someone let all the air out of me at once.
"Hey," Adam says softly, "You okay?"
"Fine," I say automatically, the word hollow.
Caroline gives me a sympathetic look, but before she can launch into supportive best friend mode, she suddenly gasps and jabs me in the ribs hard enough to qualify as minor assault. "Sam. Look up."
I follow her gaze toward the jumbotron—and immediately wish I hadn't. There, in high definition for the entire arena to see, are Adam and me, framed in a heart with the words "KISS CAM" flashing above us.
The crowd starts chanting: "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
"Oh my god," I breathe, every drop of blood draining from my face before rushing back so fast I'm pretty sure my ears are on fire. My eyes flick instinctively toward the ice, where Eli stands near the bench, head tilted up at the screen. I can't read his expression from here, which is somehow worse.
Adam leans in close, his breath warm against my ear. "Do you want to find out if he really likes you?" he murmurs, his voice taking on a mischievous edge.
I blink at him, confused. "What? How?"
A slow, devilish grin spreads across his face. "Close your eyes," he says.
"What? You're not gonna kiss me, are you?" I sputter, my voice rising an octave.
He chuckles. "Just trust me... close your eyes."
Maybe it's the fever making me delirious, or maybe it's the hurt still fresh from Eli's rejection, but I find myself doing as Adam says and I close my eyes.
I feel Adam's hand gently cup my jaw, and then his face is close—so close I can feel his breath—but not quite touching.
When I open my eyes a second later, the jumbotron is still showing us locked in what appears to be a full-on kiss.
Except we're not.
His thumb pressing against my lips, his face close enough, but our lips don't actually meet. The crowd erupts in cheers and whistles, clearly fooled by whatever performance Adam is putting on.
He is grinning like the cat that got the canary, the cream, and probably the entire dairy farm.
My cheeks feel like they're on fire, my hands flying up to cover them. "I can't believe you did that," I hiss, but there's no real anger behind it.
Adam pulls back, his grin wicked and far too satisfied with himself. "Now," he murmurs, barely moving his lips, eyes flicking toward the ice, "let's see if that little kiss does exactly what I think it will."
The game resumes—and almost immediately, something is... off.
Eli is suddenly all aggression and no finesse. He misses a pass from Zach, something I've never seen happen before. Then he slams an opponent into the boards with enough force to make the crowd gasp.
"What's gotten into him?" Caroline wonders aloud.
I don't answer, because I'm too busy staring in disbelief as Eli—my Eli, the most calm and disciplined player, who has never had a penalty in his entire college career, gets called for roughing. The ref sends him to the sin bin, and the look on Eli's face as he skates there is thunderous.
His jaw clenched so tight I swear I can hear his teeth grinding from the stands.
"Interesting," Adam murmurs beside me.
When Eli returns to the ice, he's no better. If anything, he's worse—playing with a reckless intensity that seems to surprise even his teammates. He plays like he's possessed—chasing the puck with a vengeance, checking harder than necessary, slashing when he should be gliding.
Within ten minutes, he's back in the penalty box for high-sticking.
"This is surreal," I say, unable to tear my eyes away from the train wreck that is Eli's usually flawless game. "He never plays like this."
Adam tilts his head, lips twitching. "He's also never watched you kiss another guy before."
My heart stutters. "Adam—"
"I'm just saying," he cuts in lightly, "he's not as unaffected as he'd like to pretend. He's definitely bothered."
Despite Eli's bizarre behavior, Ridgewater still manages to pull off a win, largely thanks to Zach stepping up his game to compensate for his captain's uncharacteristic performance. As the final buzzer sounds, I exhale a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
The teams line up for the traditional handshake, and I watch Eli closely. His jaw is set, his movements stiff as he shakes hands with the opposing team.
"Well, that was quite a show," Caroline says, gathering her things. "I'm going to wait for Zach outside the locker room. Want to come?"
"Uh, yeah, sure."
As the arena starts to clear, Adam leans in, lowering his mouth close to my ear. "I don't think you're going to be stuck in an unrequited situation for much longer."
"How do you know?"
He smiles, slow and knowing. "The way he played tonight—after he saw me kissing you? That wasn't just him losing his cool. That was pure, undiluted jealousy ripping through his game."
I want to believe him.
God, how I want to believe him. But I've been down this road before.
"Or maybe he was just having an off night," I say, unable to fully embrace the hope Adam is offering.
Adam shakes his head, standing up and offering me his hand. "Trust me, Sam. I know jealousy when I see it. And that—" he gestures toward the ice, "—was a textbook case."
I hesitate, then take his hand.
Could he be right?