Chapter 24
ELIJAH
I haven't seen Sam in days.
Seven days, to be exact—not that I'm counting.
Seven days since I threw her out of my room like she was nothing, yelling until my throat was raw. Seven days of her absence hanging over me like a storm cloud that won't break.
I remember waking up the next morning with my head splitting open, promising myself I'd never drink that much again, while flashes of my cruelty played on repeat in my mind. All because of this stupid thing they call jealousy.
Is that even what it was?
Jealousy feels too small a word for the wildfire that tore through me that night. It was more like watching someone reach inside my chest and squeeze until I couldn't breathe, until something primal and ugly clawed its way out.
It was seeing red, literally seeing fucking red. It was my blood boiling hot enough to melt steel, my fists clenching so hard my nails left half-moon indents in my palms.
If that's jealousy, then yeah, I was jealous.
But it felt more like temporary insanity—like I'd been possessed by some demon version of myself that I didn't recognize and couldn't control.
And that's exactly why I keep pushing Sam away.
Because jealousy doesn't just knock on your door and politely ask to come in. It kicks down the walls, sets fire to your common sense, and pisses on whatever's left. It turns you into someone who can hurt the person you—The person you what? Care about? No. I can't go there.
This feeling is a nightmare I never want to experience again. It makes a person unreasonable and cruel, makes you say things you can't take back. Makes you destroy what little good you have in your life because you're too scared to admit you might actually need it.
And the worst part?
This fucking jealousy doesn't just come and go. It sits in you for days, seething and simmering, making you lash out at anyone who comes too close. It's like having a fever that won't break, that keeps you sweating and shaking at three in the morning, wondering where she is, if she's okay, if she's with him.
It doesn't help that Sam hasn't come by the dorm, or shown up at the ice rink. She hasn't called or texted. I haven't seen even her shadow since that night at the party, and it's driving me insane wondering if she's moved on, if I've finally succeeded in pushing her away for good.
I can't help but think maybe they're together now. Maybe they're hanging out all the time, and that's why I haven't seen her around. Maybe she's on the phone with him at night, laughing at the stupid jokes he probably tells, forgetting that she used to call or text me every day despite me constantly rejecting her calls and leaving her messages unread.
The thought of her spending time with that pretentious asshole is like ants crawling under my skin. I can't sit still. Can't sleep. Can't focus during practice. I've broken three sticks this week from slamming them too hard against the ice. Coach pulled me aside yesterday and asked if I need to see the team therapist, which is how I know I must look as fucked up as I feel.
See what I mean? Unreasonable.
This is exactly why I don't do relationships. They turn you into someone you hate.
So, when Liam told me that the reason Sam hasn't been around lately was because she has been sick and is staying at their house in Naples, relief washed through me, followed immediately by a wave of guilt that hit so hard I almost staggered.
Sick. She'd been sick this whole time, not avoiding me, not with someone else. Guilt that gnawed at my insides like a hungry rat. Guilt that made me want to drive to Naples right then, to see for myself that she was okay, to apologize for being the world's biggest asshole.
But of course, I didn't do that. Instead, I shoved that guilt deep down, buried it under the same fear that's been driving me away from her since the day we met. Because what's the point?
I don't plan on acting on whatever this is I feel for her. I plan to kill it before it can bloom into something real, something that could hurt even worse when it eventually falls apart.
So I looked Liam right in the eye and said, with all the cold detachment I could muster, "Didn't ask, don't care. It's been kind of nice without her around. Wouldn't mind if she stayed sick a little longer—means I get to enjoy some peace for once."
The words tasted like poison as they left my mouth. But I said them anyway, because I'm a coward who'd rather be hated than vulnerable.
Worst, Zach was there when I said those awful words and the next thing I knew, his fist was connecting with my jaw, sending me stumbling backward.
I didn't fight back. Didn't even raise my hands to defend myself. I just stood there, tasting blood where I'd bitten my tongue, knowing I deserved worse.
Zach had stared at me for a long moment, disgust written all over his face, before turning and walking out. He hasn't spoken to me since. And I know I just put a strain on our friendship, the kind that spills onto the ice. Our line chemistry has gone to shit since then—we've dropped the last two games, and Coach keeps shooting me these looks like he knows exactly whose fault it is.
"You okay, man?"
The voice snaps me back to the present. I'm sitting on a bench in the locker room, staring at nothing, my gear half-packed after pushing myself through extra ice time on a Sunday night. My muscles ache in that satisfying way that usually clears my head. Not tonight, though.
I glance up to see Kentaro standing there, his expression neutral as always.
I give him a nod and force a half-smile. "Yeah, I'm good. What are you doing here?"
"Oh, I left my wallet in my locker, so I came to pick it up." He shrugs, moving past me toward his locker. Kent's not much for small talk, which I usually appreciate.
I stand, wincing a little as my overtired legs protest, and close my locker. I grab my duffel, ready to call it a night, as Kent retrieves his wallet. We head outside together, neither of us saying anything. The silence isn't uncomfortable—it's just Kent's way.
I sigh as we step into the cold night air. I've been sighing so much lately that I'm surprised I haven't deflated completely.
"Have you and Zach had a chance to talk yet?" Kent asks suddenly, surprising me. He's usually not one to pry into other people's business.
I shake my head. "Nah, not yet. We had that game against Vermont, and then he had to go back to Naples for his dad's death anniversary. Should be back tomorrow though. So, maybe we can have a talk tomorrow."
"I see," he says, and we lapse back into silence as we cross the parking lot. I walk toward my Chevy while he heads for his Jeep.
I'm about to get into my car when Kentaro calls out to me. He's peering at me from the sunroof of his Jeep, his dark hair ruffled by the evening breeze.
"Do you wanna go grab a drink?"
For a moment, I'm taken aback. Kentaro Azuma never likes to go out for drinks, let alone invite someone. He always prefers to be by himself, earbuds in, world tuned out.
"Are you sure you're Kent?" I ask, smirking and narrowing my eyes at him. "Did aliens abduct the real Kentaro?"
He chuckles, shaking his head. "It's still me. I just thought you look like you could use a few beers and someone who won't make you talk about your feelings. No pressure though."
"Really..." I lean against my car, studying him. Kent's not the type to offer pity drinks. But he's also not the type to bullshit.
"Well, if you don't want to, it's fine," he says, going to unlock his Jeep.
"Wait up!" I call out, changing direction and beelining for his vehicle. I walk to the passenger side, then toss my duffel in the back seat. "Let's go have that drink."
"Where to?" I ask, buckling my seatbelt.
Kent starts the engine. "There's this place downtown that's usually pretty dead on Sundays. Good whiskey, though. And the best chicken wings."
"Sounds perfect."
I stand outside the entrance, gaping at the massive neon sign depicting the silhouette of a woman in an impossible pose. The garish pink and purple lights blink accusingly at me. This is not just a bar—this is a fucking strip club.
I glance sideways at Kent, searching his stoic face for any hint that this is some elaborate prank, because there's no way in hell that Kentaro Azuma, our broody, straight-laced goalie, is a regular at a place like this.
"Are you sure we're in the right place?" I ask, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice. "This is a... strip club."
He shrugs, his expression unchanged. "So? They have the best chicken wings in town."
Before I can respond, he's already walking toward the entrance, his strides confident like he's done this a hundred times before. I hurry to catch up with him, my mind still reeling.
"Hey, hey," I say in a low voice, grabbing his arm. "This is a strip club, you know that right?"
He just arches his brow at me, that maddeningly calm look on his face.
"How do you expect to get in when you're not even 21 yet?"
The corner of his mouth quirks up into an unexpected smirk, and he reaches into his wallet, pulling out a small rectangular piece of plastic. "Got myself a fake ID that proves I'm over 21," he says, flashing it at me.
I stare at the ID, then at Kent, then back at the ID. It looks convincingly real. My brain feels like it's short-circuiting. "What the hell is going on with you?" I mutter, more to myself than to him.
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. It's like watching your straight-A little brother rebel for the first time. "Who are you really?" I ask teasingly.
He playfully backhands my stomach, that smirk still playing on his lips. "Let's go inside."
The interior is exactly what you'd expect—dim lighting, pounding bass music, and the occasional whoop from men seated around the main stage where a woman is spinning around a pole with impressive athleticism. Kent, however, leads us through the crowd to a corner booth tucked away in the shadows, as far from the stage as possible.
I slide in across from him, my confusion deepening. We're so far from the action that we can barely see the stage. If he's not here for the show, why drive 45 minutes to a strip club?
"You gonna tell me what's really going on?" I ask as a waitress brings us two beers and takes our food order—wings and loaded nachos.
"Nothing's going on," he replies, his eyes scanning the room. "Just wanted some decent food and a break from campus."
I take a swig of my beer, studying him. There's something off about this whole situation. Kent's behavior has been getting stranger by the minute, and I have a feeling I'm missing a key piece of information.
The wings arrive, and I have to admit, they do look good—crispy and glistening with sauce. But before I can comment, I notice his gaze shift, focusing on something behind me. His expression doesn't change, but there's an intensity in his eyes that I've only ever seen during our games.
I turn around and that's when I spot her—a familiar flash of red hair moving between tables. Taylor Lewis, deftly balancing a tray of drinks, laughing at something a customer said. She's dressed in the standard uniform of the waitstaff—tight black shorts and a low-cut top that manages to be revealing without crossing into the territory of the dancers' outfits.
When I turn back to Kent, the puzzle pieces click into place. He's watching her like a hawk, eyes never straying far from her location even as he pretends to be interested in his food.
I snort and shake my head in amusement. "Really? Some best chicken wings, huh?"
Kent looks at me as I grab a wing and take a bite. "Aren't they? I always thought they are."
I look at him knowingly before giving a nod in Taylor's direction. He glances at her briefly, then takes a swig of his whiskey, feigning nonchalance with all the subtlety of a freight train.
"Why don't you just tell me the real reason we're here?" I ask, wiping sauce from my fingers. "You have a thing for Taylor Lewis?"
Kent chokes on his drink, coughing and sputtering. "What? No, I don't," he manages once he recovers. "It's a total coincidence that my favorite place to hang out in is where she works."
"Right..." I drawl, enjoying his discomfort far too much. "Because your favorite place just happens to be a strip bar?"
"Oh, stop being judgmental," he huffs. "I'm only here for whiskey and the best chicken wings in town."
"Bullshit," I chuckle, unable to stop the teasing lilt in my tone. "You never go to places like this. The twins and Cody have been asking you to come to strip clubs before, but you always say no. And suddenly now you're a patron in here?"
"Well, the one they always go to doesn't have what I want..."
"You mean, they don't have Taylor Lewis working there..." I counter, grinning.
"Oh, shut up. Just drink your beer," he grumbles.
"Sure, sure..." I take another wing, still smirking. This is too good.
"Do you want me to talk about you and Sam then?" Kent asks, his voice deceptively casual.
I roll my eyes, not liking the suggestion one bit. "Fine, fine, I'll shut my mouth." The last thing I need is Kent analyzing whatever the hell is or isn't happening with me and Zach's sister.
We quietly enjoy our drinks for a few minutes. I can't help but keep peering at Kent, studying him. He's too composed, too deliberate in his movements. His eyes still track Taylor's progress around the room, though he tries to hide it. There's definitely more to this story.
"You're staring,"
"Just trying to figure out your deal," I respond. "Still not convinced you only come here for the wings and whiskey."
"Fine," he grumbles and sighs, clearly exasperated. "I come here three times a week because of her. Because she works here during those times."
"What? Really?" I lean forward, genuinely surprised at the admission. "So you two are—"
"No, asshole," he cuts me off. "She doesn't even know I come here, because I always sit in this corner."
"So... why?"
Kent's fingers tap against the table, a rare sign of nervousness from him. "I just... wanna make sure her douchebag of an ex won't jump on her again."
The humor drains from the conversation. We all know about Taylor's psycho ex, Kirk Michaels—who had been stalking her since they broke up last year. Then about two months ago, things escalated when he jumped on her outside the photography club's darkroom that Taylor is a member of and assaulted her.
"But she already has a restraining order against him," I point out. "We helped her get that. I don't think he's dumb enough to go against it."
Kent's expression hardens. "Any man who puts his hands on women doesn't care about restraining orders or laws, especially not Kirk Michaels. So I come here, just to make sure she's safe and that prick doesn't try anything."
I study him for a moment, this new side of Kent taking me by surprise. "You sound like you care about her. Do you like her?"
"Pfft. No." He scoffs, but there's a defensive edge to his voice. "Me and Taylor are the very opposite of each other. I can't even stand her."
"So why are you doing this then?" I press.
He takes a long drink before answering. "Look, I'm not some hero. It's just basic human decency. I don't need to have feelings for someone to do this. And I'd do this for anyone who needs help." He pauses, his expression softening slightly.
"And Taylor's alone out here. No safety net. No one to call, so I'm just being a good... Samaritan or whatever. Besides, I have a little sister, and I'd hope someone would look out for her, especially when she's far from us, that's all."
I nod, because when he puts it like that, it makes sense.
Kent's always had a strong moral compass, even if he rarely talks about it. But there's something in the way his eyes follow Taylor that makes me think there might be more to it than just being a good Samaritan.
"So how about you?" Kent asks, smoothly changing the subject.
"What about me?"
Now he's the one giving me a pointed look. "When will you get your head out of your ass and admit that you like Zach's sister?"
I don't answer. It's no fun when you're the one in the hot seat. Stupid, I shouldn't have poked the bear and asked him so many questions. Now the table has turned.
"Oh, come on," Kent persists. "It's not lost on us that you're starting to have feelings for her. So why do you keep pushing her away?"
Instead of answering, I spot Taylor walking near our table after serving a couple sitting not far from us. Perfect timing for a distraction.
"Hey, Taylor!" I call out, adding a friendly wave.
"Dude, quit it," Kent hisses, but it's too late. Taylor has already seen us and is walking toward our table, her eyes widening in surprise before a smile spreads across her face.
Kent glares at me, but I just shrug. I'd rather put my friend on the spot than answer his question about Sam—a question I still don't know how to answer because, yeah, I'm shitty like that when I feel cornered.
"Well, well, well! If it isn't the two most handsome hockey players from Ridgewater U," Taylor greets us, her voice bright and energetic. Her gaze lingers on Kent, and her smile turns teasing. "Never thought I'd see the day when Kentaro Azuma would grace us with his presence at the Velvet Lounge. Did you lose a bet or something?"
"Something like that," Kent mumbles, shooting me another death glare.
"He claims he comes for the chicken wings," I say, enjoying Kent's discomfort far too much.
Taylor laughs. "Our wings are pretty legendary, but usually not enough to drag Mr. Serious away from his books." She leans closer to Kent, her red hair falling forward slightly. "Unless you're secretly working on a thesis about pole dancing techniques? I can introduce you to some of the girls who could give you excellent research material."
Kent's face flushes slightly, which is the most reaction I've ever seen from him around a girl. "I just wanted some food and a quiet drink," he manages.
"At a strip club?" Taylor laughs again, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, there are at least twenty places between campus and here that would fit that bill. But I'm glad you came. It's nice to see a familiar face that isn't trying to get my number or asking me to give a private dance."
Kent's expression darkens momentarily at that, and I catch a glimpse of what might be the real reason he's been coming here.
"Anyway," Taylor continues, seemingly oblivious to Kent's reaction, "what can I get you boys? Another round? Some more wings?"
"Another beer would be great," I say, while Kent just nods in agreement.
"Coming right up," Taylor says with a wink before turning to leave. She pauses and looks back at Kent. "You know, Azuma, if you're going to keep coming here to pretend not to watch me, you might want to find a table that's not directly in my section. It's kinda obvious."
Kent's eyes widen, and I can't help but burst out laughing as Taylor walks away with a satisfied smirk on her face.
"Shut up," Kent mutters, his composed fa?ade completely shattered.
"Dude, she totally knows you've been coming here for her," I say between laughs. "So much for being sneaky."
Kent groans and puts his head in his hands. "This is your fault."
"My fault? You're the one stalking her at her workplace!"
"I'm not stalking her," he insists. "I'm looking out for her."
"While hiding in a corner and hoping she doesn't notice you?" I shake my head. "Real smooth, man. Real smooth."
Kent looks like he wants to crawl under the table. "I didn't want her to think it was weird."
"Well, mission accomplished on that front," I snort.
We lapse into silence as Taylor returns with our drinks. She slides Kent's whiskey in front of him with an extra napkin. When she leaves, Kent notices there's a phone number written on it with "Text me when you're ready to admit why you're really here" scrawled underneath.
Kent stares at it, then at me, then back at the napkin. For once, our stoic goalie seems completely at a loss.
"So," I say, unable to resist one final jab, "still want to talk about me and Sam? Or should we focus on your little situation here?"
He just glowers at me, crumpling the napkin in his fist but—I notice—carefully tucking it into his pocket rather than throwing it away.
Maybe there's more to the 'good Samaritan' story than he's letting on. But for now, I'm just enjoying seeing the unflappable Kentaro Azuma finally flapped.