Chapter 26
ELIJAH
I slam my laptop shut and lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes until I see stars. Finally. Fucking finally. Three weeks of banging my head against this sports ethics paper, and it's done. My brain feels wrung out like a dishrag, and there's a dull throbbing starting behind my left eye that promises a full-blown headache if I don't do something about it.
What I need is a beer. Maybe two.
Something to take the edge off before I pass out face-first on my bed.
I stretch, feeling the satisfying pop in my shoulders. Coach would tell me I need to work on my posture—hunching over a laptop for hours straight is definitely not in the hockey training manual.
Whatever.
I survived Professor Warren's assignment from hell, and that's what matters. The guy acts like his Sports Ethics class is the only one that exists. Like we don't have practice, games, and four other classes with their own mountain of assignments.
My room feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in after staring at the same four corners all day. I need that beer, but that means going downstairs, which means potentially running into Zach. My stomach knots at the thought.
Zach. My best friend. Or former best friend, I guess. The silence between us has been deafening for weeks now. Every time he sees me, he gives me this look—like he's calculating exactly how much force it would take to knock out my front teeth. Again.
I should apologize. I know I should. I've tried, sort of. But he won't budge, the stubborn asshole. Says he'll only consider forgiving me when I'm "ready to admit the truth." The truth being that I'm supposedly in love with his sister. Which is bullshit. Complete bullshit.
I mean, sure, Sam is... she's...
Fuck it. I need that beer.
I step out into the hallway, hesitating at the top of the stairs. The twins shouting obscenities at each other over whatever game they're playing. Something with explosions based on the sound effects blasting from the TV.
"Dude, you're camping! That's such a bitch move!"
"Eat shit, Luke! Not my fault you can't check your corners!"
I shake my head and start down the stairs. Three steps down, I freeze.
There's another voice cutting through the chaos. A voice I haven't heard in two weeks and three days. Not that I've been counting.
"You guys are ridiculous," she laughs, and it's like someone's plucking at my ribs from the inside.
It's Sam.
My chest does this weird lurching thing, and suddenly I want to race down the stairs like I'm late for practice. Just to see her. Just to be in the same room.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I roll my shoulders back and take a deep breath, feeling like a complete tool for needing a breathing exercise because a girl is in our living room. But whatever—it's not just any girl.
It's Sam. Sam who I haven't seen since I told her to get out of my room. Sam who I hurt because... because that's what I do, apparently.
Once my heart stops trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest, I continue down the stairs, carefully arranging my face into what I hope passes for cool indifference. Like her being here is no big deal. Like the last two weeks haven't been a special kind of hell without her random texts and surprise visits.
I round the corner into the living room, and there she is, sitting on the sofa beside Zach with her feet tucked under her. Her silver-gray eyes lift from her phone and meet mine.
Fuck.
My feet actually stumble, like some invisible wire caught my ankles. For a second, I think I might be having a heart attack—my pulse is going crazy, skipping beats and racing. Arrhythmia? Can you get that at twenty-two?
I expect her to look away. To give me the cold shoulder I deserve after the shit I pulled. Instead, her whole face lights up like I've just scored the winning goal in overtime. Like I'm not the asshole who keeps twisting her heart like it's some kind of stress ball I can't stop fidgeting with.
Sam shoots off the couch so fast her throw pillow topples over. She lifts a hand and waves way too enthusiastically. "Hi, Eli!"
I fight to keep my eyebrows from furrowing as I look at her—really look at her. Something's off. The Sam standing in front of me isn't quite the same. My chest tightens with a feeling I don't want to name.
She's lost weight. Her cheekbones stand out sharper than before, and there are shadows under her eyes that her makeup isn't quite covering. Her jeans hang a little loose around her thighs, and her collarbone juts out from the neckline of her sweater like it's trying to escape. Even her wrists look thinner as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
What the hell happened? Did she catch something? The flu? Mono? COVID? Whatever it is, she looks like she hasn't slept properly in days. Or eaten a decent meal. If she's sick, she should be in bed resting, not standing in our germ-factory of a hockey house looking like she might blow away in a strong breeze.
The urge to ask if she's okay rises in my throat. To tell her to sit back down. To offer to make her something to eat or drive her to the campus clinic. My mouth actually opens to say something—anything—but then a voice in my head cuts through the concern.
Are you sure you want to act like you care about her? You want to lead her on again?
Right. That's what got us into this mess in the first place.
I clamp my mouth shut and put my walls back up. My face goes blank as I walk past her, and I catch the exact moment her smile falters and her shoulders slump.
Moron! I scream at myself internally. This hot-cold routine I keep pulling with her is worse than just being an outright dick.
Zach's glare follows me across the room, sharp enough to draw blood. I try not to wince, keeping my expression neutral as I move toward the... wait, what was I doing? What did I come down here for?
My mind is completely scrambled after seeing Sam. I stand there like an idiot, halfway across the living room, forgetting my own damn purpose for coming downstairs in the first place.
"Alright, let's go," I hear Zach say abruptly.
"H-Huh? What? Where—Zach—?" Sam sputters as her brother grabs her arm, pulling her toward the front door.
From the corner of my eye, I watch them go, and there's this irrational impulse to move, to stop them, to call out. Because I haven't had enough time yet. Two weeks without seeing her, and all I get is thirty seconds? I need to look at her longer, to make sure she's really okay, to...
Oh Christ. What am I saying? What's going on with me? What has Sam done to me?
The front door slams, and the sound knocks me back to my senses. Beer. I came down for beer. That's what I was doing.
Except now I don't even want it anymore. The twins are still yelling at their game, not even noticing the tension that just crackled through the room. I turn around and trudge back upstairs, each step heavier than the last.
Back in my room, I slump onto my bed and exhale a long, frustrated breath. Great. I came down for a beer and now I'm back without one. My empty hands mock me.
I throw my arm over my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to drown out the image of Sam's face falling when I walked past her. Trying to forget how thin she looked. Trying to ignore the voice in my head asking if I had something to do with that.
"Fuck," I mutter to the empty room. The headache that was threatening earlier has arrived in full force, and I don't even have a beer to dull it. Just perfect.
*****
SAM
I don't even get a proper goodbye.
Zach's fingers dig into my upper arm as he pulls me away, the front door closing behind us with a definitive click.
Just a few more seconds—that's all I wanted. Just enough time to memorize Eli's handsome face. Something to hold onto because I don't know when I will get to see him again. But my brother, in all his infinite big-brother wisdom, has other plans.
"Seriously, Zachy!" I wrench my arm free once we're halfway down the hallway. "You couldn't give me, like, two more seconds to look at his face?"
The night air hits us, thick with Florida's lingering humidity, a stark contrast to the artificial chill of the dorm's aggressive air conditioning system.
"Thought you were here for me," he says, one eyebrow arching up in that annoying way that makes him look like our dad.
"Yeah, but... ugh. I haven't seen him that much lately because you won't let me come here."
"Correct," he mutters, as we walk towards his car.
Since I came back to school a week ago, Zach laid down his new rules like he's the governor of Miami and I'm his reckless citizen. He said no more hockey parties. No more dropping off breakfast or morning shakes like Elijah Deveraux is somehow incapable of feeding himself. No more handing him pieces of my heart just so he can grind them into the floor.
And absolutely no going to the Pond unless he's there. Ugh!
Zach slides into the driver's seat, and me into the passenger's seat.
I pull the seatbelt across my chest, buckling it with more force than necessary. "Overbearing brother..." I grumble just loud enough for him to hear.
Zach sighs before he shift in his seat, turning toward me.
"Alright. You said you came to see me. What'd you wanna talk about?" he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes my petty grievances suddenly seem small and childish.
My face falls for a moment as I remember why I really came to his dorm in the first place. It wasn't about Eli, though seeing him had been a welcome bonus. No, the real reason sits heavy in my chest, too big for the confines of this car, too important for our typical bickering.
With a rueful smile, I tell him, "I... uh... I actually got a call. From Dr. Wilcott."
I feel Zach stiffen beside me, his entire body going rigid.
"What did she say?" His voice is tight, controlled in that way I've come to recognize as fear masquerading as strength.
I watch his profile carefully, noting the muscle jumping in his jaw. He's like bracing himself, preparing for the worst while desperately hoping for the best. It's a balancing act he's been performing for years, one that's left permanent lines around his eyes that no twenty-one-year-old should have.
I see the fear and hope warring in my brother's eyes, and it compels me to push aside my own complex feelings. I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile, though my tears start pooling anyway, blurring the edges of my vision.
"She said I'm still cancer-free."
"You—what? Really?!"
I watch his face transform—the tight lines around his mouth softening, his eyes widening with a hope so raw it almost hurts to witness. He stares at me like I've just handed him the world.
I nod quickly, my eyes shining. "She went over everything," I continue, voice shaking just a little. "All the labs, all the scans. Everything came back clear. The only thing off was my iron—I'm a little anemic, but she said that's normal for me and I just need supplements and, you know... to stop sleeping four hours a night."
The last part is an attempt at levity, a small joke to break the intensity of the moment.
I immediately see the relief wash over my brother's face. His eyes glisten, mirroring mine, and the sight does something peculiar to my heart. It aches and soars simultaneously. Because even though my heart has been feeling heavy since I talked to my doctor, seeing that relieved smile on Zach's face—that look of someone who's been holding his breath for so long and is finally able to breathe properly—brings me comfort I can't articulate.
No matter how overbearing, how overprotective he can be sometimes, I love him so much that it hurts. Because I know what my illness did to him three years ago. He was so lost and he spiraled into guilt, convinced he'd failed me somehow. His grades slipped, and he nearly lost his position on the hockey team.
"Oh my God," He pulls my arm across the console, crushing me into him.
I bury my face into his shoulder and let the tears spill.
"Thank God," he breathes out, his words muffled against my hair. "Thank God... thank God..."
I hug him back just as tight, my hands fisting his shirt. "I told you I'd be okay," I murmur, and he pulls me in even closer, refusing to let go. His shoulders shake against mine, and I feel his breath catching in little hiccups.
He's crying.
"Hey," I say softly, pulling back just enough to see his face.
Tears track down his cheeks, and I reach up to wipe them away with my thumb, the way he used to do for me. "I'm okay. I'm really okay."
"I'm so glad that you are, angel. You have no idea."
After we talked, Zach and I picked up Care, and the three of us went out for a surprisingly delightful dinner. When he drove us back to the dorm, I was carrying bags filled with far too many iron supplements—iron gummies, ferrous bisglycinate, iron-boost drinks, even iron-fortified cereal. Basically, anything with "iron" on the label. I honestly thought my brother had lost his mind, but I didn't say a word. I just let him.