Chapter 35
ELIJAH
I burst through the dorm entrance, my lungs burning from sprinting across campus. My phone's been dead since the plane landed and I want to check if Sam called. Texted. Sent anything. But the clock's against me, and I already skipped this morning's team workout because I stayed behind in Duluth.
I don't need Coach Hopper adding "lack of commitment" to the list of reasons he yells at me.
So I change fast, sling my hockey duffel over my shoulder, and head straight for the rink. I check my watch—fuck, practice starts in fifteen minutes.
The cool air of the rink hits my face as I push through the entrance doors. Most of the guys are already on the ice, gliding in warm-up circles, sticks tapping rhythmically against the surface. Coach Hopper stands with his arms crossed, clipboard pinned between his bicep and ribs, whistle dangling from his neck. His eyes find mine immediately.
"Nice of you to join us, Deveraux," he barks, not even trying to hide his irritation. "Get your ass moving."
"Sorry, Coach," I mutter, hurrying past him toward the locker room.
I suit up in record time, fingers fumbling with laces and straps, mind still half in Duluth. The memory of Sam arching beneath me, her nails digging into my shoulders, her breath hot against my neck—I shake my head.
Focus, Elijah. Focus.
By the time I hit the ice, the team's already doing drills. I circle once around the perimeter, eyes automatically scanning the stands. Usually, Sam sits three rows up, near the penalty box. The empty spot where she should be makes my stomach clench.
"Deveraux!" Coach's voice cracks like a whip. "Are you planning on joining this team today or are you just here for the scenery?"
I push off hard, skating to catch up with the others. I tell myself practice will help. That the ice will clear my head.
It doesn't.
All I can think about is whether Sam tried calling. Whether she thinks I'm ignoring her again because her calls went straight to voicemail.
I try to focus on the drill again—simple passes back and forth across the neutral zone—but my hands feel disconnected from my brain. I fumble a pass that should have been routine, sending the puck skittering toward the boards.
Coach blows his whistle, the sound piercing through the cold air. "What the hell is wrong with you today, Deveraux? You're our captain. Act like it."
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Got it, Coach."
The drills continue, and I force myself to focus on the mechanics—the sound of blades cutting ice, the weight of the stick in my hands, the burn in my thighs as I push for speed. But every few minutes, my eyes drift back to the stands.
Empty. Still empty.
Coach splits us into scrimmage teams, red and white pinnies distributed quickly. I pull the red over my practice jersey and take my position at center. The whistle blows, and we're off, sticks clacking, ice spraying as we battle for the puck.
But my head isn't in the game. Instead of seeing the ice, the open lanes, the defensive gaps, all I see is Sam's empty side of the bed this morning, the goodbye letter on the nightstand, the words that still make my chest feel like it's caught in a vise.
I'm so deep in thought that I don't even notice when the play shifts direction. Everyone on my line has already turned, rushing back to defend our zone. But I'm still gliding forward, alone, heading nowhere.
"DEVERAUX!" Coach's voice booms, echoing off the rink walls. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME!"
I jolt back to reality, seeing that I'm completely out of position. Heat crawls up my neck as I quickly turn, skating hard to catch up with the play. But it's too late—white team scores while I'm still scrambling back.
Coach's face is thunderous. He blows the whistle three times in quick succession. "Take five, everyone. Hydrate." As the team disperses toward the benches, he points at me. "Elijah. A word."
I skate over, preparing for the lecture.
"What's going on with you?" he demands, voice lower now but no less intense. "This isn't like you."
"Just tired from the flight, Coach. Won't happen again."
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowed. "Better not. Whatever 'personal matter' that made you stay behind in Duluth, it stays off my ice. Clear?"
"Crystal," I reply, nodding firmly.
He dismisses me with a jerk of his head, and I skate toward the bench, grabbing my water bottle. As I squirt water into my mouth, Liam glides to a stop beside me.
"Dude," he says, pulling off his helmet. His blond hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost or something."
I wipe my mouth with the back of my glove. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," Liam counters, taking a swig from his own bottle. "You've been in outer space since you got here. What happened in Duluth? Must've been something major for you to bail on us yesterday."
"Nothing," I lie. "Family stuff."
"Your family's in Naples and Virginia."
"Yeah, well—" I begin, but I'm saved from having to explain when Cody slides to a dramatic stop in front of us, ice shavings spraying from his blades.
"Ladies," Cody announces, his grin wide beneath his half-raised visor. "Are we discussing my epic birthday bash tonight? Because let me tell you, it's going to be legendary." He pounds his chest with a gloved fist. "Twenty years of this perfect specimen walking the earth deserves a celebration of mythic proportions."
"As if we could forget," Liam rolls his eyes. "You've only mentioned it approximately eight thousand times."
"That's because it's important," Cody insists. "The hockey house will be transformed into party central. I've got Jared from Sigma Chi handling the booze—open bar, baby—and," he leans in conspiratorially, "I personally invited every hot girl from the tri-county area."
"Every single one?" Liam asks dryly. "That must have been a lot of phone calls."
"What can I say? The ladies love the Codester," he flexes ridiculously in his bulky pads. Then he turns his attention to me, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Speaking of which, Cap, tonight's the night you end this tragic dry spell of yours. How long has it been? One month? Two?"
I almost laugh.
If only they knew.
My "dry spell" ended in the most mind-altering way possible.
A warm feeling spreads through my chest, and I shift my stance on the ice, uncomfortable in more ways than one while images of Sam from last night flood back.
"Earth to Elijah," Cody waves a gloved hand in front of my face. "You're smiling like an idiot. Are you picturing the possibilities? Because I'm telling you, man, I've got at least three girls who've specifically asked if you'd be there."
"Let me guess," Liam interjects, "you told them our captain would be there, single and ready to mingle?"
"Obviously," Cody confirms with a smirk. "What else are best friends for? Besides, the dry spell ends tonight. I've declared it."
Over my dead body am I touching anyone else when all I've been thinking about is her.
But I keep my face neutral.
"Shut up," I mutter.
"Is Sam coming?" I ask before I can stop myself, the words tumbling out too eagerly.
Cody's face falls. He exchanges a look with Liam, who's trying not to laugh.
"Oh fuck, Cap," Cody groans. "I totally invited her. Shit, man, I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because," Liam chimes in, "there goes your chance of getting laid tonight."
"Hard to flirt when your best friend's little sister is sitting few feet away cockblocking you." Cody explains, shaking his head mournfully. "Guess your dick won't be seeing any actions anytime soon, Cap. Tough break."
"Alright, ladies, break's over!" Coach's voice cuts through our conversation. "Second line, let's see some hustle!"
As I take my position for the next drill, I feel lighter somehow. The knot of anxiety that's been sitting in my chest since I woke up this morning begins to unravel. Sam's coming to the party tonight. I'll see her in just a few hours.
Cody's birthday party has transformed our backyard into something between a water park and a nightclub gone rogue. The DJ's set up right by the pool, thumping bass vibrating the concrete under my feet, while people in various states of undress dance with drinks sloshing in plastic cups.
The pool itself has become an extension of the dance floor—a churning mass of bodies and splashing water with birthday boy Cody at the center, two girls grinding against him like he's won some kind of lottery. I lean against the patio door frame, beer cooling my palm, and wonder if the Archer twins' promised cleaning crew will need hazmat suits by tomorrow morning.
I thread my way through the crowd, nodding at people I know, fist-bumping a few teammates, until I reach the table where I left Kentaro. I nearly stop short when I see who's sitting with him. Zach. My best friend. Or former best friend, since we haven't spoken in almost a month, not since the night he punched me.
Kentaro notices my hesitation, his eyes bouncing between me and Zach like he's watching a tennis match. Zach hasn't noticed me yet—he's hunched over his phone, thumbs moving rapidly, probably texting his girlfriend with that dopey, lovesick expression on his face. Kentaro cocks his head slightly, silently telling me to just sit down.
Fuck it. It's a party. I can be civil.
I slide into the chair across from them, acting as casual and nonchalant as I can manage. I take a long pull from my beer, savoring the cold bitterness. Zach glances up, his eyes meeting mine for a brief second before dropping back to his phone without a word. I don't say anything either. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the thumping bass from the DJ's speakers.
"So," Kentaro says finally, clearly trying to break the tension. "This party's pretty wild, huh?"
"Yeah," I mutter, my eyes already scanning the crowd. Looking for Sam. Even though I know better.
I check my phone for probably the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. Nothing. No texts, no missed calls. Just my lock screen staring back at me. I lock and unlock it again, as if that might somehow summon a notification from Sam.
She hasn't reached out once today, and the knot in my stomach tightens with each passing hour. What if she's serious about staying away from me?
I peer at Zach over the rim of my beer can. Maybe now's the time to end this silent treatment bullshit. I'm desperate enough—pathetically desperate—to ask him where his sister is, if she's coming tonight, if she's okay. But Zach is looking at me with narrowed eyes, his jaw tight, and any courage I'd been building evaporates like morning dew. Shit.
Half an hour later, I find myself ransacking the kitchen for something stronger than beer. My head is a mess, my thoughts circling like vultures. I locate a bottle of whiskey in the back of a cabinet—Jack Daniel's, not the good stuff, but it'll do.
I grab it by the neck and head upstairs, away from the pounding music and sweaty bodies, away from Zach's accusing eyes.
The second-floor balcony is mercifully empty. I settle into one of the lounge chairs, set the bottle between my feet, and pull out my cigarettes. The familiar ritual of tapping one out, lighting up, and taking that first deep drag calms me for all of three seconds before my fingers are itching for my phone again.
I pull it out and dial Sam's number before I can talk myself out of it. It rings four times before switching to voicemail. Again.
"Hey, this is Sam. Leave a message and I'll call you back. Maybe."
I hang up without saying anything, then immediately call back. Same result.
"Fucking damn it."
Is this what she felt for the past decade? This constant, gnawing anxiety? This need to hear someone's voice, to know they're thinking about you too? Because it's been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw her, and I'm already losing my mind.
And she did this for ten years—calling, texting, showing up places she knew I'd be. Not once did I pick up her calls or reply to her messages.
How the hell did she stand it?
Another wave of guilt washes over me, and I chase it with more whiskey, hoping to dull the strange ache in my chest. I call her again, listening to the same four rings, the same voicemail greeting. It's pathetic, but hearing her voice, even recorded, gives me some small comfort.
I take another drag of my cigarette, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling slowly into the night sky. What the fuck is happening to me? This isn't me at all.
Or maybe this is the real me—the version I've been running from all these years. Maybe this is why I've sworn off feelings, why I've kept Sam at a distance. Because deep down, I've always known that I'd turn into this—some pathetic, foolish guy who can't stop calling a girl who doesn't want to talk to him.
I'm scared. Scared of feeling this way, of being vulnerable, of opening myself up to the kind of pain that I watched destroy my parents' marriage. My dad loved my mom so much that when she left, he basically stopped functioning as a human being for years. I promised myself I would never be that weak, that dependent on another person for my happiness.
But here I am, chain-smoking and drunk-dialing Sam like some lovesick teenager, and the irony isn't lost on me. I've kept her at arm's length for years, convinced I was protecting myself, when really I was just delaying the inevitable. Because the truth—the terrifying, undeniable truth—is that Sam has always been able to get under my skin in a way no one else can. She knows me, the real me, not the version I show to everyone else. And that scares the shit out of me.
I'm so engrossed in listening to Sam's voicemail for the fifth time that I don't notice Liam approaching until he pats my shoulder. I nearly drop my phone, fumbling to hang up before he can hear the recording.
"Dude, we've been looking for you," Liam says, dropping into the chaise next to mine. I take another swig of whiskey, offering him the bottle. He shakes his head. "Cody's about to blow out his candles."
"Why?" I ask, and Liam laughs.
"Cause it's his fucking birthday, genius."
"No, I mean, why is a twenty-year-old man blowing out candles? Is he five?" I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
"Hey, don't knock birthday traditions. The day I stop demanding a cake with my exact age in candles is the day you can bury me," Liam replies, grinning. "Besides, it's that chocolate stout cake he likes from that fancy cake shop. The one with the—"
"Whiskey ganache," I finish for him. "Yeah, I know."
"So you coming down or what?"
I take another sip from the bottle. "Think I'll skip the singing part. Tell him happy birthday for me."
"Alright," Before he can leave, though, I find myself asking the question that's been burning in my throat all night.
"Hey, has Sam shown up yet?" I try to sound casual, but something in my voice must give me away.
Liam pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. "No, she hasn't. I don't think she's coming."
"You know why?" I can't help the curiosity—the desperation—that colors my tone.
"Uh, I think Zach mentioned a while ago that Sam is hanging with her friends tonight."
A surge of jealousy burns through me, hot and ugly. My brain immediately goes into overdrive, conjuring images of Sam with other people. Is she with a guy? That prick Adam again? Are they on a date while I'm sitting here pathetically waiting for her to call me back?
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts, and I tighten my grip on the glass bottle in my hand. If I squeeze any harder, I might shatter it.
"Fuck!" I hiss, the word escaping before I can stop it.
Liam gives me a suspicious look, crossing his arms over his chest. "Wait a minute. Why are you so interested if Sam's coming? You asked that earlier too."
I try to compose my face, but the alcohol and the jealousy are making it hard to maintain my usual mask of indifference. "Just curious," I mutter, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.
Liam studies me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as realization dawns on his face. "Holy shit," he says slowly, a grin spreading across his features. "Did something happen between you two?"
"What? No," I lie, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks.
Liam looks like he wants to dig deeper, his curiosity and amusement evident in the wicked grin spreading across his face. But before he can continue his interrogation, we hear Luke and Cody calling from downstairs.
"Liam! Get your ass down here! It's cake time!"
Liam groans, backing away reluctantly. He points two fingers at his eyes, then at me. "This conversation isn't over, Cap. I want details!"
"There are no details," I call after him, but I'm smiling as I say it.
Just before he disappears back inside, Liam turns, his expression suddenly serious but undeniably fond.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "it's about damn time if something did happen. You two have been dancing around each other for a long time. I knew it was only a matter of time before you gave in."
With a chuckle and a mock salute, he's gone, leaving me alone with the whiskey, the night air, and the uncomfortable truth of his words.