Chapter 40
ELIJAH
The team is already laced up and gearing up for tonight's game. Coach Hopper is delivering his usual pre-game speech—something about discipline, intensity, and finishing strong—and I half listen while running through my own mental routine. Breathing steady. Shoulders loose. Mind sharp. The kind of internal switch every hockey player learns to flip before stepping onto the ice.
As captain, I make sure it flips.
We file out of the locker room, the hallway to the rink stretching ahead. I take my place at the front, the 'C' on my jersey feeling heavier than usual. Behind me, I can hear the familiar chatter—guys psyching themselves up, chirping at each other, finding that perfect edge between loose and focused.
I'm halfway down the hall when I realize Zach isn't beside me. Glancing back, I spot him frozen a few yards behind, his eyes locked on something—someone—further down the corridor.
It's Caroline.
She's leaning against the wall in a chunky knit sweater that nearly swallows her small frame, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The moment she spots Zach, her whole face transforms, lighting up like someone flipped a switch inside her.
I watch as my best friend practically sprints to her. She throws her arms around his neck as he lifts her off her feet, their lips meeting in what has to be the least subtle pre-game kiss in hockey history. These two have absolutely no shame when it comes to public displays of affection. It's like they forget other people exist whenever they're within a ten-foot radius of each other.
You're just jealous because you don't have what they have, the annoying voice in my head pipes up. Because there's a five-foot-nothing girl currently avoiding you like you're contagious.
Not yet.
Soon enough I'll have that too.
Just as soon as I kiss every ounce of stubbornness right out of that little devil.
Great. Now I'm having full-blown arguments with myself. That can't be a good sign for my mental health.
I turn my back on Zach and Caroline, giving them a little privacy—or at least as much privacy as two people making heart eyes in a public hallway deserve. Through the awkward silence, I can't help but overhear their conversation.
"I just snuck out of rehearsal to see you," Caroline says, her voice soft but carrying in the concrete corridor. "I can't stay for the game. I've got to get back before Professor Callahan realizes I'm gone."
Caroline's a drama major and their winter showcase is in two weeks. Her class is performing The Nutcracker, which means she's basically been living in the theater lately. Zach has spent the entire week sulking about it like a Victorian widow.
Though honestly, he'd probably complain even if he didn't see her for just one day. That's how down bad he is.
Zach groans, his disappointment palpable. "I get it. The Nutcracker waits for no one, right?"
"Right," she laughs. "But I had to see you. Consider this your good luck charm."
"Having you here already makes me want to score a hat trick," Zach tells her, his voice dropping to that soft tone he only ever uses with her.
I fight back a groan when I realize they're making out again. Seriously, these two are like teenagers who just discovered what lips are for.
"You two should just get a room," I finally call over my shoulder, unable to contain myself any longer. "Preferably one with soundproof walls."
I hear them break apart with matching laughs, and when I turn back around, they're walking hand in hand toward me, both of their faces flushed pink. Caroline gives me a slightly embarrassed smile.
"Good luck tonight, Elijah," she says with genuine warmth.
I try to smile back, but my eyes are already searching the empty space behind her, looking for someone who isn't there. "Is she here?" I can't stop myself from asking, hating how hopeful my voice sounds.
Caroline's smile falters, her expression shifting to something like pity. She shakes her head. "She's not coming to the game."
I exhale heavily. I expected it, but disappointment still cuts sharp. I curl my lips into what I hope passes for a nonchalant half-smile. "I see. Maybe she'll watch tomorrow night then."
"Uh, about that..." Caroline's voice trails off. She glances at me, then at Zach, like she's debating whether she should say whatever it is she's thinking.
"Well... I saw Sammy packing a bag earlier before my class around noon," Caroline says carefully, glancing at Zach. "Then rehearsal got crazy and it completely slipped my mind to text you about it. I'm sorry."
She hesitates before adding, "She said she was going with some friends and some students... to Charlotte. For the football team's conference championship tomorrow."
My head snaps up.
"They're taking one of the university fan buses."
"What?" Zach and I blurt in perfect unison.
Caroline grimaces. "Yeah, and I think the bus left around two in the afternoon..."
Zach mutters something under his breath, pulling out his phone and dialing his sister's number. But I barely register his movements. My blood is rushing in my ears, drowning out everything but the realization that not only is Sam skipping my game, she's traveling eleven fucking hours to watch fucking football.
To watch Khol Carter.
My gloved fist connects with the concrete wall before I even realize I've moved. The padding absorbs most of the impact, but the shock still travels up my arm, a dull pain that doesn't come close to matching the burning in my chest.
"She's not picking up. Fuck!" Zach stabs at his phone screen. "I don't understand why she went to the football game. She doesn't even like football."
"Well, she's been hanging out with one of the players lately," Caroline offers hesitantly. "Probably she just wants to support him, you know?"
My head snaps toward her so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Every molecule in my body combusts into white-hot rage. Sam—MY Sam—choosing that walking Ken doll over me?
Caroline shrinks behind Zach's shoulder. "Sorry," she whispers.
In the blink of an eye my brain is already betraying me, conjuring an image I absolutely do not want to see.
Sam in the football stadium bleachers.
Wearing his damn jersey.
Cheering for him.
My vision goes red.
Will she pull her hair up in that high ponytail too? Will she paint his stupid number and initials across her face the way she used to paint mine—standing there grinning like she's his personal cheer squad?
My molars might crack from how hard I'm clenching my jaw. I swear I can feel my blood actually boiling, sizzling through my veins like lava.
"Cap! Zach!" Liam's voice echoes down the hall. "Coach is about to have an aneurysm. Warm-ups started three minutes ago!"
I slam my fist into the wall again, harder this time, feeling something crack beneath my glove. All that mental prep, all the focus I'd been building, all of it's gone—replaced by the image of Sam cheering for Khol fucking Carter.
"Coming," I growl, shoving past Liam toward the tunnel.
Tonight, I'm not playing for the team or even for the win. Tonight, I'm skating out for blood.
*****
SAM
I wake to my stomach twisting like there's a knife being slowly rotated inside me. The pain pulls a groan from my throat before I'm even fully conscious. A violent chill crashes through my body, my teeth knocking together despite the mountain of blankets I'm buried under.
I'm in pain. I'm in so much goddamn pain.
My eyelids flutter open to darkness, and I realize night has fallen. Somehow, it's already night.
My last coherent memory was stumbling through the door of my studio around four in the afternoon, the exhaustion hitting me like someone had pulled the plug from my body after the chemo infusion.
I remember my legs nearly buckling, my fingers fumbling with the key, and then collapsing onto the pull-out couch without even bothering to open it into a bed. There had still been daylight streaming through the windows then.
Now moonlight filters through the thin curtains I never bothered to replace, casting my studio in silver-blue shadows. The space isn't big, but it's mine—one place where no one's watching me too closely or asking questions I can't answer.
From the pull-out couch where I lie, I can make out the shapes of my easels standing like sentinels in the corner, canvases turned toward the wall. Paint tubes and brushes litter the long workbench beneath the windows—some neatly arranged, others abandoned mid-project. A half-finished landscape sits on my main easel, covered with a cloth. I haven't touched it in weeks.
The kitchenette along the far wall remains spotless—barely used except for brewing tea to sip while I paint. A small bathroom door stands ajar near the entrance, the only separated room in this open space. No bedroom—just this main area that serves all purposes. The pulled curtain near the window hides the clothing rack where a few outfits hang for the nights I end up staying.
I try to reach for my phone somewhere on the couch, but every tiny movement sends fresh waves of pain radiating through my abdomen and into my bones. I wince, biting my lower lip to keep from crying out even though there's no one to hear me.
My fingers finally find the cool glass surface, and I pull it toward me like it weighs fifty pounds. The screen illuminates, momentarily blinding me, and I squint at the time: 8:17 PM. I slept for almost five hours.
I'm about to set it down when I notice the notifications—four missed calls from Zach and texts from over an hour ago.
ZACH
You went to NC without telling me? To watch a football game? Call me as soon as you get this.
ZACH
And please don't forget to let me know when you've safely arrive in Charlotte. Love you.
My chest tightens. Right. Caroline must have told him the lie I spun earlier when she caught me packing a bag in our dorm room.
I needed an excuse—any excuse—so I told her my friends and I were heading to Charlotte to watch the football team's conference championship tomorrow. A lie assembled in panicked haste that now requires maintenance.
The truth is so much heavier: after my chemo today, I knew I'd be too sick to hide it. I knew the pain would be written all over my face, in the pallor of my skin, in the way my hands can't stop trembling. And I couldn't—still can't—bear the thought of Caroline or Zach seeing me like this.
I know it's unfair. My brother deserves to know about the relapse. He was there the last time, holding my hand through treatments, bringing me my watermelon sour patch to suck on when the nausea was unbearable, reading to me when my eyes were too tired to focus on the pages myself. Mom too. They both deserve to know.
But telling them makes it real. As long as they don't know, I can pretend this is just some fucked-up nightmare, that the cancer cells aren't really multiplying inside my bone marrow again, stealing space from healthy blood cells.
Even though the pain shooting through my body is nothing like a dream—it's vicious and present and undeniably real. The fatigue that makes gravity feel twice as strong isn't imaginary. The bruises appearing on my skin from the slightest pressure aren't illusions.
Still, I can't form the words. Not yet. Not when saying "The leukemia's back" would collapse their worlds again.
I'm about to type a response to Zach when another surge of pain spreads through my stomach, so intense it curls me into a tight ball. My phone drops from my hand as I wrap my arms around my middle. The nausea rises so suddenly I barely have time to think.
"No, no, no," I whisper, my body already knowing what comes next.
I slide off the couch, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. Using my phone's flashlight, I stumble toward the bathroom, one hand pressed against the wall for support. My legs feel like they're made of wet paper, buckling with each step.
Halfway down the short hallway, they give out entirely. I collapse onto my hands and knees, the phone clattering across the floor, its beam creating crazy shadows as it spins.
I crawl the remaining distance, dragging myself forward with trembling arms, my sweaty palms slipping against the hardwood. By the time I reach the toilet, I'm gasping, my body heaving before I can even properly position myself.
The vomiting is violent. Unrelenting. My body convulses as it tries to purge the poison that's meant to save me. The irony isn't lost on me, even in this moment—how the treatment feels worse than the disease. Each heave sends fresh pain through my abdomen. There's hardly anything in my stomach to expel, yet my body keeps trying.
I'm not sure how long I stay there, forehead pressed against the cold porcelain rim, spitting bitter saliva. Time stretches and contracts strangely when you're in pain. It could be minutes or hours.
Eventually, the spasms subside enough for me to push myself away, collapsing against the bathroom wall. The tile floor feels blissfully cool against my feverish skin.
"You can do this," I whisper to myself, my voice scraping like sandpaper. "Six more days. Just six more days of this, and then you get a break."
When I finally feel steady enough to stand, I use the sink for support and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Her face is gaunt, the skin stretched tight across cheekbones that seem too sharp now. Dark circles crater beneath eyes that look overlarge in her thin face. Her lips are cracked, hair limp and dull, clinging to her sweat-dampened neck.
I turn away from my reflection. I can't bear to look at her—this ghost version of myself.
How many more weeks until makeup can't fill the hollows beneath my cheekbones? The baggy clothes hide my shrinking frame for now, but soon even oversized hoodies won't disguise what' s happening to me.
With shaking hands, I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. I reach for the orange prescription bottles lined up on the shelf beside the sink—Dr. Wilcott's arsenal against the side effects. The anti-nausea medication. The pain relievers. The anti-anxiety pills for when it all becomes too much. I swallow them with a handful of water, willing them to work quickly.
The walk back to the pull-out couch feels like crossing a desert. I drag the blankets over me again, even though part of me is now burning with fever. My body can't seem to decide if it's freezing or overheating, alternating between the two extremes without warning. I curl onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, trying to find any position that hurts less.
Six more days of infusions. Then a break. Then more chemo. Rinse and repeat until the cancer retreats or I do.
I reach for my phone again, needing a distraction from the pain. I should text Zach back, but instead, my fingers instinctively navigate to the livestream of Ridgewater U's hockey game. There's still twenty minutes left in the third period.
I'm not supposed to be watching this. I told myself I'd stay away—from the games, from thoughts of him, from everything that makes this harder. But the pain has worn down my resolve, and right now, I just need to see his face.
The screen lights up with the rink, players gliding across the ice in blurs of blue and white. And then there he is—number 78, skating with the intensity that made me fall for him in the first place. Eli.
But something's wrong. The Eli on my screen isn't playing with his usual fluid grace. He's all hard edges and anger, slamming into opposing players with a ferocity that seems foreign to the gentle man who held my hand just few days ago like it was made of glass.
As I watch, he checks an opposing player so hard they both crash into the boards, and the whistle blows. Penalty. His third of the night, according to the announcer's irritated voice.
When the camera zooms in on his face as he enters the penalty box, I can see it—the tight line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the emptiness in his eyes that I've never seen before. He looks like a man waging war, not playing a game.
"What happened to you?" I whisper, my finger reaching out to trace the screen, outlining the tense set of his shoulders, the crease in his forehead. As if I could somehow reach through the pixels and smooth it away.
As if I hadn't put it there myself.
The tears I've been holding back all day finally break free. They slide down my cheeks as silently as snow, falling onto the blanket pulled up to my chin. My body still aches with a pain that seems to have no beginning and no end, but it's nothing compared to the hollow feeling in my chest.
I want to see him. I want to be near him, to feel his arms around me again. I want to hear him call me "sweetheart" in that low voice he saves just for me. I want to tell him I'm sorry, that I lied, that every cell in my body that isn't actively betraying me still wants him.
But I can't. Because letting him fall deeper for me when I know I'm dying would be the cruelest thing I could do.
On the screen, Eli returns to the ice after his penalty, skating like a man possessed. I touch the screen again, my fingertip resting on his pixelated face, leaving a smudge I'll have to wipe away later.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to him, knowing he can't hear me. "I'm so sorry."
My phone slips from my grasp as another wave of pain washes through me. I turn my face into the pillow and let myself cry—for the pain, for Eli, for all the futures I keep losing.