Chapter 47
ELIJAH
I slam the paint roller against the wall with more force than necessary, splattering little white droplets across my already speckled arms. Day three of what's turning into Naples Renovation Hell, and I'm starting to think my dad's "almost finished gym" is actually some elaborate prank.
The place looks like someone started fifteen different projects and gave up halfway through every single one of them. There's exposed wiring hanging from the ceiling like party streamers, half-assembled equipment scattered everywhere, and enough dust to choke a small army.
Meanwhile, Dad's probably on his third beer by now, and it's not even noon.
My shoulders burn as I stretch to reach the top corner of the wall. The muscles in my back twinge in protest, reminding me that hockey conditioning and construction work use entirely different muscle groups. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking the back of my t-shirt that was clean approximately twenty minutes ago.
"Almost done with the gym, son," I mutter, mimicking my dad's voice. "Just need a little help with the finishing touches."
Yeah, right. Finishing touches my ass. This place needs a miracle worker, not a college hockey player on winter break.
When I first pulled up to the building three days ago, I actually double-checked the address. This couldn't possibly be the "almost ready to open" gym my dad had been talking about for months. The faded sign outside still read Pete's Plumbing Supplies, with my dad's hastily spray-painted Iron House Fitness Gym barely legible underneath.
Inside wasn't any better. I stood in the doorway, duffel bag still slung over my shoulder, my jaw practically hitting the dusty floor. Bare concrete stretched out before me, interrupted by random piles of equipment—some still in boxes, others partially assembled like abandoned art projects. The walls were a patchwork of old commercial posters, exposed drywall, and sections my dad had started painting in what I can only describe as the color of radioactive piss.
"Dad?" I'd called out, stepping over a pile of unopened protein powder tubs. "You here?"
The answering grunt came from what would eventually be the office, where I found him hunched over blueprints, an empty beer can beside him. When he looked up, his eyes had that familiar glassy sheen.
"Elijah! You made it!" He'd hugged me too tight, the smell of beer and desperation clinging to him. "What do you think? It's coming along, right?"
Coming along? It looked like construction had barely started, let alone was approaching completion. But something in his hopeful expression stopped me from saying what I was thinking.
"Yeah, Dad. It's... something."
Fast forward three days, and I've painted two full walls, assembled three weight machines, moved approximately five thousand pounds of equipment, and discovered muscles I didn't know existed. All while Dad has "supervised," which is code for disappearing for hours and returning with beer on his breath.
I dip the roller into the paint tray again, watching the white liquid coat the nap. At this rate, I'll be here until next semester starts. The worst part is that my dad actually seems to believe his own bullshit—that this place is just weeks away from a grand opening. He's already printed flyers, for Christ's sake. Flyers with an opening date that's four weeks from now.
The sound of glass clinking in the makeshift break room pulls me from my thoughts. I close my eyes and count to ten. One, two, three, four... My dad's wife, Corrine, calls it his "creative process. "Five, six, seven... She swears the drinking is just temporary, just stress, just because of the pressure. Eight, nine... What she doesn't seem to get is that he's creating his own pressure by not actually doing the fucking work. Ten.
I resume painting, pressing harder than necessary. Poor Corrine. She's not my mom—Dad met her about six years after the divorce—but she's nice enough. Too nice, actually. Always making excuses for him, running interference when he's had too many, working double shifts at the hospital to fund this gym dream of his.
Yesterday morning, I caught her sneaking out at 5 AM, dark circles under her eyes, while Dad snored on the couch surrounded by empty cans.
"He's just nervous about the opening," she'd whispered, straightening her scrubs. "He's got a lot riding on this."
"Yeah, including your paycheck," I'd replied, but she just gave me that sad smile of hers and left for her twelve-hour shift.
The roller catches on a rough patch of wall, and I curse as paint splashes onto my sneakers. Speaking of splashes, that reminds me of my current communication crisis. Day one, hour two of my Naples visit, and I'd already managed to completely obliterate my phone.
It had been a spectacularly stupid moment. I was trying to move one of the heavier weight machines—a chest press thing that weighed approximately as much as a small elephant. Dad was supposed to be helping, but he'd conveniently remembered he needed to "check something in the car" (translation: take a swig from whatever bottle he had stashed there).
"I got it," I'd grunted, trying to be the hero. I had my phone in my back pocket—stupid move number one—and was trying to maneuver this monster across the floor.
Now, let me paint this picture properly: me, sweating like I'm in the third period of championship game, muscles shaking, this machine teetering precariously. My phone buzzes and in my distraction, my grip slips. The machine doesn't fall, but it tilts just enough that one corner of it rams straight into my back pocket.
The crunch sound? That's not something you want to hear coming from your phone. Ever.
"No, no, no, no," I'd chanted, abandoning the machine to fish out what used to be my connection to the outside world. The screen looked like a spider had woven a web of cracks across it, and no amount of desperate pressing of the power button would bring it back to life.
"Fuck me sideways with a hockey stick," I'd eloquently summarized the situation.
And that's how I became completely disconnected from civilization.
No Sam, no teammates, no social media, no nothing. I called for a replacement but apparently, shipping to this particular corner of Naples falls into some kind of delivery black hole. Four to five business days, they said. Might as well be four to five years.
I step back from the wall, assessing my handiwork. At least this section looks decent now. Clean, white, ready for whatever motivational bullshit quotes Dad wants to stencil on later. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm, leaving another streak of paint.
The lack of phone has been driving me insane.
I keep reaching for it, that phantom limb syndrome thing. Especially when I think about Sam. God, I miss her. Three days without seeing her feels like an eternity.
I promised her space. Told her to take the time while I was away to think about whether she wanted to give us another chance. Mature of me, right? But now I'm dying not knowing what's going through her head. Is she thinking about me? Has she made a decision? Is she even missing me at all?
Maybe the universe did me a favor with the phone incident. If I had it, I'd probably be blowing up her phone every five minutes, which would definitely violate the whole "giving her space" agreement. This way, I literally can't contact her even if my willpower crumbles.
Plus, without distractions, I've been working like a machine. If I keep up this pace, maybe—just maybe—I can actually get enough done that I can head back to Miami earlier than planned. See Sam sooner. Get my answer sooner.
I move to the supply pile to grab another roller cover. The current one is getting gunked up, and I hate the streaky look it leaves. As I'm digging through the supplies, the front door swings open with a creak. My dad stumbles in, squinting against the afternoon sun streaming through the windows I cleaned yesterday.
"Looking good, son!" he announces, his words slightly slurred. He gestures broadly at the walls I've painted, nearly losing his balance in the process. "Real professional."
I bite the inside of my cheek, counting again. One, two, three... "Thanks, Dad."
He weaves his way over to me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. His eyes are bloodshot, his breath a brewery. "You're a good kid, coming to help your old man. A good kid."
I shrug off his hand, more roughly than I intend to. "Someone has to actually work on this place if you want to open next month."
He doesn't seem to register the edge in my voice.
Instead, he wanders over to the newly assembled leg press machine, running his hand along the frame. "This is gonna be something, Elijah. A real family business. Something to be proud of." He looks around the space with unfocused eyes, seeing something I can't—some version of this gym that exists only in his imagination.
"You can't open a gym if you don't finish building it, Dad," I say, keeping my tone even. "And you can't build it if you're drunk half the time."
"I'm not drunk. I just had a couple to take the edge off." Classic Dad, always minimizing. "Besides, that's why you're here! Father-son project!"
I want to argue, to point out that this was supposed to be mostly finished, that I came to help with "final touches," not build the damn place from scratch. But what's the point? He won't remember this conversation tomorrow anyway.
"Sure, Dad. Father-son project." I turn back to the paint, dipping the fresh roller. "Why don't you grab a roller too? We could finish this wall twice as fast together."
He hesitates, looking from me to the door that leads to the break room where I know he's got another beer waiting. "I should check the, uh, the order forms first. Make sure everything's on track."
"Right." I don't hide my disappointment this time.
"Just for a bit," he promises, already backing toward the door. "Then I'll help. Promise."
I don't respond, just keep painting in long, even strokes.
I hear him shuffling away, the break room door closing behind him. Alone again, just me and this endless expanse of wall.
I paint another stroke, and another, and another. The rhythmic motion is almost meditative. Strip the gym down, build it back up. Fix what's broken. It's a simple formula, really.
If only relationships were as straightforward as painting walls.
I step back again, surveying my progress. One wall down, about a million more tasks to go. But for the first time since arriving, I feel a small sense of accomplishment. This part, at least, looks good. This part is done.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the tightness, and dip the roller again. In the distance, I hear the distinctive crack of another beer being opened.
Yeah, it's going to be a long week.
*****
I get back to the Pond the night after Christmas. The hockey house looks exactly the way it always does after a break—quiet, dim, almost abandoned. Most of the guys are probably still trickling back to campus from wherever they spent the holidays. I spent mine in Naples with my dad.
Calling it "Christmas" feels generous. I didn't really celebrate anything.
I spent most of the time working on the gym renovation he bought last year and promptly decided he was too drunk or too lazy to finish. I had hoped to wrap up the last part before I left, but there were still a few things unfinished. I ended up hiring a couple guys to finish it for me.
Paid them myself. Money from the trust fund my grandparents left me—the one I barely touch even though it's been sitting there since I turned eighteen.
The moment he realized I'd hired people to finish the work, he started sulking. Started going off about how his own parents had screwed him over, how they'd left everything to me instead of him. Like they hadn't already told him why before they died. They knew exactly what he would've done with the money. Gambling. Drinking. Blowing it on God knows what.
Well, they weren't wrong.
So yeah... Christmas was basically me hammering drywall while Dad got drunk and ranted about my grandparents. Hard to badmouth the dead, but he managed.
I probably could've finished the renovation myself if I had another week. But hockey practice waits for no one, and honestly? I didn't want to stay another minute in that house watching my dad spiral while acting like I was the idiot who bought the damn gym.
The Pond greets me with silence when I push through the front door. No thumping bass. No guys hollering over video games. Not even the familiar charred smell of whatever frozen garbage someone tried to microwave for too long. Either nobody's back from break yet, or whoever stayed behind found somewhere better to be tonight. Works for me.
I take the stairs two at a time, hoping to see a package waiting in my room. That replacement phone better have shown up. My fingers practically itch with the need to dial Sam's number.
Late or not, I've got to see her tonight.
One thing that really sucked about Christmas being so uneventful was Christmas Eve. I drove by Zach's house hoping I'd catch Sam there so I could give her the gift I bought for her, but the place was completely empty. No cars in the driveway. Nothing.
Which was weird as hell.
The Westbrook house is usually impossible to miss during the holidays. They go all out every year—strings of twinkling lights wrapped around the porch railings, glowing reindeer on the lawn, garlands draped over the front door like something out of a Christmas movie.
I know Sam loves that stuff.
Hard not to know that when you basically grew up in that house.
Back when we were kids, I practically lived there as much as Zach did. Especially around the holidays. My own house never really did the whole Christmas thing once my parents started tearing each other apart. Nobody felt much like celebrating when half the time my mom and dad couldn't even stand being in the same room. Decorations stopped going up pretty quick after that.
But the Westbrooks...
They never made it feel like I was just some extra kid tagging along. Sam always made sure of that.
Every year when they hung stockings across the fireplace, there'd be one with my name on it too. She'd even stick my name on one of the ornaments on their tree like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I remember asking her about it once when we were younger, telling her she didn't have to do that.
She'd just shrugged like it was the dumbest question I'd ever asked and said, "Of course I do. You're part of the family."
The memory hits me now with this strange warmth in my chest that I didn't fully appreciate back then.
Lately it's like my brain keeps digging up all these little things Sam did over the years—things I barely noticed at the time—and turning them into something bigger now.
Something precious.
All those ways she carved out space for me when I didn't even realize I needed it.
Zach's always been there for me, sure. He's my best friend, my brother in everything but blood. But what Sam was building around me was something else entirely.
Something that makes my chest ache now, remembering how many times I pushed her away.
Because what she was offering me all along wasn't just her heart.
And God knows she never tried to hide that. Sam's always been loud about loving me—ridiculously, stubbornly, sometimes embarrassingly loud about it.
But it was never just that.
It was something bigger. Something I was too blind to see back then.
Family.
Home.
The thought lingers in my chest for a second longer before the creak of the stairs under my boots drags me back to the present. Which is why it was so damn strange seeing the Westbrook house completely dark on Christmas Eve.
I figured they probably went somewhere for the holidays. Maybe they spent it here in Miami. Maybe visiting family somewhere. And if that's the case, there's a pretty good chance they're back now.
Which means if my damn phone actually showed up... I might still get to see her tonight.
When I push open my bedroom door, I spot the box sitting on my desk immediately. Finally.
I grab it and rip it open like a kid on Christmas morning. The phone powers up slowly, loading the network and syncing messages. While it does its thing, I decide to take a quick shower. If I'm going to see Sam tonight, I'd rather not smell like drywall dust and road trip.
For the first time in days, I feel... weirdly excited. Giddy, even.
I actually catch myself humming something stupid while I head into the bathroom. Would you look at that. Elijah Deveraux, singing in the shower like a lovesick idiot. If the guys saw this, they'd never let me live it down.
When I step out fifteen minutes later, towel around my waist, I grab the phone off the desk. The screen lights up. Messages start pouring in. A bunch of the guys wishing me Merry Christmas. Some stupid memes. A couple texts from teammates about practice tomorrow.
But none from Sam.
My shoulders sag a little. Maybe she needs more time. Or maybe she's decided I'm not worth another chance. Fuck, I really hope not!
I notice a string of texts from Zach from about a week ago, but instead of reading them, I hit call. It rings and rings before going to voicemail.
"Fuck," I mutter, tossing the phone onto my bed and pulling on a hoodie and sweats.
The house is too quiet. I need noise, distraction—anything to drown out the anxious thoughts swirling in my head. I head downstairs to see if anyone else is back yet.
I'm halfway to the last steps when the front door suddenly opens.
Liam, Luke, and Cody shuffle in, and immediately I know something's wrong. These guys are the definition of perpetually hyped—always laughing, always joking, always planning their next conquest.
But now? They look like they've just been to a funeral.
I lean against the railing and squint at them, half tempted to make a joke about whatever depressing bar they just crawled out of.
"Well this is new," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair as I glance between them. "Did all three of you strike out tonight or something? Because I've never seen the Pond's resident man-whores walk in looking like someone kicked your puppy."
None of them laugh. Cody's jaw tightens. Luke drops his gaze to the floor. And Liam just stares at me.
"What?" I say slowly.
Liam steps forward a little, rubbing the back of his neck like he's trying to figure out how to start a conversation he really doesn't want to have. "Where the hell have you been, man?"
I frown.
"In Naples," I answer, pushing off the railing and stepping down the last few stairs. "Helping my dad with the gym renovation. You guys knew that. I told you before break."
The three of them exchange a look—that specific look people share when they're deciding who has to deliver bad news.
"Zach's been trying to call you for days."
I let out a frustrated breath and hold up the phone in my hand. "Yeah, that would've been a little difficult because I smashed my last one while I was working at my dad's gym last week," I mutter. "I literally just got this replacement ten minutes ago."
Cody shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Luke runs a hand through his hair. The tension in the room thickens. I look between them, irritation starting to bubble up.
"Okay, seriously," I say, spreading my hands. "Can someone tell me what the hell is going on? Because the three of you are standing there looking like you just came from a funeral and it's starting to freak me out a little."
Luke glances at Liam. Cody stares at the floor.
"Did you check your messages yet?" Liam asks quietly.
"No," I snap, my patience thinning. "I told you, I literally just turned the damn thing on."
Another one of those glances passes between them.
For a second nobody speaks. Then one of them finally says it. I don't even know which one but the words hit me before my brain can catch them.
"Sam's in the hospital."
Everything inside me goes completely still. The air leaves my lungs like someone punched me.
"What?"
Liam takes another step closer, his voice careful now. "Zach tried to call you when they admitted her."
My heart starts beating harder.
"What do you mean admitted her?" I demand. "What happened to her? Was it an accident or something? Did she get hurt?"
"No," Cody says quietly.
"Then why the hell is she in the hospital?" I press, my voice rising despite myself. "And why didn't anyone tell me sooner?"
"We tried," Luke says quickly. "All of us did. Zach called you a bunch of times. We've been blowing up your phone since we found out when we got back to campus yesterday."
I stare at them. And suddenly the phone in my hand feels heavier than a damn brick. Because of course. Of course this would happen the one week I don't have a phone.
"How... s... sick is she?" My voice scrapes out, sandpaper-rough.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Liam steps forward, his calloused hands gripping my shoulders so hard I can feel each individual finger digging into my muscle.
"Cap," he says, his voice cracking like thin ice. The buzzing in my ears swells to a deafening roar, drowning everything but his next words. "S...Sam has...cancer."
My brain lags for a second, like it can’t process what I just heard. I search their faces waiting for the smirk, the laugh, the "gotcha" moment.
"Yeah," I manage, a laugh like broken glass scraping up my throat. "Very funny."
The living room light casts harsh shadows across their faces.
Luke's eyes shine wet under the ceiling fixture, a tear balancing on his lower lashes. Cody's jaw clenches so tight that a small muscle jumps beneath his stubbled skin like a trapped insect. Liam's face—always animated, always ready with a smartass comment—has hardened into something ancient and grave.
"No." I wrench away from his grip, my skin suddenly burning hot. "No, that's not— you guys are messing with me."
"She was diagnosed a while ago," Liam says, his voice barely above a whisper, each word falling like a stone into still water.
My fingers rake through my damp hair, catching on tangles. "That's not possible. Sam's fine. She's healthy. She's only twenty, for Christ's sake."
Their expressions don't change— three variations of the same devastation.
"You heard wrong," I insist, the denial clawing up my throat like a desperate animal. My voice sounds alien, like it's coming from someone else. "Or Zach heard wrong. Something like that."
Liam's hands find my shoulders again, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"It's leukemia, Cap." His eyes are bloodshot, the whites webbed with tiny red veins. " Apparently, she's been feeling off for weeks, but Zach thought it was just stress. But she collapsed at her dorm last week and Zach had to rush her to the hospital."
Sam has cancer?
Sam is in the hospital right now?
While I was laying tile and arguing with my drunk father and humming in the fucking shower?
"No," I say, shaking my head. "No, no, no. She can't—" My voice cracks. "Are you sure? There has to be some mistake. She would have told me if—"
I stop myself, the realization hitting me like a freight train.
How she always looked tired. How much weight she'd lost. And... is this the reason why she'd been pushing me away?
"Wait," I say, gripping Liam's forearm. "Has she... how long has she known?"
Liam swallows hard. "I don't know all the details, man. Zach just said she's been getting treatments for a while now. But something went wrong, her counts dropped too low or something, and they had to admit her."
My legs turn to wet cement. I stagger backward until the wooden stair railing catches me, my knuckles bleaching bone-white as I grip the polished oak like it's the only solid thing left in a world that's suddenly liquid.
Luke adds, his voice barely audible over the thundering pulse in my ears. "He says... he says it's pretty serious, Cap. She's really sick."
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
For a second—maybe longer—I just stare at the floor like it might crack open and swallow me whole if I look hard enough. My brain keeps trying to make sense of what they're saying, trying to line the words up into something that actually means something.
But it won't.
All I can see is Sam.
Sam at my peewee championship game, her grin so bright it felt like someone turned on a damn spotlight in the arena.
Sam trailing after me when we were kids, asking a million questions while I was trying to focus on practice.
Ten-year-old Sam declaring she'd marry me someday—whether I liked it or not—while standing on my front porch in her ridiculous rainbow rain boots.
Sam slipping stupid little notes into my hockey bag, her loopy handwriting covering scraps of notebook paper in purple gel pen, always with that same heart she drew over the 'i' in my name.
Sam texting me good luck before every game.
Sam showing up everywhere.
And then—like someone flipping a switch inside my head—every single one of those memories just... disappears, sucked into a vacuum of absolute darkness.
No Sam.
No more of that laugh that always shows up before she says something insane, that specific snort-giggle combo that made her cover her mouth with embarrassment.
No more of her voice calling my name across the rink like she owns the place, the way it echoes off the plexiglass and cuts through the scrape of blades on ice.
No more...her.
And the thought of that—of a world where Sam Westbrook just... isn't there anymore—hits me so hard it feels like my lungs forget how to work.
Fuck.
I can't breathe.
It's like something invisible just wrapped a fist around my throat and started squeezing. My chest tightens so violently I swear for a second I might actually drop right here on the floor of the dorm like some pathetic idiot.
Sam.
My sweet, stubborn, beautiful little devil.
Sam... who's apparently been fighting cancer while I've been completely fucking clueless.
"Cap, you okay?" Luke asks, reaching for my shoulder.
I shrug him off. "Which hospital?" My voice sounds like it's coming from someone else's body.
"Miami General. Zach's been there every day. He said—"
I don't hear the rest. I'm already moving, shouldering past them toward the door. My keys bite into my palm as I sprint down the driveway. The truck door slams behind me, engine roaring to life before I've fully registered sliding behind the wheel.
One thought consumes everything: I need to see Sam. As fast as humanly possible.