Chapter 53
ELIJAH
The final buzzer cuts through the arena, and the guys erupt around me—sticks striking ice, gloves slamming into shoulders, voices loud and alive with the kind of adrenaline we're supposed to ride straight into a bar after.
We won. After suffering losses from our previous games, we needed this win and hopefully tomorrow too.
I go through the motions—handshakes, quick nods, a half-assed "good game"—before I'm already heading off the ice, peeling my gear off like it's suffocating me. Someone calls my name, probably trying to drag me into whatever celebration they've got planned, but I don't stop.
I only have one plan in mind, and it involves rushing back to my suite and FaceTime-ing my girl—well, that's if she's strong enough to do it.
Today, Sam started her second round of salvage chemo.
Yeah—second round, because the first one didn't work.
Four weeks of hell—four weeks of watching her slowly fade, of holding a plastic basin while she retched until there was nothing left, of her skin turning so sensitive that even the brush of sheets felt like sandpaper—and it still wasn't enough.
And since the search for a donor match hasn't panned out—which means she can't get the transplant yet—her doctor recommended another round. Another descent into hell.
Every day that passes without that match feels like we're watching the timer on a bomb tick down, powerless to stop it.
What makes it worse is that I wasn't even there for her today.
Because I had to be in here with my team for our away games.
Leaving her was hard—fuck, it's always hard—but today of all days, it felt impossible. Sam's been dreading this—the start of another round, another stretch of pain she doesn't deserve.
I should've been there. I should've been the one holding her hand, keeping her distracted, making her laugh—like she always did for me before every game.
Even back when I kept pushing her away, she still showed up.
Every home game, first row behind the bench, wearing my number. She never missed a single one, and now I can't even be there when she needs me most.
It's already hard enough leaving her every few hours so I can attend classes or go to hockey practice, but at least I still get to see her face every night. I get to slip into her hospital room, no matter how late after practice, just to kiss her forehead while she sleeps.
Away games are different.
Away games put hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles between us. Miles I can't cross when she texts me at 3 AM saying she can't sleep because everything hurts.
And there are still so many days I'll have to do this because of my commitment to hockey, to my team—especially with playoffs just around the corner. The team is getting busier, practice more intense, sessions doubled. The pressure is mounting just when I need to be there for her most.
I hate it.
I hate how it makes me feel like I'm falling short. Like I'm not there for her as much as I should be—especially now.
Which is why, the past few nights, I stayed up late putting together that care package. Something—anything—that might lift her spirits, even just a little, in the middle of all this shit she's going through.
I thought I was being smart. Thought I could make up for my absence with that.
Stayed up half the night working on that scrapbook, even though I have the artistic skills of a kindergartener with Parkinson's. My hands are built for hockey sticks, not glue sticks and fucking glitter.
My desk looked like a craft store exploded by the time I was done. Glue everywhere. Paper scraps all over the floor. My fingers permanently sticky.
I wanted it to be perfect for her. Something that might make her smile on the days when smiling feels impossible.
Turns out, making something that doesn't look like complete shit takes more effort than I thought.
I didn't even finish it until the night before we left—which also happened to be the day before her chemo started.
So I had to ask Caroline to bring it to her for me.
I just... hope she got it to Sam in time.
I shower fast in the locker room, ignoring the celebration around me, the guys already planning which bar to hit. By the time I'm back in the hotel room, I slump onto the bed and call Sam on FaceTime.
I need to see her face, hear her voice. It feels like it's been ages, even though it's only been two days. I want to ask how she's doing, even though I already know the answer—she's probably feeling awful. I'm not even sure if she's still awake or already too weak to pick up her phone.
I wait for her to answer, but it just keeps ringing.
She's probably too drained today to FaceTime, which I get. I'll just try again tomorrow morning before practice.
I sigh and am about to set my phone on the nightstand when it rings.
It's Sam.
My heart jolts like I've been shocked, and I answer immediately.
"Hey, you." Her face appears on screen, her hospital gown hanging off shoulders that seem narrower than they were just a week ago.
Still, she smiles, and it hits me in the chest like a crosscheck.
It's been thirty-two days since I found out about her diagnosis. Thirty-two days of watching her beautiful face grow thinner, her eyes deeper set, her laugh a little more forced each time.
We don't talk about it—how scared we are. We can't. Sam needs us to be strong, to act like this is just a rough patch before she gets better. Like there's no other option but for her to get better.
"Hey yourself," I manage, swallowing hard.
The exhaustion is written all over her face—shadows under her eyes, skin so pale it's nearly translucent. But those eyes—they still light up when she sees me, and I cling to that like a lifeline.
"So, big shot, nice goal in the second period," she says, and I can see she's propped up in her hospital bed, an IV stand looming beside her. Her lips are chapped, cracked at the corners. But I'd give anything to kiss them right now, to taste the cherry Chapstick she always applies obsessively.
"You watched the game?"
"Of course."
"Sweetheart, you didn't need to do that. Not today of all days." I run a hand through my damp hair, shaking my head.
She dismisses this with a weak wave of her hand. The movement alone seems to take effort.
"Please. Like I'd miss watching my boyfriend dominate on the ice? Never. Besides, seeing you score that goal gave me something to cheer about while these drugs were dripping into me. Best distraction I could ask for."
I smile at that—she's still my stubborn little devil.
I shift on the bed, propping the phone against the lamp so I can lie down. "Tell me about your day. And not the sugar-coated version you give your mom and Zach."
Her eyes meet mine through the screen, and there's a moment of hesitation—that familiar battle I see in her sometimes, deciding how much truth to share.
"It was tough," she finally admits, her voice small.
Her hand flies to her mouth as she's hit with a coughing fit. "Same as last time. That constant nausea where you feel like you're on a boat. A little vomiting here and there. But I survived."
"That's my good girl."
She giggles before another coughing fit takes over. "I hate that I'm not there," I tell her, the words feeling inadequate for how much I mean them.
"You're exactly where you need to be," she says softly. "Winning games. Being Captain Amazing. Besides, I had something that got me through today."
"Yeah?" I ask, not believing her for a second.
She nods, a small but radiant smile spreading across her face. "Yeah. The perfect company. I'll have it with me the whole time." She reaches for something off-screen, and when she turns back, she's holding up the scrapbook I made her.
I chuckle, relief washing through me. "Care got it to you in time."
"She did."
Sam's fingers trace over the cover, where I painstakingly arranged two cut-out letters—the initials of our names, E & S—and glued dried lavender and forget-me-nots as decoration.
"It's beautiful," she says.
"It's nothing special," I tell her, remembering the late nights hunched over my desk, cursing under my breath every time I screwed something up trying to make it look even remotely Pinterest-worthy. "Glue everywhere. I swear, I've got the artistic ability of a drunk toddler with mittens on."
Sam laughs—that adorable half-snort, half-giggle that makes my heart skip. "It's perfect, Eli. Thank you so much for this wonderful care package."
"You're welcome, sweetheart."
I gaze at her, my eyes tracing every part of her face. Even with the disease taking over her body, she's still so fucking beautiful—and my heart still beats for her like it always has, like nothing in this world could change that.
"Seriously. If you keep outdoing yourself like this, I swear my heart's going to burst."
"Well, we can't have that," I tease, though my own chest feels tight. "Guess I'll have to try being less perfect. It's just hard when it comes so naturally now that I'm with you."
Her lashes flutter, cheeks flushing with the barest hint of pink—the most color I've seen in her face in weeks.
"Fuck, I wanna hold you so bad right now," I whisper.
She blinks rapidly, her smile turning wistful. "Then hurry back, because I want to hold you too."
"Soon, sweetheart. Very soon." I lean closer to the screen, as if I could somehow bridge the miles between us. "I'm gonna latch onto you so tight that the nurses will need a crowbar to pry me away for their damn vitals checks."
Her smile widens, and for a moment—just a moment—she looks like the old Sam, the one who'd show up to every home game with my number painted on her cheek, who'd wait outside the locker room with that smile that was just for me.
"I miss you," she whispers.
"I miss you more."
"Not possible."
"Completely possible."
We fall into a comfortable silence for a moment. I watch her fidget with the edge of her hospital blanket, the way she always does when she's tired but doesn't want to admit it. Her eyelids droop slightly, then snap back open like she's fighting against the pull of sleep.
It's a battle I've watched her fight too many times—her body begging for rest while her mind rebels against the idea of missing even a minute with me.
"You should rest, sweetheart," I say softly, even though ending this call feels like ripping off a bandage I'm not ready to remove.
"Not yet," she murmurs, shifting against her pillows.
She starts coughing again, small at first, then deeper. I watch her reach for a handkerchief on her bedside table, pressing it to her mouth as the coughing intensifies. Something cold slides down my spine as she doubles over, her thin shoulders shaking with each harsh bark.
"Sam?" My voice rises with panic. "Sam, you okay?"
When she finally pulls the cloth away from her mouth, I see it—a bright streak of red against the white fabric. My entire body goes rigid, my breath catching painfully in my throat. The world narrows to that small crimson stain, everything else falling away like I've taken a hit to the head and the ice is tilting beneath me.
"It's nothing," she says quickly, trying to fold the handkerchief before I can see more.
But it's too late. I've seen it. Blood. Sam's blood.
"Nothing? Sam, you're coughing up blood." My voice comes out strangled, barely my own. "That's not nothing."
"Dr. Wilcott says it's just from the low platelets. It's normal with the treatment. Nothing to worry about." She tucks the handkerchief away, her movements careful, deliberate, like she's trying not to spook a frightened animal.
But I'm already spooked, already feeling my heart hammer against my ribs.
"This isn't the first time, is it?" I ask, eyes fixed on where she's hidden the evidence.
She winces, guilt flashing across her face. Her eyes dart away, unable to hold my gaze. She looks so small against those hospital pillows, drowning in that generic gown.
"I had one yesterday," she admits quietly. "But it wasn't much."
"Yesterday?" The word comes out like a gunshot. "Sam, why didn't you tell me?"
She chews her lower lip, "You had the game. You needed to focus."
I rake my fingers through my hair, frustration and fear tangling together into something ugly. "You think I give a shit about the game when you're—" I can't even finish the sentence.
"I knew you'd react like this, that's why I didn't say anything," she says softly. "You and Zach already have so much going on, and I didn't want to make it worse. The team's been struggling, and I know it's because neither of you can focus with everything happening with me... I just—I didn't want to add more to that. You need every win right now if you want to make playoffs."
"Fuck the playoffs." The words rip out of me with such force that Sam's eyes widen. "Fuck hockey. None of that matters, Sam. None of it."
We both freeze, the weight of what I've just said hanging between us.
Hockey has been my life since I could walk. My identity. My future. And I've just dismissed it like it's nothing.
"Eli..." She whispers my name, but I shake my head.
"I meant it. Nothing matters to me but you. So don't hide things from me anymore, okay? I need to know if something's wrong. I need to—" My voice cracks.
I need to have whatever time with you I can, is what I don't say. I need to not waste a single second we have left, is what I don't say.
Her eyes glisten, and for a second, she looks like she might argue again—but she doesn't. "...Okay," she whispers.
Then I see it—the subtle change in her expression, the way her face suddenly pales even further. Her hand flies to her mouth, eyes widening in alarm.
"Sam?" I lean closer to the screen. "Sam—"
"Sam, honey, do you need the basin?" A voice calls from somewhere off-camera—her mom.
Sam nods frantically, hand still pressed to her mouth, and then she's lurching forward, disappearing from view. I hear the awful, wrenching sounds of her vomiting, and my fist clenches so hard my knuckles turn white.
I'm useless. Fucking useless.
I'm thousands of miles away while my girlfriend suffers, while poison courses through her veins trying to kill the thing that's killing her. My fingernails dig crescents into my palms as I listen, unable to do anything but bear witness to her pain.
When she returns to the frame, she's even paler, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. Her mom hovers in the background, concern etched into the lines around her eyes.
"Sorry about that," she says, attempting a weak smile. "Not exactly the romantic FaceTime date I had in mind."
"Are you kidding? That was hot." I force a grin, desperate to make her smile. "Never been sexier, sweetheart. The whole puking thing really does it for me."
She laughs—a fragile, breathless sound—then immediately grimaces, her hand flying to her mouth again. "Oh god, I think round two is coming. I'm sorry, Eli. I have to go. This is so mortifying."
"Hey, nothing to be sorry for—"
"I love you," she cuts me off, her eyes locked on mine for one intense moment before the screen goes dark.
"I love you... too," I whisper to the blank phone.
I don't move right away. I'm now sitting on the edge of the bed, phone hanging loose in my hand, staring at nothing. The room feels wrong without her face on the screen. It's too quiet. Too fucking quiet.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, dragging a hand over my face, pressing hard against my eyes like I can stop the flood of tears from breaking loose.
But I can't.
The tears come hot and fast, burning tracks down my face as my shoulders begin to shake. Everything I've been holding in for her—all the "I'm fine," all the jokes, all the pretending I'm not scared out of my fucking mind—it all comes crashing down at once.
I hear myself make this sound I don't even recognize.
Low. Rough. Like something's breaking inside me.
Because it is.
My hand fists in my shirt, right over my chest, like I can keep my heart from ripping itself apart if I just hold it there hard enough.
It doesn't help.
I don't hear the door open. Don't register Zach's presence until his voice cuts through the fog of my breakdown.
"Dude... is everything okay?"
I lift my head, unable to hide the evidence streaming down my cheeks. I watch his face fall as he takes me in.
"...Elijah."
"She's—" My voice breaks. "She's so fucking sick, man." My voice doesn't sound like my own—raw and broken and desperate. "She's coughing blood now. She's—" I clutch at my chest, like I can hold myself together. "She's slipping away, and I don't know how to stop it."
Zach crosses the room in three quick strides and sits beside me on the bed. His arm comes around my shoulders.
I don't fight it. I can't.
I fold, my forehead dropping against his shoulder as another sob tears through me. This one's uglier than the last, broken and messy, nothing held back.
"I'm scared," I choke, gripping his shirt like I need something to hold me up. "I'm so fucking scared that I'm going to wake up one day and she... she's just not there anymore."
I see it again.
Her face—so pale. Too thin. Smiling like she's okay when she's not.
The coughing. The blood.
"It's so fucking painful watching her like that," I whisper, my voice thick with tears. "Seeing what this is doing to her... I can't... I can't stand it."
Zach's grip on me tightens, and I feel his own breath hitch. "I know, man. I know."
"She's everything," I say, my voice wrecked. "She's fucking everything to me." Another breath shatters out of me. "I can't lose her," I sob, "I can't lose Sam..."
Zach tightens his grip on me, and I feel his own breath hitch.
"You won't," he says—but the tremor in his voice betrays him, tells me he's just as scared as I am.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to push back the image of Sam's blood-stained handkerchief. But it's burned into my brain now, playing on a loop alongside the sound of her coughing, the sight of her doubled over in pain.
"What am I supposed to do? Tell me what I'm supposed to do here. How do I fix this? How do I make it stop?"
"You keep showing up for her," Zach says simply, his voice thick. "Every day. Every way you can. Even from here."
I shake my head, "It's not enough. Nothing I do is enough."
"It's enough for her," he says softly. "Trust me. I talked to her before we left. She told me how much it meant to her that you were trying so hard."
"She said that?"
"Yeah, man. She did." Zach gives my shoulder a squeeze before letting his hand drop. "Look, I'm not gonna lie to you and say everything's going to be okay. I don't know that. But I do know that Sam needs you to keep being you. The strong, stubborn asshole who never gives up on anything."
A weak laugh escapes me, surprising us both. "Strong? Look at me, Zach. I'm a fucking mess."
"Yeah, well, even messes need to fall apart sometimes." He shrugs, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
I nod, swiping at my eyes one last time. The tears have mostly stopped now, leaving behind a hollow, aching feeling in my chest.
"I just... I keep thinking about her coughing up blood. The way she tried to hide it from me. Why would she do that?"
"Because she loves you, you idiot." Zach's voice is gentle despite the words. "She sees how hard you're trying to balance everything—hockey, school, being there for her. She doesn't want to add to that. She thinks she's protecting you."
"Well, she's not," I say sharply. "She's making it worse. Not knowing... it's worse than knowing, you know?"
Zach nods slowly. "Yeah. I know. But try to see it from her side. She's lost so much control over her own body, her own life. Maybe this is the one thing she feels like she can still control—what she shares, when she shares it."
"I'm such an asshole," I mutter, running a hand over my face. "I didn't even think about that."
"You're not an asshole," Zach says. "You're scared. We all are. But we're in this together, okay?"
I nod.
I look at him then and notice the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He's carrying this too—trying to be strong for his family while dealing with his own fear and grief.
"Thanks, man," I say quietly. "For... you know. Being here."
He gives me a tired smile. "Where else would I be? You're my best friend. And she's my sister. There's nowhere else I'd rather be than right here—telling you to stop being such a drama queen."
A small laugh slips out of me, stronger than the last. "Fuck you."
"Love you too, buddy." He laughs, giving me a light pat on the back as he stands.