Still, I know better than to think we're "good" again. One crack doesn't mean the whole wall's coming down.
But try telling that to the idiot part of me that's already acting like we're back to how we used to be.
Yeah, not even close.
But I swear to God, one day I'm knocking it down.
Even if I have to climb it, chip away at it brick by brick, or pitch a tent outside and wait her out until she finally opens the damn gate.
I'm not giving up. Not on her.
I groan again and roll onto my stomach, staring at the floor. God, I'm acting like it's been months since she last answered me when it's only been... four hours, eight minutes, and -
I check my phone.
-twenty-seven seconds.
Perfect.
Jesus, I'm losing it.
I'm literally counting the seconds since she last left me on read. Someone should slap the phone out of my hand.
I flop back, drag a pillow over my face, and let out a strangled yell into it.
What the hell happened to me?
Oh right. Caroline Pennington happened.
The girl who single-handedly rewired my brain, turned my heart into her personal stress ball, and flipped my entire world upside down without even trying.
Three years without her wrecked me - and now that she's back, it's like my body's stuck on "Caroline alert" 24/7.
One text from her and I'm high. One read receipt and I'm spiraling like a stock market crash.
I've officially become the kind of guy my teammates roast in the group chat. The guy they give humiliating nicknames to - Captain Whipped, Sir Simps-a-Lot, King of the Seen-zone.
And you know what? At this point, they wouldn't even be wrong.
I shove off the bed and cross the room to stand in front of the full-length mirror.
"Get a grip," I tell my reflection.
The guy staring back at me doesn't look like someone who's been lying in bed pouting over a girl. He looks good - annoyingly good, if we're being honest. Broad shoulders. Muscles built from years of bleeding on the ice. Hair perfectly messy. Face handsome enough to sell Wheaties if Wheaties still did that kind of thing.
I puff out my chest, rolling my shoulders back. Yeah, that's right. I'm Zach freaking Westbrook, co-captain of the top D1 hockey team in the country. I don't pine. I don't mope. I don't-
My phone buzzes.
I whip around so fast I nearly wipe out on the carpet and sprint back to the bed, grinning like an idiot as I belly flop onto it to grab my phone.
So much for not pining.
My grin dies the second I see the screen. Not Caroline.
It's Liam. Goddamn it.
LIAM
