Like an idiot.
Because when he holds me like this, how could I not?
CHAPTER FOUR
CAROLINE
The hallways buzz with the usual early-morning chaos—lockers slamming shut, sneakers squeaking across polished floors, laughter bouncing everywhere, and the occasional shriek from someone who forgot their homework.
High school, in all its glory. Loud. Chaotic. A little suffocating if you're not in the mood.
Zach and I walk side by side like we always do. Our lockers have been neighbors since freshman year and they’ve stayed that way ever since. Honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way. This tiny slice of routine is ours.
I can't believe it's the last year though. Graduation's in a few months, and then... no more side-by-side lockers.
Don't think about it, Caroline. Nope.
He looks obnoxiously cool this morning in his Everglades hockey letterman jacket, hair still damp from practice. Girls wave at him as we pass, batting lashes like we're in a bad teen movie. He flashes them that grin—the one that makes half the female population forget their own names—and I pretend it doesn't bother me. Spoiler: it does.
He’s animated, grinning as he talks about Ridgewater U and officially making their hockey roster next year. They only recruit top high-school prospects—like the freakishly talented, state-leading-scorer kind. Which, of course, is exactly what Zach is.
"They're taking me for a campus tour next month," he says, tugging open his locker. "Meet the team, check out the rink. I'm pumped but... nervous too. What if they don't like me?"
I glance at him, trying not to look like I want to wrap him in bubble wrap for doubting himself. Zach Westbrook doesn't do insecurity. He's the guy who can talk to anyone, charm teachers into forgetting about late homework, and have strangers calling him their best friend within five minutes.
I smile, grabbing my binder. "You're Zach Westbrook. Everglades' golden boy. Hockey superstar. And you literally havea sign stamped on your forehead that says 'friendly.' It'd be impossible not to like you."
His grin softens, like my words just locked something in place for him. And of course it makes my chest do this stupid fluttery thing.
He bumps my shoulder lightly. "And what about you, Miss Performer? Any letters yet?"
My fingers hesitate over my books. "Not yet," I say, casual. So casual it almost sounds real. "But Ridgewater usually mails acceptances in January, right? It's only the middle of the month. I'll probably get mine this week."
I don't tell him about the other letter. The one sitting in my drawer. The one with NYU stamped across the top in bold, shiny letters.
Because I never told him I submitted a college application anywhere other than our dream school.Ourschool. Ridgewater U isn't just some random college on a brochure. It'sthecollege. The holy grail.
We grew up on Ridgewater stories—our parents went there, made lifelong friends there, basically treated the place like it was Disneyland with textbooks. We had Ridgewater sweatshirts before we could even spelluniversity.
Every holiday, someone would bring up campus life like it was some sacred rite of passage: Ridgewater dorms, Ridgewater hockey games, Ridgewater love stories.
So of course it became our dream. Our shared, non-negotiable, totally-set-in-stone plan. It was Ridgewater or bust, like there weren't even other schools in existence.
Which is why I have no clue how Zach's gonna react if I tell him I applied to NYU on the side—and worse, that I already got my acceptance letter two weeks ago.
Not that I actually want to go there.Duh. My first and only choice is Ridgewater U. Wherehe'sgoing. And where I want to be. No doubts. No competition.
Zach slams his locker shut, calculus book already shoved in his bag. "How about you come with me on the campus tour next month?"
My head tilts. "Why?"
"So we can see it together. First time."
I frown. "Aren't you going with Coach Cooper?"
He huffs. "Not necessarily. And honestly, I'd rather go with you. You're more fun than him." He winks, adding, "And the car ride will be way better. Just the two of us. Blasting your Taylor Swift playlist. You know—quality time."
My cheeks burn instantly. Thank God for locker doors hiding faces. He talks like Ridgewater U is hours away when it's literally an hour and a half drive. Still... the idea makes my insides turn to goo.
