Now, she's curled up under the blanket, eyes half-open, hair a mess, and still somehow manages a tiny smirk when she catches me hovering.
"Just text me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all." I say, adjusting the blanket even though it doesn't need adjusting. "I'll be right back after my dance rehearsal,"
Sam gives me a weak grin. "Oh, stop fussing, Care. You're starting to sound like my brother. One of him is enough."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help smiling. "Can't help it. Guess it's contagious."
She shifts under the blanket and sighs. "Even the doctor said I'm fine. I just need sleep. Now go before you actually watch me sleep like a weirdo."
"Fine, fine," I sigh, heading for the door. "I'm leaving."
I start walking out, then stop. "But seriously—text me if you need anything."
Sam groans again, and the next thing I know, a throw pillow comes flying at me.
"Leave me in peace, Mother Goose!"
I laugh, tossing the pillow back onto her bed. "Alright, alright. I'm going."
"Bye, Care," she mumbles, her voice already fading with sleep.
"Bye, Sammy."
I smile as I head for the door, glancing back once. She's already out cold. "Feel better, Sammy," I whisper before quietly slipping out.
But a few days later, Sam still isn't feeling much better.
Zach wanted to take her back to the hospital, but Sam insisted that all she needed was rest—and maybe a little time with their mom.
So, the other day, Charlene drove up from Naples to pick her up and take her home to recuperate.
With exams finally over, Sam could actually afford to take a few days off and just rest, which was a relief.
Zach, though, hasn't been taking it well. He's been worrying nonstop, checking his phone every hour for updates even though his mom calls him daily.
His mom said yesterday that Sam's fever broke and she's already feeling better, but it's still not enough for him. Nothing will be until he sees her himself.
But he can't—not yet.
He's got practice and a game tomorrow, and missing either isn't an option.
Still, I can tell he's distracted—his mind's not here. It's back in Naples with his sister. And honestly... I'm starting to worry about him too.
So... I come up with a plan.
If he won't let me fix his mood with words, maybe I can fix it with food. The man basically lives off takeout and caffeine during hockey season, so a proper homemade meal might just snap him out of his funk.
Besides, he's always the one bringing food to me—my personal Uber Eats with abs—so it's about time I return the favor.
The idea hits me like divine inspiration:baked ziti. His favorite. Gooey, cheesy, carby perfection.
I text Adam, Betsy, and Keith to let them know I'm skipping rehearsal tonight for a "personal matter," which is code forOperation Feed the Sad Hockey Boyfriend.
Thankfully, they all understand—and probably assume I'm planning some romantic gesture, which... fair.
A quick grocery run later, I'm standing in the Pond's kitchen surrounded by enough ingredients to feed a small army. Which, considering twenty-something giant hockey players live here, isn't an exaggeration.
Cooking for Zach is one thing.
