He steps closer again, and Luke and Liam both instinctively move in—ready this time, just in case.
But Zach doesn't swing.
He just looks at Elijah, eyes dark, jaw set. "I'm going to do what I should've done a long time ago—protect her. Keep her as far away from you as possible. Because she doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve you."
Elijah's jaw flexes, but he doesn't say anything.
The room feels heavy, like everyone's holding their breath.
Zach exhales hard through his nose. "She's too good for you, man. Way too good. And until you figure your shit out—until you pull your head out of your ass and stop pretending you don't care—don't even think about talking to me."
He steps back and turns away before anyone can say a word.
Elijah just stands there, one hand pressed against his split lip, the smallest flicker of something—regret maybe—flashing in his eyes.
I exhale quietly, my pulse still thundering in my ears.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at his back, wanting to say something—to stop him—but knowing nothing I say will calm him right now.
So I follow.
I mumble a quick, awkward "Goodnight" to no one in particular and hurry after him, my chest tight. The door's still swinging shut when I reach it.
Outside, the cool air hits me like a slap. Zach's already halfway across the lot, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. I jog a few steps to catch up, my heart breaking a little at the sight of him like that—furious, but also hurting.
When I finally reach him, I don't say anything. I just slip my hand into his, lacing our fingers together.
He doesn't look at me right away, but I feel the smallest squeeze back—just enough to tell me he's still here. Still Zach.
CHAPTER forty-six
ZACH
It's already late when Caroline and I pull into Naples. We drove straight here after my game ended, and the car's been quiet almost the whole ride home. Not uncomfortable—just heavy.
Some of it's exhaustion.
Most of it is the fact that we lost. Again.
Two games. Back-to-back.
Friday was bad.
Tonight was worse.
Coach Hopper didn't tear into us because of the scoreboard. He tore into us because we deserved it. We played like absolute crap.
No focus, no chemistry, no fire.
Honestly, I've seen peewee teams play cleaner than what we put on the ice. Passes off by a mile. Missed reads. Missed opportunities. No rhythm, no flow, nothing.
And I know exactly where it all started.
Thursday.
When Elijah and I blew up at each other.
Skating with him since then feels like skating next to a stranger. The easy rhythm we had—gone. A pass would come too early or too late. I'd swing left and he'd drift right. Plays we used to run blindfolded just... fell apart. It was like trying to play with a missing limb.
