But this?
The cruelty. The venom. The way he laughed while spitting out the same insults other people have thrown at me my whole life.Fat chick. Not worth your time.
I could take it from anyone else. I'm used to it. But not from him.
Never from him.
And now I know. It was all a lie. Every reassurance. Every word that made me feel like I was enough.
All lies.
And I don't think I'll ever forgive him for it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZACH
Three years later...
The Ridgewater locker room is chaos. Towels snapping. Water dripping. Guys yelling like they're across a football field instead of ten feet away.
Steam. Sweat. Axe body spray choking the air.
Half the guys are still dripping from the showers, towels hanging dangerously low. Others are flexing in the mirror, admiring their abs like they're auditioning forBaywatch.
Honestly? The whole scene, it's less post-practice cool down andand more like the opening act ofMagic Mike: Ridgewater Warriors Edition.
Across from me, Elijah Deveraux—our team captain, and the guy who somehow makes six-foot-four look like the default setting for human evolution—steps out of the showers. His ash-blond hair is dripping, pushed back like he walked straight out of a sports magazine.
He's got tattoos running from chest to hip, water still sliding down over stupidly defined abs, and honestly? If I didn't know him, I'd assume he was the kind of guy I'd hate on principle.
But he's not.
He's my boy. My best friend. The annoying, genetically blessed brother the universe shoved into my life.
And the truth?
He deserves the "C" stitched on his chest. Not just because he's a beast on the ice—though, yeah, I'll admit he edges me out in a couple areas—but because he knows how to run a team. He's the guy who can bark orders and make people actually want to listen. Knows how to keep the room from burning down when everyone's egos start swinging.
That's why I'm rocking theAinstead of theC.
I've worn the captain thing before in high school, and don't get me wrong—I can lead when I need to. But college hockey? Different animal. Bigger stage, higher pressure, more politics. And honestly, I'm not the guy who wants to deal with everyone's shit 24/7.
Elijah's better at it. Way better.
I'm cool being his right-hand, the one who gets the boys fired up, cracks the jokes, and drops the gloves when needed.
That's my lane. That's where I'm at my best.
"Yo, Westbrook," Elijah calls over, towel draped across his shoulders, water still running down his back. "You spacing out, or you just admiring me again?"
I snort. "Relax, Captain America. Your ego's already bigger than the ice sheet."
Before he can clap back, the Archer twins stroll over from the showers—Luke and Liam, matching smirks, water dripping off them like a goddamn cologne ad. Identical six-packs, identical smug faces, identical pain-in-the-ass personalities. Freaking clones.
"Speaking of egos," I mutter.
Luke grins, snapping his towel against the back of my leg as he passes. "Don't be jealous, Westbrook. Not everyone can look this good fresh out of a cold rinse."
