From the corner of my eye, I see Liam, Luke, and half the team giving her a slow, impressed clap.
I pull her even closer, my mouth brushing her ear.
"You haveno ideahow hot you just were," I murmur. "I swear to God, babe, you just gave me a full-on, aggressive boner in front of the entire team."
"Shut up," she mutters, elbowing me—but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"This is your fault for being too hot for your own good. One of these days, I swear, I'm putting a damn collar on you that saysPROPERTY OF CAROLINE PENNINGTON.Don't tempt me."
"Woof."I bark loud and playful. "By all means, baby. I'll wear it proudly."
She bursts out laughing, biting her lip like she's trying (and failing) to stay annoyed, and I tug her even closer as we step inside—both of us grinning like idiots who can't believe we get to love each other this much.
CHAPTER fifty-four
CAROLINE
Hell Week always sounds dramatic until you're actually living inside one. Then you realize "hell" is honestly a cute understatement. This entire week has been a blur of chaos:
Late-night full runs.
Early-morning spacing rehearsals.
Endless line rewrites because someone keeps forgetting the transitional dialogue.
Costume adjustments that involve Tracy stabbing pins way too close to my kidneys.
Professor Callahan shouting about blocking like she's directing a Broadway revival instead of a college capstone.
And Adam stress-eating granola bars at a pace that should qualify as a sport.
By the time Saturday rolls around, it's carnage. I'm pretty sure my soul has permanently detached from my body and taken up residence somewhere in the rafters of the Mainstage. Not just me but my entire class too. We've been living here. Eating here. Cat-napping on prop benches and ugly velvet couches that probably have their own ecosystem by now.
Our schedule has been a nightmare masterpiece.
Today — Saturday — is our full rehearsal day.
The "fix everything or die trying" run.
Tomorrow — Sunday — is our final dress rehearsal.
The last time we'll touch the stage before the showcase on Wednesday, when the curtain rises and all of this chaos is somehow supposed to look intentional.
Which means Monday and Tuesday are technicallyrest days, but in reality?
It's everyone panic-memorizing lines at home, practicing blocking in their kitchens, sending each other frantic voice notes.
Hell Week has a way of swallowing your entire life whole — schedules, sleep, sanity — and spitting you back out as a half-functioning artistic gremlin who survives on caffeine and sheer delusion. Lights. Blocking. Sound cues. Costume mishaps. Script rewrites. Last-minute choreography fixes. Tech notes layered on top of tech notes. I've been running on fumes and adrenaline for so long that even my adrenaline is starting to ask for a sick day.
And the worst part? It's Saturday.
Saturday means game day.
Saturday means Zach on the ice.
And it's an away-game Saturday — the kind where I should be there in the stands, screaming myself hoarse like I always do — like I want to do — but instead I'm stuck under these theater lights, feeling like the world's worst girlfriend.
Not because Zach ever makes me feel that way — God, he never does — but because I hate that I haven't been able to give him anything this week. No quality time. No real conversations. Sometimes not even a kiss that lasted more than ten rushed seconds backstage before I had to sprint to the wings.
