My heart swells. Like physically expands. Like it's trying to press charges for excessive tenderness.
Behind me, the entire cast erupts in grateful groans and cheers.
"THANK GOD."
"I haven't eaten since... I don't know, Wednesday?"
"Oh my god, bless him."
"Food. Actual food. I could cry."
"Hey, Sam."
Adam steps over, flashing his signature charming smile. "Thanks for the food. Seriously. You saved us."
Sam gives him an equally warm smile. "Of course. Glad it helped."
I catch the exchange — the easy tone, the comfortable familiarity — and it makes me smile too.
They've become a bit of friends since that night Adam asked her to dance at the prom Zach arranged for me last month. It was sweet, unexpected, and honestly the only thing that got Sam to smile that entire night. Since then, they've formed this low-key friendship.
Adam heads back to his group, and Sam waves everyone over to the long table near the backstage wall as her friends start unloading bag after bag from Bennigan's Deli, the famous off-campus spot everyone loves but can't afford more than twice a semester.
They lay out mountains of food—stacked sandwiches, wraps, soups, giant pasta trays, salads big enough to feed a village, and an absurd amount of pickle spears. There are also drinks: lemonades, iced teas, sodas, even bottled cold brews.
"Alright, theater people!" Sam calls. "Eat! There's plenty for everyone."
Professor Callahan raises his coffee mug like a toast. "Fine. Thirty-minute break. If any of you vanish for longer than that, I will find you."
Nobody needs to be told twice.
People swarm the table, piling plates high, and I canfeelmyself turning pink when the comments from the girls start:
"Caroline, your boyfriend is a saint."
"Seriously, he bought food for all of us? He's so sweet, Care! I'm jealous!"
"Girl, marry him. Right now."
"He's so perfect!"
I try to hide my face behind a sandwich the size of my head.
Sam laughs and tugs me toward the corner of the stage, where we sit cross-legged on the floor with our plates. "C'mon. Let's eat before the vultures go back for seconds."
While we eat, I pull out my phone and open the broadcast of Zach's game.
I take a bite of my sandwich and keep the phone angled toward both of us, eyes glued to the screen as Ridgewater flies up the ice. It's already the second period, and they're still holding the lead — 5 to 3 against Saint Ignatius.
A quiet wave of relief settles in my chest.
The team has been playing so well the last two weeks... surprisingly well, considering their captain and alternate captain still aren't speaking to each other. No yelling, no fights — just this cold, stubborn silence that hasn't thawed since the night everything blew up.
Despite all that, they somehow keep winning... well, minus the four games they lost, but we don't talk about those. The important thing is they're winning now.
I glance sideways, subtle, pretending I'm just shifting my plate.
Sam's sitting beside me on the floor, legs tucked under her, eating quietly while watching the game. She doesn't say a word — hasn't since we sat down — but every now and then, when the broadcast camera pans over the bench and lingers on Ridgewater's number 78, I catch her looking away.
