When I open my eyes again, I smile.
Today's a good day.
Scratch that—today's agreatday.
I grab my purse and my portfolio, tuck it under my arm. One last look around before I head out—and my gaze lands on Sam's bed. Empty, of course.
I shake my head, smirking. No mystery where she is.
The Pond.
Ridgewater's hockey residential hall. It's basically a giant on-campus palace the university gift-wrapped for the team, known asThe Pond—part frat house, part shrine to testosterone. Every single player lives there. Including the captain.Hercaptain.
Sam's practically made it her second address. That girl rolls out of here before sunrise, five-thirty sharp, like clockwork. She drives to his favorite diner downtown, grabs his usual breakfast, and makes sure she's camped out there before the guys drag themselves back from their 6 to 7 a.m. workout.
Not that Elijah actually eats it. Nope. He usually leaves it sitting there untouched—because if it came from Sam, it's automatically radioactive.
But does that discourage her?
Ha. Please. That girl's got a hide thicker than Kevlar and enough determination to fuel a small army. She's beencourtingElijah since she was ten years old, and she's not about to retire the playbook now.
I can't even be annoyed—it's almost impressive. Dedication? Delusion? Jury's still out.
Either way, typical Sam.
And maybe that's why it nags at me a little—because watching her chase Elijah like that kind of reminds me of... well, me. Once upon a time. I just hope hers doesn't end the same way mine did—crashing, burning, and hurting like hell.
The rehearsal studio smells faintly of sawdust and coffee, like every other day. Sunlight filters through the high windows, catching the scuff marks on the black floor. Twenty-six of usare scattered around, some on the floor, some slouched against mirrors, waiting for Professor Callahan to sweep in.
I sit cross-legged near the wall, hugging my knees, pretending to look over my notes but mostly eavesdropping.
Beside me, Adam bounces a tennis ball lazily against the floor, catching it with one hand like it's second nature.
"Any guesses?" he says, flashing me one of those easy, dangerous smiles—the kind that makes half the girls in the department forgive him for everything. "What do you think Callahan's gonna throw at us for the Winter Showcase?"
Adam looks like he should be on the cover of some fitness app, not a drama student. Broad shoulders, unfair jawline, that messy hair that somehow always falls perfectly. Nobody expects him to be a theater kid, but here he is, sinking into monologues like he was born for it.
Honestly? The department probably just thanks God every day they've got a guy like him to balance out the endless parade of ingenues.
Lucy pushes her glasses up her nose, eyes bright behind the lenses.
She always gets more talkative when it's just us three, her doe-eyed enthusiasm spilling out. "It's gonna be Shakespeare. It'salwaysShakespeare. I'm bettingRomeo and Juliet."
Adam groans dramatically, rolling onto his back like she's just wounded him. "Kill me now. I can't be anyone's tragic lover. I've got dimples, Lucy. People don't take you seriously when you've got dimples."
I laugh, shaking my head. "You'd make a killer Mercutio, though."
"See? Exactly. Best friend material. I get stabbed, say something witty, die young. That's my brand." He throws me a wink.
Lucy giggles, tugging at the sleeve of her cardigan. "OrMidsummer Night's Dream.At least that one's fun."
"That's worse," Adam argues, sitting back up, tennis ball in hand. "Shakespearean forest party? Half-naked fairies? Glitter in my hair for a month? No, thanks."
"Better than tights," I shoot back.
He points at me with the ball, grin widening. "Touché."
I can't help laughing. Around us, the other students murmur about Chekhov, Ibsen, the usual heavy hitters.
