I turn on my heel, my pulse roaring in my ears.
"Caroline, wait. Let's talk—" Zach's voice cracks behind me, frantic, but I don't look back.
Thank God for timing. A black sedan rolls up to the curb, window sliding down. "Caroline?" the driver calls. "Uber?"
"Yes," I breathe, my voice tight. I nod quickly, yank open the back door, and slide inside before Zach can say another word.
The door slams shut, a barrier between me and him. Between me and them.
Finally,finally, I let out the breath I've been strangling down—shaky, heavy, the kind that leaves my chest aching.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ZACH
I'm back at the Pond, sprawled on my king-size bed like a damn starfish. Perks of being alternate captain — I get one of the only private rooms in this palace.
Most nights, I don't take it for granted. Shut the door, block out the noise, don't have to hear the twins wrestling half-naked down the hall or rookies blasting shitty EDM. Privacy's a luxury here.
The Pond's not your average dorm.
Yeah, it's basically a frat house for hockey. Fourteen rooms, two floors. Seven up, seven down. Six busted-up shared bathrooms for the guys, but me and Elijah? We've got the only private suites with our own showers. King beds, desks, flat screens. Spoiled rotten.
The school doesn't even try to hide it. Ridgewater's donors dump money on us like we're their favorite kids, and the university spoils us worse than my grandma spoiled me with cookies when I was twelve. It's insane, but it makes sense.
Hockey and football win championships. Championships keep the rich alumni happy. Happy alumni cut big checks. And so the cycle continues.
Point is — this house is ridiculous. And usually? I love it. Having my own space. My own quiet. A place to shut the door when the team's too loud and my brain's already fried.
But tonight? Tonight the quiet sucks.
I can't get her out of my head.
Caroline.
One second I'm downing tequila, the next — she's justthere. Sitting in one of the tables in La Playa like some fever dream I've been chasing for years.
You ever get hit so hard in the chest you forget how to breathe? Yeah. That was me. Heart doing overtime like it was trying out for cardio Olympics. Stomach somewhere on the floor.
I'd spent the last few years convincing myself she was gone for good. That hoping I'd see her again was just wasting brain cells. Every time a Taylor Swift song came on, I'd do that dumb thing — glance around, half-expecting her to magically appear. Always ended up disappointed.
So when her eyesactuallymet mine? Yeah, it scrambled my whole damn system.
She looked the same… and somehow not.
The second I saw her, it was like the floor tilted under me, gravity yanking me straight at her. Time didn't just slow down — it stalled, like the whole bar froze just to make room for her.
She looks so fucking beautiful. The kind of beautiful that caves my chest in on impact, knocks the wind out of me before I even know what hit. The air itself shifts—thicker, heavier—like the whole place bends around her. She's always had that effect on me.
Only now? It's worse. It's different. It's much stronger.
But then again… she's always been beautiful. It's just that now there's this new glow to her — something in the way she stands, in the way she fills a room without even trying. Like life carved a little more confidence into her, lit a little more fire behind her eyes… and it hits me straight in the chest.
Now I'm lying here in the dark, replaying it over and over like some sad highlight reel. Every detail — the way her hair fell, the way her pink, luscious lips moved... and the way my heart sank when her eyes finally hit mine.
Cold. Hard. Packed with nothing but animosity. One look and I knew — she wanted nothing to do with me.
It wrecked me. Completely. Like I've been body-checked by a freight train, helmet off, no pads.
