"So there. Now you know. Happy now?"
Zach goes rigid, shoulders squared like he's been struck. His mouth opens, then shuts again, the words dying before they can form.
For once in his life, Mr. Smooth-Talker has nothing. No joke. No deflection.
His jaw works, tight and unsteady, like he's fighting to breathe past the weight of what I just threw at him. His silver eyes—usually cocky, untouchable—flicker with something raw, almost gutted. Shame. Regret. Like the ground just shifted beneath him.
And that? That almost makes it worse. Because now he knows. Now he sees exactly how deep he cut me.
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. His face is still frozen—like he's been turned to stone by my words.
Good. Let it sink in. Let him feel even a fraction of what I felt that day.
I shove against his chest, hard, surprising even myself with the force. He stumbles a step back, confusion still plastered across his face. My hand fumbles for the doorknob, twisting it so fast it rattles.
The door swings open, and I push again—palm flat against him—driving him toward the hall.
"Now that you know what really happened," I bite out, sharp as glass, "you can leave. Don't ever try to talk to me again. Because our friendship? It ended three years ago."
His throat works like he wants to speak, but I don't give him the chance. My knuckles whiten as my grip tightens around the edge of the door, grounding me, keeping me upright when all I want is to crumble.
"Good luck with your game tomorrow." I force myself to meet his eyes one last time, then slam the blade down. "Goodbye, Zach."
The door swings with all my weight behind it, slamming shut—almost.
"Wait—" he blurts, his voice cracking through the sliver of space left before wood meets frame.
But I don't wait.
The door thunders closed in his face, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. My forehead drops against the cool wood, breath shuddering out of me. Tears are hot trails down my cheeks, unrelenting, humiliating.
God, I hate myself for this. For crying. For being weak. For letting him see me like this—again. I swore I'd never give Zach Westbrook that satisfaction. That I'd never let him catch me broken.
And yet here I am, crumbling in the shadows of my own dorm, the sound of his voice still ringing in my ears.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ZACH
It's finally Friday. Game day. Our season opener against Lakeview State, and the whole damn campus is hyped like it's Christmas morning. Everywhere we walk, people are shoving good-lucks at us, slapping our shoulders, waving Ridgewater banners out dorm windows.
Sidewalk chalk scrawledGo Warriors!across the quad, posters plastered on walls, cheer squad already practicing outside the arena like we're about to step into the Stanley Cup Final instead of some college opener.
I should be lit up with it. I've been waiting weeks for this. Grinding in practice, eating clean, getting extra ice time, locking in like my whole year depends on tonight — because it kinda does.
Season openers set the tone. You go out flat, it follows you for weeks. You go out swinging, you build the fire. I wanted tonight to be fire.
And the guys? They're riding high. Morning skate's light, as always — nothing but flow drills and a little fun to shake the nerves off — but the energy is electric.
"Opening night, baby!" Liam crows, snapping a wrister top shelf in warmups. "Lakeview doesn't stand a fucking chance. We're dropping double digits on their sorry asses tonight."
"Triple," Luke fires back, flashing his cocky grin. "Opening game deserves fireworks. We'll make their goalie wish he'd picked another sport."
The twins jab shoulders, chirping each other, and the rest of the guys howl. Everyone's loose. Pumped. Ready to run Lakeview over with a semi.
Everyone but me.
I'm sitting on the bench, gear half-done, stick limp across my knees. I catch my reflection on the glass and nearly flinch. I look like shit. Circles under my eyes so dark I could pass for a raccoon. Eyes dead, lifeless, like someone pulled the batteries out overnight. My hair's a sweaty mess even though I haven't done a damn drill yet.
