My brain is screaming,Shut up. Stop talking. For the love of God, shut your mouth,but apparently my lips have decided they work for a different boss.
"I don't see her that way. I never will. She's not... girlfriend material. You know me. You know the girls I go for."
The words stumble out before I can stop them, sharper, meaner. "I don't date fat chicks."
And the second it leaves my mouth, it's like I've sucker-punched myself.
A live grenade detonating in my chest. Below the belt doesn't even cover it—this was nuclear. Outrageous. Cruel in a way I didn't even know I was capable of.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
I don't mean it. Not one syllable. Caroline isn't that, not even close. But I said it. I fucking said it. And even though it's a lie, it's the only thing echoing in my head now, poison looping back at me.
I can't even explain why the hell I said it. Why I went straight for the cheap, coward move instead of just manning up, telling him the truth — that Caroline's off-limits because she's mine. Because I've liked her first, always have.
But no. I choke. I lie.
And it makes me feel like absolute shit.
A slow tap on my shoulder snaps me back to the present. I blink up, dazed, and Elijah's standing there, stick resting against his leg, brows drawn tight with concern.
"You alright, man?"
"Ye... yeah. I... I'm fine." The sigh that slips out after makes a liar out of me.
"You sure? You seem distracted."
He couldn't be more right. Distracted doesn't even cover it. I feel like the most hateful bastard alive, trapped in a mess I can't fix. Some screw-ups you can tape over.
This one? It's not a cracked stick or a missed shift you shake off. It's jagged, permanent, like a fracture that won't set right no matter how long it heals.
God, I can't even imagine what it felt like for Caroline — hearing those cheap, dirty words spill out of my goddamn stupid mouth. That look on her face last night flashes again, hitting me square in the chest.
Her eyes wide and wet, glassy with betrayal, every tear sliding down her cheeks like it weighed a hundred pounds.
And knowing I put them there? Feels like swallowing glass.
"Fuck..." I mutter under my breath, jaw clenching.
The anger spikes hot, wild. My fists itch, my knuckles already imagining the crunch of drywall splitting under them. I want to hit something, anything, until I can't lift my hands anymore. Till the skin splits and the pain drowns out the storm inside me.
It's like being trapped in sudden death overtime with no puck to chase — no way out, no play to run, just endless pressure crushing me down. And all I've got left is this rage, this boiling need to bleed it out before it eats me alive.
"Zach, talk to me. What's going on?"
I don't answer him at first. Just sit there, helmet dangling between my knees, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.
"Talk to me," Elijah says again, firmer this time, voice low so it doesn't carry. "I know you. You're not yourself right now. You're out of focus. And if this keeps up? It's gonna show tonight."
The words land heavy, because he's right. Ishouldbe locked in on practice, on our season opener. Instead, my head's stuck three years in the past, stuck on Caroline's face last night, broken and wet with tears I caused. I feel like the shittiest co-captain alive.
And I know—there's no fixing my game tonight until I fixthat. Until I talk to her. Until I explain.
I swallow hard. "Is it okay if I step out for a bit. There's something important I gotta do."
His brows knit, puzzled, concern cutting deep. "Will this help you get your head straight for the game tonight?"
I nod once. No hesitation.
