Chapter 7

Emma's POV

I stood there frozen, my hand still on the doorknob, staring at the wood grain like it might give me answers.

He apologized. Caleb Claffey actually apologized.

Through the crack at the bottom of the door, I could see the shadow of his feet. He hadn't moved. Just standing there in the hallway at eleven thirty at night, waiting for me to say something.

My brain replayed his voice. Flat. Mechanical. "I should've met you. Sorry."

Not "I'm sorry." Just "sorry." Like he was checking off a box on some list his mom had given him.

Did Victoria make him do this? Is that why he sounds like he's reading from a script?

I pressed my ear against the door. Heard his breathing—slow, controlled. The kind of breathing you do when you're trying not to lose your shit.

For half a second, I wanted to open the door. Wanted to see his face, see if there was anything real behind those ice-blue eyes.

But then my brain flashed to the locker room. Him standing there with Tyler and Cody, laughing about something. The way he'd looked right through me when I'd asked about his sister.

"I don't have a sister."

My hand tightened on the doorknob until my knuckles went white.

No. I'm not doing this. I'm not going to be the pathetic stepsister who falls for every scrap of attention he throws my way.

I took a breath. Tried to make my voice sound normal. Unbothered.

"I know. It's fine. I got home anyway."

Silence.

I could feel him processing that. Could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

Then his voice came back, and it sounded different. Sharper. "...That's it?"

I almost laughed. Almost.

What did he expect? That I'd throw open the door and tell him everything's forgiven because he deigned to say two words?

"I was about to go to sleep," I said. "So. Goodnight."

More silence. Longer this time.

Then his voice dropped lower. Harder. "Emma. Open the door. We should talk face to face."

My pulse kicked up. I could hear it in my ears, that stupid hammering that made my hands shake.

No. No no no. If I open this door, I'll look at his face and I'll cave. I always cave.

I leaned my back against the door instead. Felt the cool wood against my shoulder blades through my t-shirt.

"Caleb." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Do you remember what you said?"

Pause.

"What?"

I closed my eyes. Saw him standing in that ski lodge four years ago, his jaw tight, his eyes cold as the snow outside.

"After the ski lodge. After the broken stick. You said we're not required to be close siblings. That keeping our distance would be better for both of us." I swallowed. "I'm just doing what you asked."

The words hung there in the air between us. Between this door.

I heard him exhale. Sharp. Like I'd punched him.

Then nothing.

I waited. Counted my heartbeats. One. Two. Three.

Finally, footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Moving away down the hall.

I slid down to the floor, my back still against the door, and pulled my knees to my chest.

I did the right thing. I did the right thing.

So why did my chest feel like someone had scooped out everything inside and left me hollow?

I sat there for I don't know how long. Long enough for my butt to go numb on the hardwood. Long enough for the house to go completely silent.

When I finally crawled into bed, I couldn't sleep.

I kept seeing him. Not Caleb-in-the-hallway Caleb. But Caleb on the ice.

Number 9. Cutting through defenders like they were made of paper. That focus in his eyes, that complete control. The way his whole body moved like a weapon, precise and devastating.

Why do I keep thinking about that?

I rolled over. Punched my pillow. Tried to find a cool spot.

Because you're an idiot, that's why. Because apparently watching a guy who hates you play hockey is somehow hot now. Great. Fantastic. This is totally normal and healthy.

I groaned and buried my face in the pillow.

Eventually, exhaustion won. I fell asleep thinking about ice and cold blue eyes and the sound of skates cutting through silence.

---

Something woke me up. Voices downstairs. Dishes clattering.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand. 7:32 AM.

Ugh.

I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself I could just stay in bed all day. Hide up here until Caleb left for practice and I didn't have to deal with whatever fresh awkwardness was waiting downstairs.

But my stomach growled. Traitor.

I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on the same shorts from last night. Ran my fingers through my hair. Didn't bother with the mirror because I knew I looked like hell and I didn't care.

The stairs creaked under my feet. I could hear Victoria's voice now, bright and cheerful, talking about grocery lists or something.

I walked into the kitchen and immediately regretted every decision that had led me to this moment.

Caleb sat at the dining table. Protein shake in front of him. Whole wheat toast. Phone in his hand.

He looked up when I walked in.

Our eyes met for exactly half a second. Maybe less.

His face was completely blank. Like I was a stranger. Like last night had never happened. Like he hadn't stood outside my door at eleven thirty apologizing.

Then he looked back down at his phone.

My stomach dropped so fast I actually felt dizzy.

Right. Of course. Back to pretending I don't exist.

"Sweetie!" Victoria turned from the counter, all smiles. "Good morning! Come eat breakfast. We're going shopping for the barbecue today, remember?"

I slid into the chair farthest from Caleb. As far as the table would allow.

"Yeah. Sounds good."

My voice came out flat. I tried to fix it, tried to sound more enthusiastic, but it was too late. Victoria was already turning back to her coffee, oblivious.

I grabbed a piece of toast from the basket in the center of the table. Focused very hard on spreading butter. On not looking at Caleb.

But I could feel him there. Taking up space. Breathing the same air.

Where's Dad?

"David left early," Victoria said, like she'd read my mind. "Big meeting. He'll be back tonight."

Great. So it was just me, Victoria, and the human ice sculpture across the table.

Victoria poured herself more coffee, then turned to Caleb. Her voice shifted—still warm, but with that edge mothers get when they're about to ask a question they already know you'll try to dodge.

"Caleb, the barbecue Saturday. You're confirmed, right? Coach sent an email yesterday saying no extra practice this weekend."

Caleb put his phone down. Slow. Deliberate.

I watched his hand move out of the corner of my eye. Watched his fingers drum once against the table.

Then his eyes flicked to me.

Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel it like a physical touch.

My hand froze mid-spread, butter knife hovering over my toast.

Why is he looking at me?

He looked away. Back to Victoria.

"I might have plans Saturday. And today Alex set up a training session, so I might be home late."

Victoria's eyebrows went up. "Alex? Alex Cameron? Your opponent?"

"Yeah."

"You're training with the guy you're competing against for draft position?"