Chapter 11 Dining Hall Disaster

POV: Silver Preston

Sleep is impossible.

Every time I close my eyes, my brain replays the scene at Ingalls Rink in excruciating detail. Eli's powerful stride across the ice, the precise sound of his edges carving through turns, the way his practice looked effortless until that final moment when his gaze found me in the stands.

I tell myself repeatedly that Americus is being dramatic, that there's absolutely no way Eli Hayes knows or cares about some washed up figure skater hiding in Yale's Gothic shadows.

But the doubt gnaws at me like a persistent injury that won't heal properly.

By lunch the next day, Americus has decided that hiding in our dorm room with protein bars and self pity isn't an acceptable long term strategy.

"Come on, Silver," she declares, already applying what appears to be her third coat of glitter lip gloss. "Yale dining hall is a rite of passage. It's like The Hunger Games but with significantly better lighting and occasionally edible food. Plus, I heard there might be curly fries today, which is basically a religious experience."

I limp alongside my roommate through the Gothic corridors of our residential college, Riley trailing behind with her ever present composition notebook and the kind of patient energy that suggests she's long ago accepted her role as the voice of reason in our chaotic trio.

The dining hall occupies a massive space that looks like it was designed to host medieval banquets.

Soaring wooden beam ceilings, tall windows filled with actual stained glass that paint rainbow patterns across the stone floors, and long tables that could have seated entire royal courts.

The air inside buzzes with typical college dining chaos.

The clatter of plates and silverware, conversations that range from animated debates about professors to hushed gossip about weekend parties, and the persistent underlying aroma of pizza, industrial coffee, and too many teenagers crammed into one space.

I grab a tray more for the illusion of normalcy than any actual appetite, letting myself be swept along the food line while Americus provides running commentary on every available option.

"Okay, the salad bar looks like it's been sitting here since the Renaissance, but those fries are calling my name," Americus announces, loading my plate with golden curly fries despite my protests. "Trust me on this. Carbohydrates are basically fuel for the soul. It's science."

I accept the nutritional advice and follow Americus toward what appears to be an empty table tucked into the back corner of the massive hall, as far from the central chaos as possible.

But then my feet stop moving entirely, as if someone suddenly flash froze the floor beneath my sneakers.

Across the cavernous dining hall, at a table surrounded by navy and white hockey jackets and the kind of easy laughter that carries over ambient noise, sits Eli Hayes.

He isn't just another student grabbing lunch between classes.

He commands the space around him like he was born to it. Leaning back in his chair with one arm draped casually over the backrest, dark hair catching the light filtering through stained glass windows, sharp jawline visible in profile as he grins at something one of his teammates said.

Everything about his posture suggests someone who belongs everywhere he goes, who's never doubted his place in any room he entered.

And in that moment, as if he possesses some kind of sixth sense that athletes develop after years of being watched and evaluated, his gaze sweeps the dining hall and finds me.

Our eyes lock across the sea of students and conversation, and I feel the world narrow to that single point of connection.

The noise of the dining hall, hundreds of conversations, clattering dishes, chairs scraping against stone, fades into white static.

My chest constricts until breathing becomes a conscious effort, and I can't move, can't look away, can't do anything but stand frozen under the weight of his attention.

Americus nudges me with an elbow sharp enough to crack ribs.

"Uh, Silver? You're doing that whole deer in headlights thing again. It's not subtle."

The commentary breaks whatever spell held me motionless.

I tear my gaze away from Eli's table and force myself to move toward our chosen spot in the back corner, my hands trembling slightly as I set my tray down on the scarred wooden surface.

The curly fries that smelled appealing moments ago now seem to mock my complete lack of appetite.

"He's still staring," Americus whispers with the kind of gleeful fascination usually reserved for particularly dramatic reality television.

She slides into the seat beside me, obviously thrilled to be witnessing what she probably considers a real life romance novel in action.

Riley frowns as she settles across from us, shooting Americus a disapproving look.

"Leave her alone. She's clearly uncomfortable."

"What? I'm just making observations," Americus protests, but her voice carries a hint of defensiveness. "And my observation is that Mr. Hockey Captain over there hasn't taken his eyes off our table since we walked in. That's not normal cafeteria behavior."

Despite every instinct screaming at me not to look, I risk another glance toward Eli's table.

He is indeed still watching me, but this time there's no smile, no acknowledgment, no casual nod of recognition.

Just that same unreadable intensity I felt during our brief encounter outside my dorm, magnified by distance and the weight of too many people between us.

Heat crawls up my neck in a wave that makes me grateful for the high collar of my Yale sweatshirt.

I can't do this.

Can't sit here under his scrutiny while surrounded by strangers who might recognize my face from old magazine covers, can't pretend to eat lunch while my past and present collide in the most public possible setting.

My chair screeches against the stone floor as I stand with enough force to rattle my untouched tray.

"Silver—"

Riley starts, concern evident in her voice, but I'm already moving.

Past the food stations, past tables full of students absorbed in their own dramas, past Eli's penetrating stare that I can feel burning into my back like a physical weight.

Through the heavy wooden doors and out into the safety of Yale's Gothic corridors, where the only witnesses to my retreat are centuries old stone gargoyles who've seen enough human drama to remain appropriately unimpressed.

Fleeing has become my signature move, and I'm getting disturbingly good at it.