Chapter 7: Everything He Left on My Skin

ELENA’S POV

I told myself I’d only wait five minutes, but that was an hour ago. Now I was standing in the corridor like a complete idiot, Noah’s varsity jacket folded too neatly in my arms, pretending I had a shred of dignity left. Every time the heavy doors at the end of the hallway groaned open, I straightened my spine, rehearsing a casual, cool-girl greeting I hadn't been able to master in ten minutes of practice.

“Just return it.”

That was the mantra. No drama and absolutely no lingering looks at Noah Hale. It should have been easy, except nothing about Noah had ever been simple. I tightened my fingers around the fabric. It still smelled like him—cedarwood and something earthy underneath it, like expensive soap and unbridled arrogance. I hated that I noticed. I hated even more that I hadn't been able to wash the scent out of my memory since the night he’d forced me to wear it home.

The sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps cut through the silence of the hallway. I felt him before I saw him. His hair was still damp from the shower, clinging to his forehead in dark, messy spikes. His t-shirt was thin, molding to a frame that was still rolling with leftover adrenaline from the court. He looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once—a king of a kingdom he hated. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look at a point just past his shoulder before he could catch me staring.

But his eyes found mine anyway, and the world just stopped. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. I hated that my chest reacted with a violent thud before my brain could even form a thought.

“Let me guess,” he said, his voice a low, derisive rasp that grated against my nerves. “You got lost on your way to the library.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing my hands to stay still. I wouldn't give in to his jabs. “I came to return this. You said you didn't want it back, but I’m not in the habit of keeping trash.”

His gaze dropped to the jacket but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he walked closer. One slow, predatory step after another until there was barely any space left between us. Suddenly, the hallway felt too small.

“You could’ve left it at the equipment desk,” he said, his eyes flicking back to mine, dark and unreadable. “Unless you needed an excuse.”

My brows pulled together. “An excuse for what, Noah?”

A faint, humorless smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. “To make sure I haven't forgotten you were here.”

I shoved the jacket forward, hitting his chest with it. My cheeks burned with a heat I couldn't suppress. “Take it. I’m done with your ego and your clothes.”

He still didn’t take the jacket, intent on making every inch of me squirm.

“You always do this,” he said, his voice becoming something dangerously intimate.

I tried to look away, but his gaze was a magnetic pull I couldn't break. “Do what?”

“Show up like nothing happened,” he continued. “Like you don’t leave a trail of damage behind every time you walk into a room. You think a folded jacket makes up for three years of betrayal?”

There it was. The thing underneath the "Captain" persona. The real Noah—the one who was still bleeding from wounds he claimed didn't exist. He was the boy I’d left behind wrapped in a coldness that felt like a death sentence.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You don’t know anything about my life, Noah.”

His eyes flicked down briefly, his lashes casting long shadows over his cheekbones. “Don’t I?”

A sudden, raucous shout echoed from inside the locker room, and the spell broke.

“Just take the damn jacket or I’m leaving it on the floor,” I snapped, my voice finally finding its edge.

He finally reached for it. As he grabbed the sleeve, his fingers brushed against mine. It was accidental but my entire body reacted like I’d been struck by lightning. A sharp jolt of heat snapped through me, and his hand stilled for half a heartbeat too long. Then, he ripped the jacket away, his expression hardening into a mask of pure loathing.

“We’re done here,” he growled.

I turned to leave before he could see the tears of frustration threatening to surface. I didn't want to name the look I’d seen in his eyes—the flickering shadow of desire that looked far too much like grief. I’d barely made it two steps when his voice stopped me.

“Elena.”

It was the first time he’d called my name softly without the bite since the night everything ended. I stopped, but I didn't turn around.

“Yeah?” I asked, hating the tremor in my voice.

The silence stretched behind me was suffocating. When he finally spoke, the warmth was gone, replaced by a tone so chilly it made the hair on my arms stand up.

“Try to stay out of my way on the court tomorrow. I won't catch you twice.”

My chin lifted in a fake show of bravado. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Hale.”

I walked away as fast as my legs would carry me. I was almost to the exit when I heard the muffled sounds of the locker room spilling through the doors.

Jax Rivera’s voice was unmistakable. “Bro, I’m just saying, if she’s the one covering us, this season just got way more entertaining. Did you see the way he looked at her?”

Noah’s lethal reply was, “shut the fuck up, Rivera.”

That night, sleep was a butterfly I couldn't catch. Lora had gone to another frat party. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the brush of his skin and the dark stormy hunger in his eyes. I told myself it was just hatred. Pure, unadulterated loathing but my subconscious was a traitor.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand at 2:00 AM. I frowned, reaching for it, expecting a "come get me" text from Lora. Instead, it was an unknown number. I opened the message, and the air left my lungs.

It was a screenshot. A photo of me standing outside the locker room earlier that evening, clutching the jacket. Underneath the photo was a single line of text:

“She always shows up where she doesn’t belong. Watch your back, Voss. You aren't the only one with a story to tell.”

I stared at the screen, my grip tightening until my knuckles turned white. I tried to tell myself it was a prank—Ridgewood was full of bored, cruel students who lived for drama. I realized I wasn't just being watched. I was being targeted.