Benched By You (RIDGEWATER U #1)

CHAPTER ONE

CAROLINE

If my love story had a soundtrack right now, it would hundred percent be You Belong With Me by Taylor Swift. Don't roll your eyes—I'm a proud Swiftie. Judge me all you want, but Tay Tay just gets me, okay?

Like, if she ever needs inspiration for another heartbreak anthem, she could honestly just steal my diary and boom—platinum album.

Anyway. I'm that girl. The one who's had a lifelong crush on the boy next door.

And not just any boy next door.

Oh no.

It's my best friend, Zach Westbrook.

Zach freaking Westbrook.

High school royalty. The guy who keeps getting voted prom king and wins every single time without even trying.

He's also a hockey superstar. Basically the reason half the female population drags themselves to our school's freezing rink every Friday night. He's fast, he's talented, he's cocky in a way that shouldn't be attractive but totally is.

And me?

I'm the girl in the bleachers. The nerdy, fat, ugly girl with braces and a face full of freckles. Basically, the kind of girl who screams yearbook committee instead of prom queen.

The one silently screaming for him to just look at me and realize I'm the one he's been looking for.

Not that he's looking, of course. And if he ever did, it'd be pretty hard to spot me through the vulture squad—aka the horde of girls who basically worship at his hockey skates every time he scores a goal.

But here's the thing: he and I share a connection. A real one.

The kind of connection that runs deeper than the deep blue sea. Titanic-level deep. (Minus the iceberg, hopefully.) And you know what? My inner diva is flipping her hair right now because those girls? They don't have that.

I'm sure Zach knows it too. He has to.

He just... hasn't realized it yet.

But any day now, he's going to wake up and finally see the truth—that we belong together. And then, obviously, we'll start dating, make it official, and head into freshman year of college next year as that couple.

You know, the ones everyone secretly hates because we're so cute it makes them gag? Yeah. That'll be us.

Perfect. Fun. Movie-worthy.

...Except. Tiny little detail I forgot to mention.

I might also be a teensy bit delusional.

Teensy bit? Be for real, my annoying little sass-monster of a brain cuts in, rolling her eyes.

I roll mine right back. Fine. I'm definitely, a hundred percent delusional when it comes to Zach.

And tonight is the perfect example of why.

It's game night—opening game, rivalry game, basically the Hunger Games of high school hockey.

And me? I'm in the bleachers, lungs about to collapse because no one cheers louder than me.

Not even the cheer squad, who are down by the glass in their tiny blue-and-white uniforms, smiling like toothpaste models and flipping their hair every time Zach skates past.

They're all perfect—bronzed legs, lip gloss, not a smudge in sight. Meanwhile, I'm wrapped up like a burrito—two sweaters jammed under my number 19 jersey—sweating and shivering at the same time, looking one sneeze away from hypothermia.

But whatever. None of them can out-cheer me.

My voice? Powerful. My passion? Unmatched.

Scoreboard? 3–1. Our school is winning. And guess who's behind two of those points? Yeah. Number nineteen. My number nineteen. Zach Westbrook - the golden boy of Everglades High.

He glides across the ice in all his 6'3 hockey glory, and I swear it should be illegal to look that good in pads and a jersey. The speed, the sweat, the way he moves like the rink was made just for him—ugh.

Hockey players are already hot by default, but Zach?

He's the main character version. The kind of hot that makes the whole crowd go feral. Every stride, every shot, every cocky little smirk he throws after a play—it's like watching a live-action thirst trap, and I'm front row.

When Coach Cooper calls for a line change, Zach pulls off his helmet in one swoop, raking his fingers through sweaty, dark chocolate hair like he knows slow-motion cameras were invented for him.

His face is flushed red, a little damp with sweat, and I swear my mouth goes Sahara-dry just watching him tilt his head back and squirt water from his bottle.

Gulp.

Yep, that sound was me. Because apparently, even hydrating is hot when Zach does it.

And I know I'm not the only one melting. The whole rink feels like it's running a fever.

I fan myself with both hands. Discreet. Totally subtle.

"Are you feeling hot, sweetie?" my mom asks, side-eyeing me.

I plaster on an awkward smile. Sure, I can talk to her about a lot of things—boys, makeup, girl drama—but I'm definitely not about to say, "Yeah mom, I'm overheating because I kind of want to push my best friend Zach down right there on the ice, climb on top of him, and kiss him so hard he forgets what oxygen feels like.

I want to pin him flat against the cold rink floor, run my hands all over his pads, and make the school's golden boy beg me for mercy.

Basically, I want to body-check him straight into next week and he'd thank me for it. "

My cheeks go nuclear red. STOP. Brain, what the actual hell?

I fan myself harder, like that'll cool down the hurricane of hormones tearing through me. Teenage hormones really are no joke—I'm two seconds away from going full PG-13 in the middle of the rivalry game.

So yeah. TMI for Mom.

Especially not with Sam sitting on my other side—Zach's sixteen-year-old sister who's way too observant for her own good—and Charlene, their mom, sitting right next to her.

I tug at the neck of my number 19 jersey, regretting every dumb life choice that led me to wearing two sweaters underneath.

"God, Caroline, you're sweating!" Mom yelps, digging napkins from her purse like I'm about to faint.

Then Charlene notices too. She waves her cardboard sign for Zach and fans me with it, frowning. "Maybe the AC's out on this side of the rink?"

Spoiler: nope. The AC is fine. Ice-cold, actually.

What's not fine? Me. I'm the problem. It's me.

And of course, Sam is sitting there with a smirk so wide it could split her face. She leans closer, whispering just loud enough to ruin my life: "Don't blame the AC. Blame Zach."

I whip my head toward the little devil, glaring so hard I hope she bursts into flames.

"What was that, honey?" Charlene pipes up, tilting her head curiously.

Sam instantly snorts, trying and failing to hold it in.

Of course. Of course this is her favorite hobby—making me squirm.

I've regretted it every single day since I told her, one stupid year ago, that I had a crush on her brother.

And she's been cashing in on that little confession ever since, like it's her full-time job.

Lifetime entertainment package: tease Caroline until she dies.

My mom joins in too, because apparently the universe hates me. "What about Zach?" she asks, innocent but way too interested.

My eyes snap back to Sam, who is practically vibrating with glee. I mouth a sharp "Stop it."

Then I force my face into the fakest, most innocent smile I can manage.

"Oh, nothing! Totally nothing. I'm just..

. uh, regretting my fashion choices. Like, who wears three layers to a hockey game?

Two sweaters and a jersey? What was I thinking?

No wonder I'm sweating like crazy. I basically dressed like a roast chicken in the oven.

" I laugh awkwardly, waving my hands like that explains everything.

Sam is still grinning, looking one second away from choking on her own laughter.

Thankfully, before either mom can ask more questions, the entire crowd roars and our attention snaps back to the ice.

Zach's back in the game.

And the tension? It's brutal. Both teams are hammering into each other, slamming bodies against the glass so hard the boards rattle. Every pass, every check, every shove—it's all claws-out.