CHAPTER TEN #2
Rivalry games are never pretty, not when it's Everglades High versus Easton High. They're always out for blood, especially against us. It doesn't matter that the scoreboard screams 3–1 and there's barely a few minutes left in the third period.
Easton plays like it's personal—like wrecking Everglades is their life mission.
The clock ticks down, the noise rises, and then—it happens.
Zach charges down the ice like he owns it. He slices around defense like they're traffic cones, snatches the puck, and with one impossibly smooth wrist shot—bam. Top corner, past the goalie.
Goal.
His third of the night.
Hat trick. The first of the season. Against our biggest rivals. The whole place explodes. Hats fly onto the ice like it's Black Friday at Macy's, people are screaming, stomping, losing their minds.
But Zach? He doesn't look at them.
His eyes sweep over the chaos, searching, until they find me.
And when they do—God help me—he points his stick straight at me, flashes that stupid heart-melting grin, and winks.
I swear that wink short-circuits my entire nervous system. It's cocky and sweet and infuriating all at once—like he just scored the goal of the night and then decided to casually murder me with one flick of his eyelid.
My knees actually wobble sitting down.
My stomach? Gone.
My soul? Ascended.
Tell me again how I'm supposed to not be delusional? Did you see that? Everyone saw that, right?
That goal was for me. My best friend just scored a hat trick and basically dedicated it to the fat, ugly-me in the bleachers.
Honestly, this boy doesn't just feed my delusions—he fattens them up, seasons them, and serves them to me on a five-star platter.
My face is nuclear red now, my grin splitting in half. Roll the gurney because I'm seconds away from flatlining.
Heart palpitations? Check.
Hyperventilating? Double check.
And this isn't even the first time. Zach does this every game. Every time he scores, he looks for me. Points. Winks. Like he's not already giving his fan club enough reasons to bury me alive. At this point, they've probably got a custom headstone with my name engraved.
Do I care? Not even a little.
Still, when I accidentally glance at the cheer squad—bad idea by the way—they're glaring so hard I'm surprised the ice doesn't melt. I whip my head away.
Even worse idea. Because now I'm staring at a whole cluster of girls in Zach's jerseys, #19 painted across their faces, holding a giant glittery banner that screams:
"Put a ring on it, Zach—I'll have your hockey babies!!!"
Classy.
And of course, they're all glaring at me too, hissing loser and fat ass like it's part of the chant.
And me? Still sitting here, blushing, grinning like an idiot, convinced more than ever that this is love story material.
*****
I'm standing outside the locker room, crammed in with parents, siblings, and the cheer squad in their tiny blue-and-white uniforms. Everglades High just won their first game of the season, so of course the place is packed.
The cheerleaders are squealing and gossiping about Zach—how hot he looked out there, how he basically carried the team, the same crap they say every time. Especially Cici, the cheer captain, who says his name like it's some kind of prayer. It's exhausting.
Like hello? He's more than just a six-pack and a slapshot, thanks.
And then, because the universe hates me, I catch Cici's voice cut through the chatter.
"Ugh, can you believe the fat plum is here again?"
Her friends all snicker, their eyes flicking straight to me like I'm something nasty stuck to their shoes. They've hated me since forever. Not just because in their eyes I'm fat and ugly, but because I'm close to Zach. Best-friend close.
The kind of close they'd sell their souls for.
And of course, they had to ruin the one thing that mattered most to me.
Sugarplum. That's what Zach has called me since we were five. He gave me the nickname because he knew how obsessed I was with The Nutcracker. I wanted to be Clara more than anything—the Sugarplum Princess—and I made him watch every version with me, movies, plays, Broadway shows. Still do.
So yeah, it's not just a nickname. It's ours. My favorite thing in the world.
But Cici twisted it. She turned "Sugarplum" into "Fat Plum." Or worse—"Sugar Plump." She spits it out like poison, her little army cackling behind her like it's the joke of the century.
And every time she says it, it feels like she's not just mocking me—she's stomping all over something I treasure.
"She actually thinks she belongs here," one of them says, fake-whispering but obviously loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.
Another one giggles. "It's pathetic. Like, sweetie, this is family and friends only. Not... whatever she is."
Cici smirks, flipping her shiny hair over her shoulder. "Honestly, I don't even get why Zach still talks to her. He's captain now. He could have literally anyone in this school—and he wastes his time on... that."
Cue more giggles.
"She probably thinks he's gonna ask her to prom," one girl singsongs.
"As if Zach would be caught dead showing up with the fat plum on his arm," another chimes in.
Cici doesn't miss a beat.
She leans in closer to her squad, voice pitched just loud enough to stab through the hallway. "Please. If Zach ever did ask her to prom, it'd only be out of pity. No sane guy would actually want a loser like her."
"Exactly," someone echoes, and the whole group bursts into laughter like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard.
I cross my arms tighter, rolling my eyes and ignoring them, even though the heat in my cheeks says otherwise.
Pest. That's all I am to them—something in their way they'd love to stomp on until I disappear.
But despite all the crap Cici and her minions just spat, I can't fight the grin tugging at my mouth.
Because through the doors, chaos is exploding. Sticks banging against lockers. Voices shouting like a frat party. Someone chanting Zach's name like he's already NHL material.
It's messy. It's loud. It's sweaty-boy energy at its finest.
I'm grinning like an idiot now.
Because I'm proud of him. Always am. Win or lose, I know how much Zach puts into this game. How much he bleeds for it, literally and figuratively.
But this year? It's different.
He's captain now. And he wants it all. The wins. The trophy.
The big shiny title of national champs. Last year Easton took it, the year before too, and it ate Zach alive. He's been waiting for this season—his season—to prove he can lead Everglades High all the way.
And honestly? I don't doubt him for a second.
Me though? I'm just waiting to celebrate. And in our world, "celebrate" has one definition: Giuseppe's.
It's not fancy. Just this tiny old-school Italian ice place downtown with neon lights that flicker like they're on life support.
But the second you walk in? Sugar heaven.
The smell, the colors, the flavors—cherry, lemon, mango, even weird ones like licorice and mint, cheese. Zach swears it's the best Italian ice on earth, and he's probably right.
It was his dad's spot back in college. Henry Westbrook, certified Italian ice addict. He used to say it was the only way to survive Florida heat. He dragged Zach and Sam there all the time, and since I was basically the honorary third Westbrook kid, I got dragged right along too.
Then Henry died two years ago. Cancer.
And it gutted Zach. Hockey was their thing. His dad taught him how to skate, how to shoot, how to always get back up. For a while, Zach didn't even want to touch his stick.
Until one night, he showed up at my door and said, "Wanna go to Giuseppe's?"
We sat in our usual booth—him with cherry ice, me with pistachio—and for the first time since the funeral, he smiled. Just a little. But it was real.
Since then, it's been our tradition. Win or lose, every game ends with Giuseppe's. Just the two of us.
Well... it was supposed to be the five of us tonight—me, Zach, Sam, and our moms. A little family victory lap with Italian ice. But right before the game ended, Sam started feeling sick. Charlene didn't want to risk it, so they both rushed home with my mom tagging along to help.
Which leaves me.
Standing here, waiting.
Just me and Zach.
Not that I'm complaining.
CHAPTER TWO
CAROLINE
The locker room door finally bursts open, and the hallway goes insane. Players start pouring out, sweaty, duffels slung over their shoulders, grinning like maniacs.
I straighten immediately, standing on my tiptoes, scanning for Zach. But of course, I can't see him. Not right away. Because the second a Everglades jersey appears, girls swarm like it's Black Friday.
And then he shows. My Zach.
Before I can even breathe, Cici lets out this ear-piercing squeal, "Zach!" and practically launches herself at him. She hooks her arm through his like she's been doing it her whole life, batting those fake lashes like they're weapons. Laughing too loud. Touching his arm like she owns it.
Meanwhile, the rest of the cheer squad attach themselves to other players like moths to a flame. The guys don't even hesitate—arms slung around waists, jerseys tugged, grins that scream playboy energy.
It's ridiculous. They look like a walking Abercrombie ad, all cocky posture and messy hair.
I stay rooted in place, waiting. Waiting for Zach to notice me.
He's still preoccupied—teammates hanging off each other, the whole crew buzzing about where to go next.
"Yo, Z," Tyler calls, smacking his shoulder. "Jacob's place tonight?"
"Yeah, man, you in?" another chimes in—Coby, the one with the sharp buzz cut who looks like he was born ready for a fight.
Jacob—the team's goalie—aka king of after-game parties.
His house is basically hockey HQ. Huge place, unlimited booze, and no parents.
They're always jetting off on business trips overseas, so the place is just permanently up for grabs.
Everybody knows if you're celebrating an Everglades win, you're celebrating at Jacob's.