CHAPTER TEN #18
He grins, all dimples and mischief. "Says me. And also, everyone else who's had the honor of acting opposite this face." He gestures at himself like he's a walking billboard.
I snort. "You really can't turn it off, can you?"
He shrugs, squeezing my shoulder like he's laughing through his arm. "What? Me, flirty? Nah. This is just my charm, babe. Factory setting. Comes standard."
I roll my eyes, but I'm laughing anyway.
Adam is just... relentlessly himself. That smooth, cocky charm is like his second skin—he doesn't even have to think about it.
Natural. Effortless. He tosses innuendos like confetti at a parade, and the worst part?
He's good at it. Too good. Lines that should make me cringe somehow end up making me laugh instead.
He's the kind of guy who could flirt with a brick wall and still make it blush.
Because that's his thing. He's a player, a smooth-talker, a walking rom-com cliché—but not the sleazy kind.
He knows exactly where the line is, and he never crosses it.
He's bold, yeah, but he's also respectful in this infuriating way that makes his flirting feel less like a move and more like a joke you want to be in on.
And against all logic, I find it... endearing. Like he's a kindred spirit who refuses to let anything get too heavy, who can turn the air light with a grin.
It's just Adam. A playboy with decent manners. A manwhore with a conscience. And damn it—somehow, it works.
I laugh despite myself, shoving him with my elbow. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously charming, yes." He taps his temple like it's science. "It's in the genes. My mom swears I came out winking at the nurse."
"Gross," I mutter, shaking my head, but I'm still smiling.
He leans down a little, lowering his voice into that mock-serious drawl that always makes me want to roll my eyes. "C'mon, Care. Picture it. My dorm. Quiet. Very private. You, me, scripts on the table, passion in the air..."
"Passion?" I cut in, laughing. "We're reading lines, not filming a PG-13 movie."
Adam smirks, eyes glinting like he's already won. "Hey, I'm just saying—if we're auditioning as lovers, shouldn't we rehearse with a little chemistry?"
I roll my eyes so hard they might detach. "You're impossible."
But honestly? Running lines with him isn't a bad idea.
We've done it before in other classes—scriptwriting, play analysis. It works. We click. He gets me, and I'm comfortable with him. That's why, against my better judgment, I nod.
"Fine," I say. "We'll practice together."
Adam smirks like he's just won a bet. "Perfect. And who knows?" He waggles his eyebrows, all cocky playboy drawl. "Might even get you to fall for me in character. Practice makes perfect, right?"
I shove him lightly with my elbow, laughing despite myself. "Stop it!"
He just grins wider, utterly unbothered—like this, right here, was the reaction he'd been fishing for the whole time.
CHAPTER TEN
ZACH
Scrimmage's running hot—top line against the seconds and thirds. Coach Hopper, the team's head coach, loves running it this way before a big game: throw us against the depth guys, crank the compete level up, and see who can handle the pressure.
The ice is shredded to hell, snow piling up in the corners, every stride kicking dust into the air.
Everyone's drenched—sweat dripping down temples, soaking through jerseys, steam rising off us in the cold rink air.
Helmets get pushed back between whistles, mouths hanging open, guys sucking in air like they've been skating for hours instead of twenty minutes.
Faces are flushed, shoulders sagging, but nobody dares coast. Coach's watching everything. Every shift, every lazy stick lift, every second you're half a stride late—he'll catch it, and he'll rip you apart for it.
Across from me, Martin leans on his stick, chest heaving. Reese wipes his glove across his visor, leaving a foggy streak. Their eyes are tight, jaws clenched, and you can see it plain as day—they're rattled. Pressure's eating them alive.
Me? My lungs are burning, legs screaming, sweat dripping down my neck. But there's no letting up. Not when coach's whistle is hanging from his mouth like a trigger, ready to blow the second we slip.
The whistle blasts.
"Reese! You let Deveraux slide that pass right through you! Your stick was in the air, your feet were flat, and you gave him the lane clean. You keep your stick down and angle your body, that puck never gets through. Instead, you looked like a damn pylon."
Reese, third-line grinder, just drops his chin, sucking air hard.
Coach Hopper doesn't let up. He whirls on Martin.
"And Martin—where the hell were you? You're his support. That's your partner. You collapse and help him cut that seam off. You gotta step into Deveraux, take away the middle. Instead, you left Reese hanging out to dry. That's a goal against Friday if you don't fix it."
Both of them skate back to the line, faces red, still gasping.
The coach is always on them, harder than anyone else. Not because he hates them—it's the opposite. He's trying to squeeze something better out of them, get the third line to quit looking like practice dummies and prove they can hold their ice time.
If Reese and Martin can hold their own against guys like Elijah and me in practice, they'll survive anything this league throws at them.
We reset. Cody snaps the puck off the draw, quick as hell, feeding Elijah up the middle. He powers through the neutral zone like a wrecking ball, dragging both D with him. I loop wide, and he dishes it off—perfect timing.
Martin tries to angle me off, but he's too slow. I'm gone down the wing, puck on a string. Elijah's screaming for the return feed, but I've already made up my mind. I toe it in, roll it onto the blade, balance it there—crowd-pleaser move—and whip it lacrosse-style top corner.
Slater flinches late, stick side wide open. The puck buries high before he can even twitch.
I raise my stick, smirking. My shot. My mark.
"Goddamn it, Slater!" Coach Hopper's roar drowns out the boards banging. "Square the hell up! That's Westbrook—he's gonna pull that cute shit in games!"
Slater slams his stick against the post, frustrated. Yates, the goalie coach, is already waving him over. "You're dropping too early! Eyes on his blade, not his body. He sells you every time—quit biting!"
I circle back to the line, grinning under my mouthguard. Coach's still seething at the second line. "Pressure the puck! Don't stand there admiring his goddamn stickhandling—close the gap, hit him, make him earn the ice!"
We keep grinding another half hour. Coach's whistle shrieking, his voice booming, every shift like he's squeezing the last ounce of air out of us. By the time he finally blows it long and sharp, the whole squad looks like we've been through a war zone.
Guys are bent over their sticks, gasping. Several of them are wobbling like baby deer, barely keeping upright. Jerseys are glued to our pads with sweat, helmets tipped back, mouths hanging open like we're fish suffocating on land.
Nobody says it, but we all know the truth: tonight's gonna be one giant team field trip to the ice bath, or half of us won't walk tomorrow.
We drag ourselves off the ice, through the tunnel, blades clacking on concrete. The locker room door swings open, and it's like the collective weight hits all at once. Guys collapse onto benches, dropping gloves, sticks clattering to the floor.
A chorus of groans fills the room—low, guttural, like an orchestra of misery. A couple rookies are flat-out sprawled on the floor, chest heaving like they just got bag-skated into the afterlife.
"That was murder," Cody mutters, peeling his jersey off like it's fused to his body.
"Brutal," Liam agrees, slumping forward with his head in his hands.
Even us seniors look wrecked—guys slumped over, grunting, peeling at their gear like it weighs fifty pounds. We're supposed to be used to this crap by now, but coach pushed us past whatever our limit was an hour ago.
The rookies? Forget it. They're toast. It's like coach decided freshman year hazing was his personal side hustle this season.
Pete slumps onto the bench, ripping at his helmet. "Christ... I can't feel my legs."
Gage drops onto the floor, sprawled out. "Pretty sure mine quit on me twenty minutes ago."
A couple guys laugh through their own gasps.