CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Is it always like this?" Pete asks.
Cody leans against his locker, nodding, grin plastered on his sweaty face. "Welcome to Ridgewater hockey, rookies. You survive Hopper, you survive anything."
"Not sure I wanna survive," Pete mutters. "Might be easier if he just killed us."
Even I can't help but laugh, pulling off my gloves and flexing my cramping fingers. My lungs still burn, sweat dripping down my back. Coach Hopper doesn't do tune-ups. He does full-on exorcisms.
Elijah moves through the room, still looking like he could go another period if asked, clapping shoulders as he passes. He stops by Pete and Gage, both of them half-dead, and gives them each a thump hard enough to nearly knock them sideways.
"You boys did damn good today," he says, grinning wide. "Yeah, Coach went full psycho mode out there — looked like a rabid gorilla with a whistle — but that's the point."
A couple guys snort through their exhaustion.
Elijah sweeps his gaze around the room, voice climbing. "You think Lakeview State's gonna tiptoe around us Friday? Hell no. They're coming out swinging, and Hopper just made sure we're ready to swing harder."
He points toward the rookies on the floor, then sweeps the whole room.
"Your legs are on fire? Good. Your lungs feel like they're bleeding? Even better. That means you've already gone where they haven't. And when we hit the ice Friday night, we're not just playing them — we're gonna beat the piss out of them."
The room stirs, tired laughter mixing with a few stick taps.
Elijah's grin widens, voice booming now. "They won't know what hit 'em. We're not stepping into a game, boys. We're stepping in to take the whole damn thing."
The place pops off — sticks banging, guys hollering through raw throats, even the rookies dragging themselves upright to fist-pump.
I can't help but grin too. That's why he's captain. Elijah doesn't just play like a beast — he makes you believe you're one too.
From the corner, Reese mutters under his breath, still peeling tape off his shin pads. "What'd do us some real good right now is a cold beer. Or three."
A few guys laugh, heads tipping back, groans turning into chuckles.
"Make it a pitcher for each one of us," Martin adds, half-smiling through his exhaustion.
"Yeah," Cody says, kicking his skates off with a grunt. "Hell, two pitchers. Minimum."
Before anyone can top that, the Archer twins throw their hands up at the exact same time, grinning like idiots.
"No place else but La Playa!" Liam shouts.
"Damn right," Luke backs him up, already laughing. "We're going. No arguments. First rounds on us."
The room explodes — guys banging lockers, hollering.
La Playa's the place. Always packed, always lit, perched high enough over town that you can look out and see the Miami lights bleeding into the water.
It's where everyone at Ridgewater ends up sooner or later.
"Anything you want," Liam calls out, smacking his chest. "Pitchers, shots, I don't care. It's on us tonight."
That seals it. Every single guy's in. Tired voices overlap with a mess of "hell yeahs,".
Nobody's saying no to free booze. One by one, guys start dragging themselves toward the showers, laughing, still groaning like their legs don't work.
I peel off my elbow pads, glance to my left where Kentaro's sitting beside me. "You coming tonight?"
He smirks, shaking his head. "Can't, bro. Gotta study tonight. Stupid Philo class tomorrow—prof loves those damn pop quizzes."
"Man, you kill me." I let out a dramatic sigh, slapping my knee.
"You make it sound like you're the only student on this team. We've all got classes, genius. You ever think about living a little? Having fun? 'Cause I swear, you desperately need it."
Kentaro just chuckles, calm as ever. "Maybe some other time."
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He's been saying some other time since the day he got here. Spoiler: some other time never comes.
Kentaro strips down slow, gear hitting the floor piece by piece, until he's just in his boxers.
And yeah — unfair doesn't even cover it.
Tan skin, lean muscle, every line cut like he's been sculpted for a damn fitness magazine.
Shoulders broad, chest solid, stomach tight enough you could bounce a puck off it.
He bends to grab his pads, and yeah — I catch myself jerking back, whistling.
"Nice ass."
The room cracks up.
If girls ever got a look at this? Game over. They already lose it over his permanent scowl — throw that ass in the mix and they'd go feral.
Kentaro just shakes his head, chuckling. "Shut up."
"America's ass!" Cody yells.
"Put it away before somebody gets hurt," Reese groans.
"Shit," Pete chimes in from the floor, not even lifting his head. "No wonder girls follow him around campus."
Kentaro just shakes his head, grinning as he grabs his towel. "You idiots done yet?"
"Not even close," I shoot back, still smirking. "That ass deserves its own banner."
The chirping rolls on until Kentaro flicks his towel at me, muttering, "Clowns. All of you," before heading toward the showers.
*****
La Playa is ours for over an hour, and it looks like a bomb went off — shot glasses scattered like landmines, half-eaten nachos sagging in the middle of the table, and my teammates laughing like hyenas who just discovered fire.
A couple of the guys are already half-gone.
Rourke slouches so low in his chair he looks like he's trying to melt into the floor, mumbling a love song to his beer.
Tristan's got that glassy stare, like his brain has clocked out but his body's still on autopilot, chewing on lime wedges like they're candy.
But hell, after the grind we went through at practice, we need this. Correction — we deserve this. You skate suicides for two hours straight and tell me you wouldn't want to drown in tequila after.
The draft comes up like it always does lately. Six Ridgewater boys went first round back in June. Six. No other school touched that number. Five of them already graduated this year. And then there's me.
Cody, wedged between Elijah and me, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder hard enough to make my teeth click. "To our boy Zach! Florida freakin' Panthers, baby!"
The table breaks into whistles and cheers, a couple pounding on the wood like they're calling last call for the apocalypse.
Tristan leans across with a sloppy grin, pointing between me and Elijah. "Man, that's wild. Elijah got scooped up by Florida last year, and now they take Zach too? You two are literally gonna be Panthers together. That's insane."
The whole table erupts again, beer bottles lifted like a hockey crowd after a hat trick.
Elijah just chuckles, shaking his head like we're all idiots, and raises his bottle toward me. I smirk and clink mine against his.
Can't lie — it feels good. Surreal, even. I've been skating with Elijah since peewee. We survived Ridgewater together, and now... NHL teammates. The same team. Florida freakin' Panthers. Back-to-back Stanley Cup champions.
And honestly? I can't picture lining up against him. Not 'cause he's a beast — though he is. It's just... after years of playing side by side, our game is wired together. Like muscle memory. We know each other's next move before even making it.
"Zach's just happy he doesn't have to eat Elijah's slapshots in practice anymore," Cody snorts, and the table cracks up again.
"Please," I shoot back, rolling my eyes. "I've been carrying his ass since peewee. Panthers are lucky they're getting the full package now."
Elijah barks a laugh. "Carrying me? Bro, the only thing you've carried since peewee is your ego. And even that's too heavy for you."
We crack up, bottles clinking again, this time harder, like we're trying to break the glass.
My eyes drift across the table to the twins. Of course they've each got a puck bunny planted on their lap — Nikki draped all over Liam, Chanel hanging off Luke. Two of the most well-known bunnies on campus, like it's their damn job. They don't just show up at games; they follow the team everywhere.
It's gotten to the point where them showing up at the Pond feels less like visiting and more like they've got some premium membership. Costco Wholesale vibes — walk in, get loaded up, and they've basically sampled half the roster.
Liam leans in close to Nikki's ear, one hand twirling a strand of her hair slow, while the other is bold as hell, cupping her ass right there at the table. Whispering some bullshit to get inside her pants.
Knowing Liam, he's not asking. He's flat-out telling her they should sneak into the bar's restroom. His lips graze her ear, a quick nip that makes her shiver.
He leans back just enough to catch her face and grins wider — cocky bastard knows he's got her. He doesn't even have to work hard for it. Puck bunnies are way too easy to get laid.
Nikki shoots up from her chair, tugging at his arm like she can't drag him fast enough.
Sex is written all over her face — like she just won the damn lottery finally bagging one of the Archer twins.
Liam pushes back his chair, and without a word, cuts his eyes to the side. Luke meets his eyes and gives the smallest nod, like yeah, he knows exactly where his twin's headed.
Luke shifts his attention back to the girl glued to his lap, lips swollen from the way she was eating his face a second ago. Lipstick's smeared across his jaw like a damn marker. She's purring all over him, nails dragging across his chest like she's trying to leave scratches.
"I'll be cheering for you on Friday, baby," she murmurs, eyes half-shut, voice dripping like syrup, "wearing nothing but your jersey. Just your number stretched over me, nothing under..." Her hand's crawling all over his chest, like she's trying to climb inside his skin.
"So, when you win, you can rip it off and fuck me right after."
Luke just grins — cocky, quiet. Doesn't need to say shit. That smirk tells me he's already picturing it.