CHAPTER thirty-five #7
Her lips twitch, and I grin, softer this time. "I just thought... it'd be nice to see you in my jersey again. Watching from the stands, cheering for me—like before."
My voice dips. "I still remember how you were the loudest one out there."
For a moment, her expression shifts—her eyes softening, something wistful flickering there.
"I did used to go a little overboard," she admits, a small laugh escaping her. "Especially when people talked crap about you."
I smirk. "Oh, trust me. I heard you."
She rolls her eyes, smiling despite herself. "I wasn't that bad."
"You literally told a guy to 'get his eyes checked' when he said I couldn't score."
Her mouth drops open. "That was one time!"
"Pretty sure you also yelled at someone to 'learn the rules before running your mouth.'"
Caroline snorts, half covering her face as she laughs. "Okay, fine. Maybe two times."
"Try five," I tease, "I used to look forward to what insult you'd throw next. You made trash-talk sound... sexy."
Color creeps up her neck, painting her cheeks a soft pink. She groans, tilting her face away like she's trying to hide it, but the corner of her mouth betrays her—curling up despite her best effort.
She shakes her head, laughter bubbling in her voice. "I can't believe you actually remember that."
"How could I forget?" I shrug, my grin softening into something smaller, fonder.
"You defending me like that? That was the highlight of every game.
I'd score one goal and spend the next five minutes trying not to grin like a lovesick fool because I knew you'd be right there, ready to throw hands for me. "
Her laughter fades into a gentle smile, that same wistfulness settling between us like a quiet echo of what used to be.
"Those were good days," she murmurs.
"They were," I say, matching her tone, then add with a teasing smirk, "Maybe Saturday can be one of them again. You can remind everyone in the stands how cheering's supposed to be done."
She quirks a smile, "Yeah, I guess your fan club could use a few tips and learn from the best."
I chuckle under my breath, and she joins in, the sound soft and easy. For a moment, it's just us again—grinning, caught in that familiar pull I thought was long gone.
Then, over her shoulder, I spot Adam watching us from across the room. His script is still in his hand, but his attention sure as hell isn't on it.
A slow, smug grin tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. Not my fault the view from here's better. I keep my expression casual, though—just a polite, perfectly innocent smile. Totally harmless. Except maybe not.
Because, yeah—call me petty or whatever—but watching Adam see this?
Feels pretty damn satisfying.
*****
It's finally Saturday. Game two of the weekend series. Only less than an hour before puck drop.
The locker room's alive—music blasting, sticks tapping against benches, the smell of tape, and menthol gel thick in the air. Half the guys are laughing, chirping each other while getting their gear on. Others are zoned in, headphones on, faces locked in game mode.
We're still riding the high from last night—taking down Northpoint University, one of the toughest, most stacked D1 teams in the country. Those guys are built like tanks and skate like devils, so yeah, beating them? That felt damn good. Everyone's still buzzing from it—everyone except me.
Don't get me wrong, I'm hyped for the game... but that's not what's got my heart punching through my chest right now.
No, my nerves have nothing to do with the puck tonight—and everything to do with what I'm about to do after.
Because sometime tonight, in front of a packed arena, I'm about to pull the cheesiest stunt known to man. The kind of thing that makes people hide their faces behind their hands and mutter "secondhand embarrassment" under their breath.
And the worst part? I volunteered for it.
No one dared me. No one forced me. I actually planned it. Me. Zach freaking Westbrook—alternate captain, Mr. Too-Cool-to-Care—decided to turn the ice rink into a goddamn rom-com set.
I barely slept last night, even though my body felt like it got run over by a freight train after the Northpoint game. My ribs ache, my shoulders are screaming, but my brain wouldn't shut up. I kept replaying everything I needed to do tonight, over and over.
Was everything set? Did I forget to tell the AV team something? What if the music cues screw up? What if I trip in front of everyone?
It's not second thoughts. God, no. I've never been this sure about anything. It's just—this has to be perfect. For her.
Still, there's this little part of me that's been gnawing at my nerves all day: what if she doesn't show up? What if she changed her mind?
That thought's been eating me alive—until five minutes ago, when Sam texted me, letting me know that she's on the way to the arena with Caroline.
And just like that, some of the chaos in my chest finally settles. Not all of it—but enough to breathe again.
I pull my Ridgewater Warriors jersey over my pads, the thick fabric sticking to my skin as I tug it down. My gloves hang from the stall hook, helmet gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Around me, the guys are locked in their own rituals—Kentaro blasting metal through his earbuds, Deveraux stretching like he's auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, and the Archer twins bickering about who gets to lead the warm-up lap.
Then Coach Hopper storms in, whistle around his neck, clipboard under his arm.
The noise dies instantly.
"Alright, Warriors," he starts, voice gravelly but steady.
"Last night, we proved we can take down one of the toughest teams in Division I.
Northpoint's been a thorn in our side for three seasons straight, and you know what?
You earned that win. You fought for every puck, every hit, every goddamn inch of ice. "
A low rumble of pride rolls through the room. I can feel it in my bones—the rush of being part of something bigger.
"But that was yesterday," Coach continues, pacing in front of us. "Tonight's a new game. Don't get sloppy. Don't get cocky. Play smart, play hard, and leave nothing out there. You hear me?"
A chorus of "Yes, Coach!" echoes back.
Coach's eyes land on me for a beat too long—he knows something's up. Maybe it's the way I've been vibrating like a live wire, or maybe the fact that I've been checking my phone every ten seconds like a psycho.
"Westbrook," Coach says, voice dipping. "Keep your head in the game tonight. I need you focused—no distractions, got it?"
"Yes, sir," I say, forcing a grin.
Coach's still talking, running through last-minute plays, but my brain's already miles away.
Hopper's gonna kill me later. No question.
After what I'm about to pull tonight, I'm probably getting benched for the next game—hell, maybe the rest of the season.
But honestly?
If it means winning her back, that's a penalty I'll gladly take.
As long as it's not Caroline benching me, I can live with it.
He blows the whistle, and we all crowd up.
The locker room thrums with energy—sticks tapping the floor, gloves smacking pads. Someone yells our pre-game chant, and in seconds the whole team joins in, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.
It's loud, rough, chaotic—everything that makes you feel alive before a game.
Then the lights cut. The announcer's voice booms over the arena speakers, calling our names one by one. The door to the tunnel opens, and the world explodes into noise.
The student section is on fire—horns blaring, cowbells clanking, someone waving a ridiculous "Marry me, Westbrook!" sign that I pretend not to see.
We shoot out of the tunnel one after another, blades slicing into fresh ice. Every stride sends up a fine mist of frost under the colored spotlights. The first few seconds are just us taking quick laps—circling center ice, gloves tapping helmets in passing.
A few guys crash their sticks against the boards, the sound sharp and electric, syncing with the pounding music. Pucks start dropping across the sheet—slapshots cracking, rebounds thudding, the whole rink vibrating with adrenaline.
I'm out there too, gliding, steadying my breathing, scanning the stands. My eyes keep darting to Section 102—front-row seats just above the home bench, where the view's perfect and the noise is deafening. That's where I made sure Sam and Caroline would be sitting.
But the seats are still empty.
I stretch my neck a little higher, heart thudding harder than it should. Maybe they're just running late. Maybe traffic. Yeah. Traffic.
Still, a tiny, restless pulse of nerves keeps tapping behind my ribs. Because for all the roaring crowd, the flashing lights, the smell of ice and rubber and adrenaline—none of it really starts until I see her.
I'm still scanning the stands when Elijah skates up beside me, smacking a gloved hand on top of my helmet hard enough to make me flinch.
"Yo, Westbrook. Warm-up's not optional," he laughs, giving my head a quick, rough ruffle before gliding backward.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, straightening up. I'm just about to follow him when I see them.
Two familiar figures moving down the aisle toward our section. Sam rocking a Ridgewater jersey with Elijah's number, seventy-eight, stitched neatly on the sleeve. And beside her is Caroline.
In my jersey.
The sight hits me like a body check straight to the chest. My pulse stutters, then goes completely rogue.
She's smiling at something Sam says, brushing her hair off her shoulder, and I swear the arena lights must've teamed up with the hockey gods just to mess with me—because they're hitting her perfectly, making her glow like some kind of divine punishment for every bad thing I've ever done.
My throat goes dry. Every coherent thought I've ever had packs its bags and leaves.
My body straight-up betrays me—stomach tightens, pulse jumps, blood rushes everywhere it shouldn't.