CHAPTER thirty-five #8
She's standing there, drowning in my jersey, and it does something to me—something primal, possessive, electric. Every inch of me goes on high alert.
Fantastic. I'm about three seconds from making a complete fool of myself in full gear.
I try to shake it off—literally. I roll my shoulders, flex my grip on the stick, anything to remind my body that this is not the time to be acting like a hormonal teenager. Deep breath in. Out. Think cold thoughts. Ice. Pucks. Coach Hopper's murder stare.
Nope—none of it's working.
So what do I do instead? Skate straight toward her, obviously.
"Sugarplum!" I yell, loud enough to rattle the glass. "Hey, Sugarplum!"
A few heads whip in my direction, but do I care? Not even a little. I wave like a maniac—full arm, side-to-side, borderline mascot energy—grinning so wide it probably shows through my cage.
"Caroline!" I shout again, dragging her name out like a lovesick seal.
I skate right up to the boards just as she and Sam are making their way down the stairs toward their row.
I tap my stick against the glass—tap, tap, tap—like a damn woodpecker on espresso. "I'm right here! Hi! Hey, Caroline!" I call out, waving both arms like I'm trying to flag down a plane.
Sam spots me first, instantly losing the battle with her laughter. She's clutching her stomach, shaking her head.
Caroline, on the other hand? Pretending I don't exist. Which, frankly, just makes this more fun.
She sits down, hand over her face like she's either praying for divine intervention or plotting my murder.
"Oh, come on, Sugarplum!" I call again, skating past the bench and waving both arms over my head like I'm directing traffic. "You're supposed to wave back! That's, like, the law of physics or something!"
That gets a few laughs from the crowd. Even Sam's doubled over, and I swear I see Caroline's shoulders shaking too. Pretty sure she's smiling behind that hand.
Still not looking at me though.
Do I stop? Absolutely not.
If she thinks ignoring me's gonna work, she clearly forgot who she's dealing with—Zach Westbrook: world-class pest, reigning champ of bad ideas, and hopeless fool for one girl.
I tap my stick against the glass again. "Caroline! Baby! Hi! You look so amazing, by the way!"
That does it. Sam's trying—and failing—to keep a straight face, while Caroline keeps her hand glued to her face.
"Sugarplum!" I call again. "Come on, just one look. That's all I'm asking!"
Finally, she drops her hand, glares straight at me—and God, she's adorable. That glare could melt the rink.
She mouths, quit it, and for a split second, I swear she's fighting a smile.
Before I can even open my mouth again, two pairs of arms hook under mine and start hauling me backward.
"Alright, come on, lover boy," Luke grunts.
"Yeah, Romeo," Liam adds, dragging me toward the bench. "Save that for later."
I'm still grinning like lovesick fool as they pull me away, twisting around just to catch one last look at her. "Don't forget to cheer for me, Sugarplum!" I yell, earning a few laughs from the crowd.
Totally worth it.
CHAPTER thirty-one
CAROLINE
If there's one thing hockey girls should get a warning label for, it's this: Dryland warm-ups are a public safety hazard.
The moment the Ridgewater Warriors start their pre-game stretch, the crowd goes feral.
The stands explode into squeals, shrieks, and some noises that are probably illegal in several states.
Everywhere I look, there's a girl clutching her phone, zooming in like she's filming a documentary called The Male Species: A Study in Hip Flexibility.
And honestly? I don't blame them.
And front and center? Zach Westbrook—stick in hand, one knee down on the ice, the other bent forward—drops into that hip-flexor stretch that should honestly come with a public-indecency warning.
He leans into it, steady, shoulders rolling, hips shifting just enough to make every girl in the stands collectively forget how to breathe.
My brain malfunctions on the spot—like someone just unplugged every rational thought I had.
Because what the hell is that move, and why does it look like it belongs in an R-rated version of a yoga class?
He's not even trying, but the way his back arches and his stick drags lightly across the ice—it's obscene. My subconscious is screaming to look away, but my eyes? Yeah, they've staged a coup. I'm frozen, pulse hammering, thighs pressed together like that'll help.
Spoiler: it doesn't.
Because the way he moves—controlled, powerful, deliberate—should be illegal this early in the evening.
I try to look away. Really, I do. My brain's yelling, eyes up, Caroline—don't be that girl.
But my traitorous eyeballs have other plans.
I look at the jumbotron. Then the crowd. Then at Sam's half-eaten popcorn for emotional support. Yet somehow, I end up right back where I started—on Zach.
It's like my gaze is magnetic, or cursed, or both.
It's not that deep, I tell myself. He's just stretching. It's normal. Every player does that.
Except no other player looks like that doing it.
My rational brain is waving a white flag while the rest of me is sitting front-row at the Zach Westbrook Appreciation Show.
Then there's the Archer twins.
Apparently subtlety isn't in their vocabulary.
They're doing the same hip-flexor stretch as Zach—but leave it to Luke and Liam to turn it into a synchronized thirst trap. The way they drop into position, all slow and deliberate, hips rolling just a little too smoothly... yeah, they know exactly what they're doing.
Their fan section goes absolutely feral—screaming, waving signs, phones out like it's a concert.
I shake my head. "Unbelievable," I mutter under my breath, though it's hard not to laugh.
But when my gaze drifts back to Zach, any trace of composure I had evaporates.
He's flat on his back, stick angled right under him, legs opening and closing in slow, lazy intervals.
A shiver runs straight through me, heat curling low in my stomach as I squeeze my thighs together under the bleachers.
For the love of caffeine and self-control, this is supposed to be warm-ups, not foreplay on ice.
I grab the game pamphlet sitting next to me and start fanning myself. It does absolutely nothing. My face is on fire, my neck's prickling, and I'm pretty sure my internal thermostat just short-circuited.
Is it just me, or did the rink's AC give up on life?
Because last I checked, hockey arenas were supposed to feel like Antarctica, not like the seventh circle of Oh God, he's stretching again.
I glance around, trying to play it cool, but the girls behind me are shrieking every time the players move, so clearly I'm not the only one fighting for my sanity. Still, my pulse refuses to calm down. I'm sweating in an ice rink. That should be a medical anomaly.
Maybe I should ask the staff to check the temperature—or better yet, myself for delusion.
The sharp blare of the horn slices through the chaos, jolting me out of my own personal heatstroke.
Finally. Thank God.
Air rushes back into my lungs like I've been holding it for the past five minutes—which, honestly, I probably have.
Down on the ice, the atmosphere changes in an instant. The teasing, the smirks, the showboating—all gone.
Like someone flipped a switch.
Every player straightens, helmets on, focus locked. The teasing, the smirks, the exaggerated stretches—they all vanish in the blink of an eye. The Ridgewater Warriors aren't a bunch of college heartthrobs anymore. They're predators in matching jerseys.
Kentaro skates backward into his crease, tapping his stick twice on each post before crouching low—cool, collected, unreadable behind the mask.
The Archer twins take their spots on defense, knocking their sticks together once, like some silent twin telepathy ritual.
Zach glides to the left wing, shoulders loose but eyes sharp, the edge of his blade tracing lazy circles on the ice. Cody takes the right wing, cracking his neck, muttering something to Elijah.
And Elijah—team captain, center forward, human embodiment of control—leans in for the faceoff. Across from him, the opposing team's center mirrors the motion, both crouched low, heads tilted, the tension stretching so tight you could cut it with a skate blade.
The ref steps up between them, puck held aloft. The entire rink goes still.
Then—clang.
The puck hits the ice, and all hell breaks loose.
Elijah's stick flashes first, knocking the puck cleanly to Zach, who's already moving. One seamless motion—like they rehearsed this a thousand times. Zach pivots, carving a sharp turn, and rockets down the left side.
The crowd erupts, the sound ricocheting off the glass. The Warriors are in control within seconds, every pass crisp, every movement clean.
The game's only just begun, but it's clear who owns the ice tonight.
Ten minutes in, and the scoreboard's still glaring 0–0.
But it's not for lack of trying.
Zach and Elijah have been relentless—darting across the ice like they share a brain. Zach weaving down the wing, Elijah setting him up with clean, surgical passes that should have been goals—if Northpoint's defense weren't a pack of vultures.
Their defensemen—especially number 24—are everywhere, breaking up plays, throwing sticks in passing lanes, blocking shots like it's the Olympics.
"God, this is intense," Sam mutters beside me, her fingers tightening around her cup. "Feels more like a street fight than a game."
"That's because it basically is," I say, unable to look away as Zach collides shoulder-first with a Northpoint player twice his size. The smack echoes across the rink.
"Northpoint's out for blood tonight. They've already racked up, what—three penalties?"
"Four," I snap, eyes glued to the ice. "And Ridgewater's not exactly saints — Cody and Luke are sitting in the box for roughing."