CHAPTER thirty-five #9
Sam leans in, but I don't hear her. Number 24 just clipped Zach hard along the boards and skates away with this stupid, satisfied tilt to his chin — all smug like he just delivered a courtesy check. Seeing that little smug victory dance makes me see red.
I clamp my hands into fists until my knuckles blanch, trying to force my lungs to slow. I can feel my jaw working like a trap about to snap; every muscle in my neck buzzes with heat.
Breathe, I tell myself, like it's a command.
If I could, I'd march down there, yank him off his skates, and throttle him.
On the ice, the tension's crackling like static.
Elijah wins the faceoff at center, snapping the puck clean to Liam, who threads it across to Zach.
He takes off—fast, fluid, laser-focused—but before he can even line up the shot, Northpoint's number 24 comes barreling in and slams him hard into the boards.
The entire rink gasps, a ripple of outrage echoing through the stands. Zach's shoulder hits the glass with a dull thud, and I swear the boards shudder. He doesn't fall—of course he doesn't—but still, that was dirty.
"That's a penalty!" Sam blurts, half-rising from her seat.
"Holy crap, that was brutal," she adds as Zach straightens, jaw tight beneath his helmet.
But the ref's whistle stays silent. Not even a damn call.
Elijah's already there in a flash, skating up to Zach and gripping his shoulder like you good? but his glare's fixed on the ref. Liam and Cody join in seconds later, voices rising above the crowd's noise.
"Are you kidding me?" Elijah shouts, throwing his hands up, stick clattering against the ice. "That's interference! He didn't even have the puck!"
The ref skates past with that infuriating blank expression—like he didn't just watch Zach get body-checked halfway to next week. Liam jabs a finger toward number 24, who's gliding away all smug, while Zach waves them off, muttering something under his breath as he straightens.
Coach Hopper's yelling from the bench too, arms spread wide, demanding a call that never comes.
The crowd's booing now, a low rumble shaking the bleachers.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" I'm on my feet before I realize it, one hand pointing furiously toward the ice. "HEY, REF! You blind or just collecting bribes today? That was interference—open your eyes!"
A few heads turn. Do I stop? Absolutely not.
"And YOU!" I jab my finger at number 24, who has the audacity to skate past the bench looking all smug.
"Yeah, you, cheap-shotting wannabe enforcer! Try winning a puck clean for once! Or is tripping people the only move you know?"
He glances over, glaring like I've just personally insulted his entire bloodline, and I don't even stop there.
"Keep hiding behind dirty hits, big man! Must be exhausting pretending that's skill!"
A low murmur breaks out across the section. Some people laugh, others clap, a few look at me like I've lost my mind. Down on the ice, Zach glances up mid-stride—helmet tilted, grin spreading so wide I can practically feel it from here.
And then—because of course he would—he lifts his gloved hand and sends me an exaggerated wink... followed by a flying kiss. Right there. In front of everyone.
The crowd erupts.
Oh my God. He's incorrigible.
I freeze, slowly realizing half the bleachers are looking right at me—some giggling, others straight-up whispering.
Fantastic. I'm that girl now.
I drop back into my seat, face on fire, muttering under my breath. "Great job, Caroline. Very subtle. Next time just bring a megaphone and confess your undying love while you're at it."
Beside me, Sam's grinning like the devil. "You done defending your husband's honor, Mrs. Westbrook?"
"Shut up," I hiss, crossing my arms and sinking lower into my seat.
By the time the second period starts, the energy's shifted completely. The Warriors look sharper—more locked in. Whatever Coach Hopper said in the locker room clearly worked, because in the first five minutes, they bury two goals.
Elijah nails the first one with a laser from the slot, thanks to a clean setup from Liam and Cody. The second comes minutes later—Zach takes a perfect feed from Elijah, cuts through Northpoint's defense like it's nothing, and fires it top shelf. The puck snaps against the net, and the arena erupts.
The stands are shaking. The Ridgewater crowd's on their feet, roaring. Even Sam's shrieking beside me, clutching my arm.
"Two–zero! Let's go, Eli baby!" she yells, jumping like the world's happiest cheerleader.
I can't help it—I'm grinning too. The tension from earlier's gone, replaced by pure adrenaline. Every pass, every shot, every hit feels electric.
And just when it seems like the period's winding down, Zach snatches a loose puck near center ice—breakaway.
The whole arena holds its breath. He speeds down the rink, one-on-one with the goalie. A quick deke, a sharp wrist shot—goal.
The horn blares, the crowd explodes. Sam and I are up on our feet again, screaming ourselves hoarse as the scoreboard flashes 3–0 RIDGEWATER.
Zach pumps a fist in the air before turning back toward the bench, grinning like a maniac as his teammates swarm him. My heart's still racing when they finally skate off toward the tunnel, the sound of sticks tapping on the ice echoing all the way down the hall.
A second later, the Zamboni rumbles out, the crowd still crackling with post-goal excitement.
"I forgot how fun this feels," I say, still a little breathless. "The crowd, the noise, the rush—God, I missed this."
Sam laughs, bumping my shoulder. "Told you. There's no high like game-night energy. It's basically free therapy with screaming."
"I know!" I grin, grabbing my cup of iced tea because my throat's sandpaper from yelling so much. I take a long sip, sighing. "I forgot how wild it gets. It's like... instant serotonin."
Sam eyes me, smirking. "So what I'm hearing is... you're officially coming to more games?"
I roll my eyes, pretending to think about it. "Maybe. Not every game though. I'm already dying with my current schedule, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah," she waves it off. "Just saying—it's nice seeing you here again. Feels like old times. You, me, screaming our lungs out cheering for my Eli and my brother."
I shake my head, smiling.
Sam's grin softens a little. "He's playing so good tonight. Like—really good. Haven't seen him like this in a long time."
I glance toward the rink, curious. "He's always good, though."
"Yeah, but this feels different," Sam says.
"The last few years while you were gone, Zach played like a man possessed—rough, short-fused, always the first to drop gloves or start something, getting penalties left and right.
Mom and I used to joke he was one suspension away from getting kicked off the team. "
She pauses, eyes flicking back toward the ice where the Zamboni glides past.
"But tonight? He's got that old spark back—he's grinning, being playful. That's the Zach I remember from high school. It's like he's actually having fun again, like he remembered why he fell in love with the game in the first place."
Sam elbows me lightly, that teasing grin creeping back.
"You know what I think? That shift has you written all over it. His original cheerleader's back—watching him play, cheering for him again... and suddenly, he's all inspired."
I blow out a little puff of air, half a laugh, half a scoff. "Yeah, right," I say, waving her off like it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.
I try to ignore it, but there's a part of me—a small, traitorous, curious part—that can't help wondering if she's right.
Still, I try to shake it off.
Sam's probably exaggerating anyway.
I haven't seen Zach play in years, so what do I know?
The Zach I remember was never the kind to play dirty or start fights. Sure, hockey gets rough—it's practically a full-contact love language—but he was always the one breaking up scrums, not throwing the first hit.
I open my mouth to tell Sam something—probably something snarky—but the lights around the rink suddenly flicker. Once. Twice. Then dim.
A wave of confused murmurs rolls through the stands as people glance around. The kiss cam that's been playing on the jumbotron glitches mid–awkward smooch, the screen crackling to static before cutting to black.
Then—boom.
Zach's face fills the entire screen.
"Hi," he says, grinning and waving. His hair's damp, tousled, and he's still in his full gear, pads and all. When he brushes a hand through that ridiculous mess of dark hair, every girl in the arena loses it. The sound that erupts could probably register on the Richter scale.
Is this... live? He's wearing the same jersey as tonight's game.
I glance at Sam, wide-eyed. "Do you know what's going on?"
She shakes her head, just as stunned. "Not a clue."
We both look back at the jumbotron just as Zach starts talking again—voice steady, eyes locked dead into the camera like he's hosting his own podcast for the romantically unhinged.
"Everyone thinks they know me. The hockey god. The guy with a body count stacked higher than a skyscraper. The one who doesn't give a damn about anything except keeping his image shiny.
Funny thing about my reputations? They're a load of crap. I'm no hockey god. Just a dude who happens to love the game—and yeah, I'm pretty decent at it.
The girls? The hookups? The body count?
Zero. Zilch. Nada. Goose egg.
Shocking, right? Bet none of you saw that one coming."
Wait. Did he just...?
Oh. My. God.
He basically told everybody that he's a freaking virgin.
Idiot. Absolute idiot!
"What is he doing?" I hiss under my breath, but the words barely make it past my lips because horror is detonating in my chest.
"And you're probably wondering why I'm dropping my 'no-holds-barred' tell-all confession in the middle of a game. Easy. Because of her. The most beautiful girl sitting in the stands wearing number nineteen.