CHAPTER thirty-five #10
You see, I lost her once. Because I was an idiot. Immature. Too busy selling an image to notice I was hurting the only girl who ever mattered to me.
But not anymore.
I'm done hiding. I'm done pretending.
So here it is—my pride, my so-called rep, the whole fake player act? Torched. All of it. Because I want her to see the real me: That I, Zach Westbrook, co-captain of the Ridgewater Warriors, am shamelessly, hopelessly, ridiculously in love with my best friend, Caroline Pennington."
A blinding spotlight snaps on—right where I'm sitting.
Every head in the arena swivels toward me.
"Oh my God," I mutter, immediately throwing a hand over my face.
My soul is trying to eject itself from my body. Beside me, Sam's snickering like she just witnessed divine comedy.
"This is me putting it out there for everyone to see," Zach's voice booms over the speakers. "My public declaration of love—for you, Sugarplum."
He grins at the camera, sheepish but still cocky enough to make half the arena swoon.
"Now, I know you hate being the center of attention—especially in a crowd like this—but just indulge this lovesick side of me this once and let me pour my whole heart out right here, right now, so everybody knows how crazy I am about you, okay? "
He winks.
Another tidal wave of squeals ripples through the crowd.
Every neuron in my brain is short-circuiting, while that idiot just keeps smiling that dumb, heart-melting smile like this is the most romantic thing ever.
I'm going to kill him! After I crawl into a hole and die first.
I swear I can feel the heat of female rage aimed directly at me. It's like being caught in a laser show of jealousy—if laser beams were made of side-eyes and murderous intent.
Then, with perfect timing, Zach smirks and says,
"So... ARE YOU READY FOR IT?"
The jumbotron flickers again.
And suddenly, the speakers explode with the opening beat of "...Ready For It?" The bass shakes the entire arena as lights pulse back on, painting everything in flashing red and white.
The crowd roars.
My heart's pounding so hard it's practically vibrating out of my chest. Every nerve in me is alive with dread, awe, and something dangerously close to excitement.
The Zamboni's still circling lazily across the rink, but no one's watching it. Every eye in this arena—including mine—is glued to the screen, waiting to see what Zach Westbrook does next.
The pep band hits the first few notes, and my heart drops straight into my stomach.
No. Freaking. Way.
That's You Belong With Me.
And before my brain can process the absurdity of it all—Zach's voice booms through the speakers.
CHAPTER thirty-two
CAROLINE
The entire arena gasps. Heads whip around, phones shoot up, and then the spotlight swings to the top of the bleachers.
And there he is. Zach freaking Westbrook.
Still in full gear—minus the helmet and stick—standing like he owns the damn place.
One gloved hand holding a mic, the other running through his messy hair like he's on the cover of some hockey-themed romance novel. His grin? Bright enough to make the rink lights feel redundant.
Then he starts singing.
Loud. Off-key. And painfully confident.
The first words of You Belong With Me echo through the arena, and it's like my whole body glitches—somewhere between laughter, disbelief, and a full-on heart attack.
The crowd goes insane.
Girls are screaming, phones flashing, half the bleachers on their feet already.
Some are shrieking his name like he's a rockstar; others are laughing, hands over their mouths. It's chaos—beautiful, ridiculous chaos—and right in the middle of it is Zach, looking like he's having the time of his life.
He doesn't care that he sounds like he gargled gravel before walking out here. He's grinning through every offbeat note, moving down the steps like it's his personal stage.
And I just stand there, completely frozen, heart pounding so hard it's a miracle the entire arena can't hear it too.
Because somehow—despite the noise, the lights, the sheer insanity of it all—it's only him I see.
He hits the next part of the song, completely mangling the pitch but nailing the energy.
"But she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts!"
He points to himself, doing this dramatic little hip pop and pretending to flick imaginary hair over his shoulder—then spins, jabbing a finger straight toward me in the stands.
The crowd erupts.
"She's Cheer Captain, and I'm on the bleachers!"
He actually kneels on one step, beating his fist against his chest like he's performing a tragic Broadway number, and a group of girls behind him shriek like they've just been proposed to.
My mouth drops open. He's insane. Absolutely insane.
By the time he reaches, "Dreaming about the day when you wake up and find that what you're looking for has been here the whole time," he's grinning right at me—no, through me.
Every word, every goofy, offbeat gesture, every deliberately over-the-top wink—it's all for me.
And God help me, I laugh. I can't not.
It bursts out, unfiltered and helpless, somewhere between horror and complete adoration. Because this is Zach in his purest form—loud, shameless, making a fool of himself, and somehow still managing to look stupidly hot while doing it.
The crowd starts singing along, the whole arena vibrating with laughter and cheers. Even the Ridgewater pep band joins in, horns and drums echoing across the rink like they've been rehearsing this madness all week.
Zach struts his way halfway down the bleachers, microphone raised high, and when the chorus hits.
"If you could see that I'm the one who understands you..."—he points at himself, then right at me.
Phones flash everywhere, catching him mid-grin, and my heart just free-falls.
Because the way he's looking at me?
It's the same way he always used to—like I'm the only person in the world who exists right now.
And maybe that's why, despite every ounce of embarrassment flooding my veins, I find myself quietly singing along too.
The crowd's still going wild when the music cuts, leaving only the echo of Zach's voice and my heart doing Olympic gymnastics in my chest. He's grinning—sweaty, flushed, and stupidly handsome—and for a second, I actually forget how to breathe.
Then he lifts the mic again, eyes locked on me.
"You once told me," he says, his voice echoing through the speakers, "that you kept singing this song to me—hoping one day I'd realize you were in love with me. That I'd finally look at you and see you. That I'd figure out I belonged to no one but you.."
He starts moving—slow, unhurried steps down the bleachers, every stride pulling him closer.
"I'm sorry," he goes on, "I didn't get that you were trying to tell me how you felt about me all those times you sang it. I thought you just... really liked that song."
A few people laugh.
I roll my eyes at him.
"I should have known that song was your love letter to me."
He's getting closer—close enough that I can see the tiny dimple at the corner of his grin, but still just out of reach.
"I know this might be a few years too late," he says, voice dipping low and teasing, "but like every love letter, it deserves a proper reply."
My brows knit, confusion bubbling up.
What is he—
Zach chuckles when he sees my face, that mix of charm and mischief written all over him. Then he glances toward the pep band and gives a little flick of his wrist—a silent cue.
A heartbeat later, the opening chords of You Are In Love float through the arena.
The crowd starts humming along automatically, a few even swaying.
He starts singing, and for a split second, I think I imagined it wrong, but—
"Time moved too fast,
we play it back,
You in my jersey, spinning 'round—I laughed...
Late-night talks, your head on my chest
No proof, not much
But I saw enough."
The air catches in my throat. My pulse stutters.
He changed the lyrics.
Dozens of confused heads tilt upward. The people who were ready to belt the next line are suddenly mid-breath, blinking at each other like, wait, what?
Sam snorts beside me, covering her mouth. "Oh my God... he changed the lyrics."
"You kept that heart-shaped locket,
The one I gave before prom night,
Said it wasn't much, but you wore it like gold..."
Someone in the crowd shouts, "THAT'S NOT HOW IT GOES!"
But he just flashes a grin, unbothered, voice cracking spectacularly on the next line.
And me? I'm trying not to cry.
Because every word he's singing... it's ours. Our memories.
"That night, we almost kissed,
One step, not much—
But it said enough."
My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to break free. Each line digs deeper, threading through every memory I've tried not to replay—prom night, late-night talks, that stupid locket.
I press a hand to my chest, a shaky breath escaping.
God, I can still see him that night—nervous, hopeful, like giving me that silly little necklace was the most important thing he'd ever do.
And that almost-kiss that still makes my stomach twist in regret every time I think about it.
I blink rapidly, but the tears still find their way to the corners of my eyes. My pulse is thunder in my ears.
His voice is all over the place—off-key, breathy—but there's so much honesty in it that it hurts. Every note drags my heart through the past and sets it ablaze all over again.
And just like that—he's walking toward me and with every inch he closes between us, the air gets thinner.
It's like the world's collapsed into this single moment, this single heartbeat—his and mine, out of sync and yet somehow perfectly aligned.
By the time he reaches the first chorus, he's right there—only a few feet away. Close enough that I can see the faint flush across his cheeks, the glint of sweat at his temple, the curve of that stupidly charming grin that always undoes me.
"I can hear it in the silence,
I can feel it on the way home,
I can see it with the lights out,
I am in love...
True love...
I am in love."