CHAPTER thirty-five #11
My heart isn't beating anymore—it's sprinting, cartwheeling, doing triple axels and landing none of them. My stomach feels like it's hosting a full-blown carnival of butterflies.
He's looking right at me when he sings I am in love, and my entire body goes weightless, like gravity just... gave up.
I try to smile, to breathe, to exist, but it's useless.
Because this—him, this moment—it's everything I once dreamed about and everything I swore I'd stopped wanting, crashing back all at once.
"One night I woke, strange look on my face
Paused, then said, 'You're my best friend,'
But it hit me then—"
His voice cracks again, and someone in the stands actually yells, "IT'S OKAY, BABY, WE STILL LOVE YOU!" which makes the entire student section laugh and cheer.
"As I watched you sleep, heard your heartbeat,
Traced the freckles the sun would find,
That every quiet moment led me here—
It's always been you, all this time.
And I knew what it was—
I am in love."
My lips tremble and something in my chest just... breaks open.
Because I get it now.
This isn't just him singing.
It's him telling me.
That all those years ago—when I thought I was the only one feeling it—he'd felt it too.
And somehow, I know he means it.
He's always loved me.
Always seen me.
The tears come before I can stop them, slipping down hot and shameless.
Zach's right there. He doesn't hesitate—his glove still half-on, his fingers brushing gently at the corner of my eyes, wiping away the mess I've become.
His eyes are shining too, like he's barely holding himself together.
And that's it.
I'm gone. Absolutely gone.
He could've told me the sky was purple and I'd believe him.
He could've asked me to walk onto the ice barefoot and I'd do it.
Because right now, I'm not in a hockey arena.
I'm in high school again, falling for the boy who made me believe in forever.
And somehow, impossibly, he's looking at me like he's still there too.
He keeps singing, voice softening...
"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
You're my best friend
My first home
And I—I am in love."
The last note trembles through the speakers before fading completely.
For a moment, the arena holds its breath. It's just us—his forehead resting gently against mine, his breath warm, his gaze so impossibly soft it feels like it's holding me together.
And then—chaos.
The crowd explodes. Screams, cheers, phones in the air, people on their feet.
Sam's shrieking somewhere beside me.
Zach and I both glance around—dozens of faces staring, some in awe, others filming, a few doing slow claps like we just pulled off a Broadway finale.
He laughs, the sound low and breathless. I can't help it; I laugh too. It's ridiculous and perfect and completely mortifying.
Then he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. Soft. Tender. The kind that steals every ounce of oxygen from the room.
The crowd loses its collective mind.
"KISS! KISS! KISS!"
The chant starts small, then spreads like wildfire until the whole arena's shaking with it.
My face burns. Zach's cheeks are pink too, but there's that smug grin tugging at his mouth—he's loving every second of this.
"He serenaded you, kiss him already!" someone yells.
Another voice joins: "Give the man what he earned!"
Then a third: "That's our co-captain! Don't leave him hanging!"
Zach lifts both shoulders, eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling with mischief.
He mouths, What should we do about this?
I narrow my eyes at him, muttering under my breath, "Don't act like you're not enjoying this, Westbrook."
His grin widens, cocky and sweet all at once. "Oh, trust me, baby," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear, "I'm really enjoying this."
The chant doesn't die down. If anything, it gets louder—"KISS! KISS! KISS!" echoing through the arena like a stadium anthem.
And of course, Zach, being the menace he is, decides to encourage them.
He raises one hand, grinning like a devil in hockey gear, egging them on with an exaggerated pump of his fist. "You heard 'em..." he says, his smile pure, infuriating showmanship.
I groan. "You're impossible."
He only smirks, winking down at me, mouthing, Come on, Sugarplum. Don't leave me hanging.
The crowd screams even louder.
And that's when I do it.
Before I can second-guess myself—before my brain even catches up—I reach up and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It's soft. Fast. Barely there.
But the second my lips brush his skin, he freezes.
Completely.
His eyes go wide, like someone just told him Christmas came early.
Then—slowly, gloriously—his whole face lights up, so radiant it could outshine the arena lights themselves.
He looks like he's been hit by pure sunlight. Like his body forgot how to process joy in normal doses and is now overdosing on it.
When his gaze snaps back to me, his smile is so wide it's absurd—like a guy who just scored the winning goal, discovered the Holy Grail, and got kissed by his best friend all in the same breath.
The crowd erupts again, shrieking, stomping, clapping.
And Zach? He just laughs—loud, boyish, disbelieving—still touching his cheek like he can't believe it happened.
Before I can even process what I just did, movement catches my eye.
The crowd parts like something straight out of a cheesy rom-com, and suddenly, the Ridgewater Warriors' mascot—a massive green gator in a hockey helmet and oversized skates—comes waddling down the aisle.
And in its stubby arms?
A bouquet. A massive one.
Soft blush roses, creamy white tulips, pink carnations, and tiny daisy-like blooms, all wrapped in brown craft paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon. The flowers look fresh and dewy, like they were just picked from a dream garden.
The gator stops right in front of us, does an exaggerated bow, and hands the bouquet to Zach.
Zach laughs, clapping the mascot on the back. "Thanks, buddy," he says into the mic, still catching his breath from all the chaos. Then he turns to me, eyes bright and so full of affection it knocks the air right out of me.
"I love you, Caroline Pennington," he says, his voice steady but soft enough to make the entire arena melt.
He pauses—smiling that crooked, heart-wrecking smile. "Forever and always."
My heart skips. No—it detonates.
Pretty sure it's no longer functioning properly. Someone might need to call medical.
He holds the bouquet out to me, and I take it with trembling hands. The scent hits instantly—sweet, floral, and a little citrusy, like sunshine in petal form.
God, even the flowers smell romantic. Typical Zach.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice embarrassingly small.
He grins wider, eyes softening. For a heartbeat, it feels like the world's shrunk to just us again.
But then—the arena horn blares, snapping the moment in two.
Time's up. Intermission over.
Zach glances toward the rink, then back at me, that boyish smirk returning as he starts backing away. "Keep cheering for me, Sugarplum," he calls out, his voice echoing through the mic.
"And wait for me after the game, okay?"
I nod, completely useless at forming words.
He winks—because of course he does—before turning and jogging toward the tunnel to rejoin his team.
The crowd erupts again, still chanting his name.
And I just stand there, flowers in hand, heart somewhere between my throat and the rafters—grinning like a complete idiot.
CHAPTER thirty-three
CAROLINE
After checking on Mom and saying good night to her and Dad, I finally decide to treat myself to a much-needed warm bath.
I toss in a few rose-scented bath salts—probably too many, but who's counting?
—and watch as the water clouds into a soft pink swirl that smells like an entire garden exploded in it.
The moment I sink in, a sigh rips out of me. My muscles ache in places I didn't even know existed. Who knew cheering can feel like a full-body workout?
My throat's sore from screaming, my calves are staging a rebellion from all the jumping, and I'm pretty sure my shoulders got more action than Zach's stick tonight.
Still, it was all so worth it. The Ridgewater Warriors took home a 4–2 win, and the energy inside that arena could've powered the entire campus grid.
Plus, there was the two-hour drive back to Naples right after the game.
Zach had insisted on driving—because apparently, a promise is sacred when it comes to him. He'd made that whole chauffeur deal sound like a binding contract, and no amount of reasoning could sway him.
I told him he didn't need to drive me all the way back, that I was already happy I'd gone, that the night was perfect just as it was.
Besides, there was no way I was letting him drive two hours to Naples after a full game. He'd been on the ice for nearly three hours—skating, checking, crashing into boards. I bet his body ached more than mine did now.
So I took the keys before he could argue again—and honestly, it was the least I could do.
What I didn't say was that I was terrified of spending two hours alone with him in a car. Confined space, no escape route, and my brain still replaying his ridiculous yet stupidly romantic stunt from intermission on a loop?
Yeah, hard pass.
Even now, three hours later, the memory has me sinking lower into the water, my entire body buzzing like a live wire.
The way he'd looked at me while singing—off-key, off-beat, completely unashamed—God, my chest squeezes just thinking about it. His grin, that wink, the way his voice cracked mid-verse... how is it that something so chaotic could feel so perfect?
I press a wet hand over my face, groaning into my palm. "Get a grip, Caroline," I mutter, though the smile stretching my lips betrays me.
The drive home wasn't nearly as awkward as I'd feared, though.
He'd barely made it five minutes before "falling asleep"—head tilted, mouth slightly open, the picture of innocence. But something tells me he wasn't really out cold. Zach's too self-aware for that.