CHAPTER fifty-four #8
Every time Tyler touches the puck, someone in a Warriors jersey is on him. Smothering, blocking, stripping, dropping him to the ice. It's like watching karma in skates.
Zach barrels into Tyler again near center ice, sending him spinning.
The crowd roars.
I scream with them, hands cupped around my mouth. "LET'S GO, BABY!"
Katie bumps my shoulder. "You're having way too much fun."
"Are you kidding?" I grin, breathless. "This is the best trip of my life."
I really wish Sam were here next to me—screaming her lungs out, stomping on the bleachers, talking trash louder than half the student section. This would've been the perfect game for it.
But she didn't come.
And Zach didn't push her to, either, even though he loves having his little sister in the stands.
Which... yeah. Says a lot.
I keep thinking about what I saw last night—Sam curled into Zach's chest out on the terrace, shaking with sobs while he held her like he was trying to shield her from the whole world.
I didn't go to them. I just quietly backed away and let them have their moment. But you don't need a degree in psychology to figure out Sam's hurting. And whatever she's hurting about... it's tied to Elijah.
A streak of motion flashes on the ice and snaps my attention forward.
Zach picks up a loose puck in the neutral zone, dodges a defender, and rockets toward the net—fast, vicious, unstoppable.
The whole arena rises to its feet.
And so do I.
Because my boy is hunting again.
And this time?
He's going to score.
Zach does score—top shelf, just under the bar, a clean sniper's shot that makes the goalie's head snap back like he didn't even see it coming.
The crowd explodes.
I scream so loud Lucy flinches beside me and Katie grabs my arm like she's being electrocuted. Even the tiny pocket of Ridgewater fans who traveled all the way to Duluth lose their minds.
But Duluth?
Oof. They look like someone unplugged their entire fanbase.
What's even better?
Tyler tries—tries—to answer back three minutes later. He gets the puck, winds up like he's about to show off, and then—BOOM.
Zach sends him flying into the boards so hard the whole section goes OOOH—! in that universally shared "holy shit" hockey gasp.
Totally legal.
Totally clean.
Totally humiliating.
Tyler hits the ice, scrambling to get up while Zach skates off like he merely wiped dust off his shoulder.
God, that's hot.
The rest of the game?
Downhill for Duluth. They can't get momentum. They can't get angles. They can't get within sniffing distance of the net without Ridgewater ripping the puck off their sticks like it's child's play.
Final score: 5–2.
Ridgewater wins.
And the boys... oh, they're feral with joy.
The whole team crams into the hotel restaurant, buzzing with the kind of wild, goofy energy you only see after breaking a four-game losing streak. Every last one of them is riding the high.
The coaches were here earlier—ate, congratulated everyone, reminded them to get some sleep for tomorrow's game... and then promptly dipped to leave the chaos behind.
Now it's mostly just the boys—plus Katie, who's shamelessly flirting with Reese, and Lucy, who's quietly melting under whatever the Archer twins are murmuring in her ear.
And then there's Zach—pressed so close to me it honestly feels like we're sharing a ribcage.
I'm pretty sure we haven't stopped touching since he walked off the ice—knees brushing, shoulders glued, his hand on my thigh under the table like it belongs there permanently.
He leans in, breath warm against my ear.
"Babe," he murmurs, voice low enough to make me shiver, "how much longer are we staying?"
"What do you mean?"
His fingers squeeze my thigh—slow. Intentional.
"I'm trying really hard not to drag you back to your room right now."
My pulse drops straight to my toes.
"Zach," I whisper, cheeks heating.
"What?" he asks innocently. "I just want to... celebrate." His thumb slides higher up my thigh, slow and claiming, like he owns the territory and he damn well knows it.
"I mean… privately."
He knows exactly what he's doing.
And exactly what it does to me.
My whole body goes molten. My brain? Gone. Useless and turned to static.
Because Zach being possessive?
Zach touching me like that?
Yeah. That's basically my Roman Empire.
Across the table, some of the rookies are arguing about whether Zach's hit on Tyler should be illegal.
"It was clean," Zach mutters into my neck.
The rest of the guys are rehashing every goal like they're ESPN analysts.
And meanwhile... Zach dips his head again, voice a sinful rumble against my jaw.
"Five minutes more," he whispers, "then I'm taking you upstairs."
My breath catches.
"Why five?"
His lips graze my ear.
"Because if I get up now, everyone here will know exactly why I'm walking out."
I choke on a laugh and smack his arm.
"Zach!"
He grins—lazy, wicked, beautiful.
His hand slides higher under the table, making my brain glitch.
"Babe," he says, like a plea and a promise at once, "I need you."
He nudges his nose along the side of my cheek—slow and soft, like he's trying to break me gently.
And it's working.
Heat flickers low in my belly, sharp and sweet, and I swear my panties is doing the equivalent of waving a tiny white flag. The room feels warmer too—like someone dimmed the lights just for us.
"Zach..." I whisper, breath catching.
"Come upstairs with me," he murmurs back, voice a deep, sinful rumble that shoots straight through me. "Please."
I'm this close—dangerously close—to saying screw it, let the twins babysit Lucy, who cares—
But I manage to choke out a laugh.
"We... we can't."
He jerks back just enough to look at me, betrayal written all over his gorgeous, ridiculous face.
"Why not?"
I tilt my head toward Lucy.
He follows my gaze...and see both Archer twins leaning in toward her like synchronized devils, elbows on the table, grinning like they're plotting her abduction.
Lucy is pink. Pink. Hands in her lap, twisting a napkin like she's trying to strangle it. She keeps darting her gaze between them, smiling so hard and so nervously she looks like she's about to pass out. Luke says something. Liam winks. Lucy visibly dies.
Dear God.
He instantly groans, pressing his forehead into my shoulder.
"You're right," he mutters, voice muffled against me. "We can't leave her alone with those two. They're—"
"—boneheads who only think with their dicks?" I supply.
He raises a finger in the air without lifting his head. "Exactly."
I laugh quietly, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck.
He sighs dramatically—full body, shoulders slumping, forehead falling right back to my shoulder like someone just stole his childhood dog.
"I'm suffering," he whispers.
"You'll live."
"No, I won't," he groans. "Baby, I'm dying."
I rub slow circles on the back of his neck, trying not to laugh. "You're not dying."
"Then why does it feel like I'm dying?" he mumbles like someone stole his favorite toy.
I press a kiss to his hairline.
"Because," I whisper, leaning close, "you're being dramatic."
His head snaps up, eyes narrowed in mock offense. "Is this really dramatic for you?" He guides my hand beneath the table, pressing it against the hard ridge straining against his jeans.
My breath catches.
Thank God the table shields us from view. My lips curl into a wicked smirk, my mind already racing with dirty, filthy ideas. Without a word, my fingers slide to his zipper, teasingly slow, like I'm savoring the moment.
Zach's eyes widen, his jaw dropping slightly as he realizes what I'm about to do.
He mouths 'No,' but I only wink, taking it as a challenge.
My fingers dip into the waistband of his boxers, and Zach's breath hitches, his thighs tensing under the table.
My hand slips inside, cold fingers wrapping around his scorching-hot cock, and Zach hisses, slamming his hand down on the table so hard that the glasses rattle.
Everyone glances our way, but I'm already lifting my wine glass, pretending to sip like the fucking queen of deception I am.
Zach grabs his beer, forcing a grin as he blurts, "Cheers to our win tonight, boys!" The clink of glasses fill the air, oblivious to the depravity happening under the table.
My fingers start moving, teasing the base of his cock, squeezing just hard enough to make him curse under his breath. My thumb swirls around the tip, smearing the precum that's already leaking out, my strokes slow and deliberate, driving him fucking insane.
Zach's head bows, his chest heaving as he fights to keep his composure. His lips form the word 'Fuck,' silently begging for mercy, but I'm not even done yet.
"Caroline," he whispers, his voice tight, like he's holding onto his sanity by a thread.
"Yes, baby?"
"Baby—baby—please. I… fuck…"
His head drops back, eyes squeezing shut like he can feel every sinful stroke.
"Caroline—" his voice breaks, breath hitching, "our friends are gonna notice yo—"
His thighs tremble under my hand, his cock twitching hard in my grip, precum slicking my palm as I work him closer, closer, closer to the edge.
I smirk like the devil dressed in lip gloss.
"Did you say something, babe?" My voice is butter-soft, sugary-sweet, and pure sin — the kind that makes his dick throb against my hand.
Inner me?
Oh, she's gone feral.
Absolutely unhinged.
Chewing through the drywall.
Ready to commit emotional, spiritual, and physical crimes for how he's falling apart under my hand.
Because nothing — NOTHING — turns me on like six-foot-two of desperate, wrecked, possessive hockey boy trying not to blow in a bar booth while pretending everything is normal.
"You're a wicked temptress." He groans, his hips bucking slightly, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more of my goddamn sinful touch.
"I know," I murmur, leaning in close, my breath hot against his ear. "And I happen to know you love this side of me."
Zach's control shatters. He leans forward, his forehead resting against my shoulder.