But now... yeah, I missed it. Missed seeing him on the ice, all speed and power and sweat and—Oh my God. Nope. Stop.
Not where my brain needs to go right now.
This isnotabout wanting to see Zach Westbrook all dripping sweat and glistening muscles, okay?
I'm only here because talking to Adam earlier dug up all that old history with Zach and left me feeling nostalgic.
I used to sneak into his practices all the time, sitting there like the world's proudest fangirl while he skated circles aroundeveryone else. That's all this is. A quick little memory-lane pit stop.
When I step inside, the familiar chill hits me instantly—the sharp bite of ice in the air, the echo of blades carving lines across the rink, the steady thud of pucks smacking against boards.
And of course, the bleachers are already dotted with students. Girls, mostly. Puck bunnies, in their natural habitat.
They lean forward like they're watching a boy aquarium—eyes wide, glossy, drinking in every move like the players are some exotic species meant for their entertainment. Giggles ripple through the rows every time a stick slaps against the ice or someone adjusts their helmet.
The whole place hums with it—skates scraping, sticks clashing, girls squealing.
It's ridiculous, really, the way they stare with that glazed-over look, like cartoon hearts might actually start popping out of their eyes.
I hang back, slipping into a spot far enough away that Zach won't notice me. Because I'm not here to say hi. I'm not here to be seen.
I just... want a glimpse. Then I'll leave.
And, okay, maybe I feel a little bad. Guilty, even.
He sat through ninety minutes of my lecture earlier, hoping I'd cave and grab lunch with him, and I ditched him. I could've said yes—Ialmostdid. But then I remembered I had to meet Callahan with Adam, and there went that plan.
Still, I should've said yes.
My brain, ever the helpful little gremlin, decides to pipe up:What about the other times he asked you? When you weren't busy? You still said no.
I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Fine. Fiiine. Maybe I've been a little too stubborn about this. Maybe I've been pushing him away just to prove I could.
I'll make it up to him. Next time he asks, I'll say yes. Whatever.
I comb the ice for that familiar 19 stitched on the back, but he's not out there. I check again, squinting like maybe I just missed him, but nope. Still no 19.
My eyes sweep the rink one last time, stubborn and hopeful, but nothing. Maybe he ducked into the locker room already. A couple players are heading that way, helmets tucked under their arms, skates clacking against the floor.
I sigh, shoulders dropping, and finally turn to leave.
Outside, the lot's half empty, just a scatter of cars under buzzing floodlights. I dig into my bag, press the unlock button on my fob even though I'm still a good thirty feet from my car. The chirp echoes, and I start walking toward it.
That's when I hear it.
"Oh my God, there's Zach." One of the girls who trailed out behind me.
My head snaps up before I can stop myself.
Pathetic, I know. Like muscle memory, like high school Caroline all over again, grinning just from the chance to catch a glimpse.
But the smile dies fast.
Because there he is—tall frame angled toward a car that's definitely his—and right in front of him stands Taylor Lewis.
His hands are cupping her perfect, porcelain face, his thumbs brushing gently along her jaw. Their bodies are close, closer than they should be, like the rest of the world doesn't even exist. He dips his head toward hers, their foreheads almost touching, like one small movement would seal it with a kiss.
