And just like that, some of the chaos in my chest finally settles. Not all of it—but enough to breathe again.
I pull my Ridgewater Warriors jersey over my pads, the thick fabric sticking to my skin as I tug it down. My gloves hang from the stall hook, helmet gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Around me, the guys are locked in their own rituals—Kentaro blasting metal through his earbuds, Deveraux stretching like he's auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, and the Archer twins bickering about who gets to lead the warm-up lap.
Then Coach Hopper storms in, whistle around his neck, clipboard under his arm.
The noise dies instantly.
"Alright, Warriors," he starts, voice gravelly but steady. "Last night, we proved we can take down one of the toughest teams in Division I. Northpoint's been a thorn in our side for three seasons straight, and you know what? You earned that win. You fought for every puck, every hit, every goddamn inch of ice."
A low rumble of pride rolls through the room. I can feel it in my bones—the rush of being part of something bigger.
"But that was yesterday," Coach continues, pacing in front of us. "Tonight's a new game. Don't get sloppy. Don't get cocky. Play smart, play hard, and leave nothing out there. You hear me?"
A chorus of "Yes, Coach!" echoes back.
Coach's eyes land on me for a beat too long—he knows something's up. Maybe it's the way I've been vibrating like a live wire, or maybe the fact that I've been checking my phone every ten seconds like a psycho.
"Westbrook," Coach says, voice dipping. "Keep your head in the game tonight. I need you focused—no distractions, got it?"
"Yes, sir," I say, forcing a grin.
Coach's still talking, running through last-minute plays, but my brain's already miles away.
Hopper's gonnakillme later. No question.
After what I'm about to pull tonight, I'm probably getting benched for the next game—hell, maybe the rest of the season.
But honestly?
If it means winning her back, that's a penalty I'll gladly take.
As long as it's not Caroline benching me, I can live with it.
He blows the whistle, and we all crowd up.
The locker room thrums with energy—sticks tapping the floor, gloves smacking pads. Someone yells our pre-game chant, and in seconds the whole team joins in, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.
It's loud, rough, chaotic—everything that makes you feel alive before a game.
Then the lights cut. The announcer's voice booms over the arena speakers, calling our names one by one. The door to the tunnel opens, and the world explodes into noise.
The student section is on fire—horns blaring, cowbells clanking, someone waving a ridiculous "Marry me, Westbrook!" sign that I pretend not to see.
We shoot out of the tunnel one after another, blades slicing into fresh ice. Every stride sends up a fine mist of frost under the colored spotlights. The first few seconds are just us taking quick laps—circling center ice, gloves tapping helmets in passing.
A few guys crash their sticks against the boards, the sound sharp and electric, syncing with the pounding music. Pucks start dropping across the sheet—slapshots cracking, rebounds thudding, the whole rink vibrating with adrenaline.
I'm out there too, gliding, steadying my breathing, scanning the stands. My eyes keep darting to Section 102—front-row seats just above the home bench, where the view's perfect and the noise is deafening. That's where I made sure Sam and Caroline would be sitting.
But the seats are still empty.
I stretch my neck a little higher, heart thudding harder than it should. Maybe they're just running late. Maybe traffic. Yeah. Traffic.
Still, a tiny, restless pulse of nerves keeps tapping behind my ribs. Because for all the roaring crowd, the flashing lights, the smell of ice and rubber and adrenaline—none of it really starts until I see her.
I'm still scanning the stands when Elijah skates up beside me, smacking a gloved hand on top of my helmet hard enough to make me flinch.
