"Yo, Westbrook. Warm-up's not optional," he laughs, giving my head a quick, rough ruffle before gliding backward.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, straightening up. I'm just about to follow him when I see them.
Two familiar figures moving down the aisle toward our section. Sam rocking a Ridgewater jersey with Elijah's number, seventy-eight, stitched neatly on the sleeve. And beside her is Caroline.
Inmyjersey.
The sight hits me like a body check straight to the chest. My pulse stutters, then goes completely rogue.
She's smiling at something Sam says, brushing her hair off her shoulder, and I swear the arena lights must've teamed up with the hockey gods just to mess with me—because they're hitting her perfectly, making her glow like some kind of divine punishment for every bad thing I've ever done.
My throat goes dry. Every coherent thought I've ever had packs its bags and leaves.
My body straight-up betrays me—stomach tightens, pulse jumps, blood rushes everywhere it shouldn't.
She's standing there, drowning in my jersey, and it doessomethingto me—something primal, possessive, electric. Every inch of me goes on high alert.
Fantastic. I'm about three seconds from making a complete fool of myself in full gear.
I try to shake it off—literally. I roll my shoulders, flex my grip on the stick, anything to remind my body that this isnotthe time to be acting like a hormonal teenager. Deep breath in. Out. Think cold thoughts. Ice. Pucks. Coach Hopper's murder stare.
Nope—none of it's working.
So what do I do instead? Skate straight toward her, obviously.
"Sugarplum!" I yell, loud enough to rattle the glass. "Hey, Sugarplum!"
A few heads whip in my direction, but do I care? Not even a little. I wave like a maniac—full arm, side-to-side, borderline mascot energy—grinning so wide it probably shows through my cage.
"Caroline!" I shout again, dragging her name out like a lovesick seal.
I skate right up to the boards just as she and Sam are making their way down the stairs toward their row.
I tap my stick against the glass—tap, tap, tap—like a damn woodpecker on espresso. "I'm right here! Hi! Hey, Caroline!" I call out, waving both arms like I'm trying to flag down a plane.
Sam spots me first, instantly losing the battle with her laughter. She's clutching her stomach, shaking her head.
Caroline, on the other hand? Pretending I don't exist. Which, frankly, just makes this more fun.
She sits down, hand over her face like she's either praying for divine intervention or plotting my murder.
"Oh, come on, Sugarplum!" I call again, skating past the bench and waving both arms over my head like I'm directing traffic. "You're supposed towave back!That's, like, the law of physics or something!"
That gets a few laughs from the crowd. Even Sam's doubled over, and I swear I see Caroline's shoulders shaking too. Pretty sure she's smiling behind that hand.
Still not looking at me though.
Do I stop? Absolutely not.
If she thinks ignoring me's gonna work, she clearly forgot who she's dealing with—Zach Westbrook: world-class pest, reigning champ of bad ideas, and hopeless fool for one girl.
I tap my stick against the glass again. "Caroline! Baby! Hi! You look so amazing, by the way!"
That does it. Sam's trying—and failing—to keep a straight face, while Caroline keeps her hand glued to her face.
"Sugarplum!" I call again. "Come on, just one look. That's all I'm asking!"
Finally, she drops her hand, glares straight at me—and God, she's adorable. That glare could melt the rink.
