She mouths,quit it, and for a split second, I swear she's fighting a smile.
Before I can even open my mouth again, two pairs of arms hook under mine and start hauling me backward.
"Alright, come on, lover boy," Luke grunts.
"Yeah, Romeo," Liam adds, dragging me toward the bench. "Save that for later."
I'm still grinning like lovesick fool as they pull me away, twisting around just to catch one last look at her. "Don't forget to cheer for me, Sugarplum!" I yell, earning a few laughs from the crowd.
Totally worth it.
CHAPTER thirty-one
CAROLINE
If there's one thing hockey girls should get a warning label for, it's this: Dryland warm-ups are a public safety hazard.
The moment the Ridgewater Warriors start their pre-game stretch, the crowd goes feral. The stands explode into squeals, shrieks, and some noises that are probably illegal in several states. Everywhere I look, there's a girl clutching her phone, zooming in like she's filming a documentary called The Male Species: A Study in Hip Flexibility.
And honestly? I don't blame them.
And front and center? Zach Westbrook—stick in hand, one knee down on the ice, the other bent forward—drops into that hip-flexor stretch that should honestly come with a public-indecency warning.
He leans into it, steady, shoulders rolling, hips shifting just enough to make every girl in the stands collectively forget how to breathe.
My brain malfunctions on the spot—like someone just unplugged every rational thought I had.
Becausewhat the hell is that move,and why does it look like it belongs in an R-rated version of a yoga class?
He's not even trying, but the way his back arches and his stick drags lightly across the ice—it's obscene. My subconscious is screaming to look away, but my eyes? Yeah, they've staged a coup. I'm frozen, pulse hammering, thighs pressed together like that'll help.
Spoiler: it doesn't.
Because the way he moves—controlled, powerful, deliberate—should be illegal this early in the evening.
I try to look away. Really, I do. My brain's yelling,eyes up, Caroline—don't be that girl.
But my traitorous eyeballs have other plans.
I look at the jumbotron. Then the crowd. Then at Sam's half-eaten popcorn for emotional support. Yet somehow, I end up right back where I started—on Zach.
It's like my gaze is magnetic, or cursed, or both.
It's not that deep,I tell myself.He's just stretching. It's normal. Every player does that.
Except no other player looks likethatdoing it.
My rational brain is waving a white flag while the rest of me is sitting front-row at the Zach Westbrook Appreciation Show.
Then there's the Archer twins.
Apparentlysubtletyisn't in their vocabulary.
They're doing the same hip-flexor stretch as Zach—but leave it to Luke and Liam to turn it into a synchronized thirst trap. The way they drop into position, all slow and deliberate, hips rolling just a little too smoothly... yeah, theyknowexactly what they're doing.
Their fan section goes absolutely feral—screaming, waving signs, phones out like it's a concert.
I shake my head. "Unbelievable," I mutter under my breath, though it's hard not to laugh.
