But when my gaze drifts back to Zach, any trace of composure I had evaporates.
He's flat on his back, stick angled right under him, legs opening and closing in slow, lazy intervals.
A shiver runs straight throughme, heat curling low in my stomach as I squeeze my thighs together under the bleachers.
For the love of caffeine and self-control, this is supposed to be warm-ups, notforeplay on ice.
I grab the game pamphlet sitting next to me and start fanning myself. It does absolutely nothing. My face is on fire, my neck'sprickling, and I'm pretty sure my internal thermostat just short-circuited.
Is it just me, or did the rink's AC give up on life?
Because last I checked, hockey arenas were supposed to feel like Antarctica, not like the seventh circle ofOh God, he's stretching again.
I glance around, trying to play it cool, but the girls behind me are shrieking every time the players move, so clearly I'm not the only one fighting for my sanity. Still, my pulse refuses to calm down. I'm sweating in an ice rink. That should be a medical anomaly.
Maybe I should ask the staff to check the temperature—or better yet, myself for delusion.
The sharpblareof the horn slices through the chaos, jolting me out of my own personal heatstroke.
Finally. Thank God.
Air rushes back into my lungs like I've been holding it for the past five minutes—which, honestly, I probably have.
Down on the ice, the atmosphere changes in an instant. The teasing, the smirks, the showboating—all gone.
Like someone flipped a switch.
Every player straightens, helmets on, focus locked. The teasing, the smirks, the exaggerated stretches—they all vanish in the blink of an eye. The Ridgewater Warriors aren't a bunch of college heartthrobs anymore. They're predators in matching jerseys.
Kentaro skates backward into his crease, tapping his stick twice on each post before crouching low—cool, collected, unreadable behind the mask.
The Archer twins take their spots on defense, knocking their sticks together once, like some silent twin telepathy ritual.
Zach glides to the left wing, shoulders loose but eyes sharp, the edge of his blade tracing lazy circles on the ice. Cody takes the right wing, cracking his neck, muttering something to Elijah.
And Elijah—team captain, center forward, human embodiment of control—leans in for the faceoff. Across from him, the opposing team's center mirrors the motion, both crouched low, heads tilted, the tension stretching so tight you could cut it with a skate blade.
The ref steps up between them, puck held aloft. The entire rink goes still.
Then—clang.
The puck hits the ice, and all hell breaks loose.
Elijah's stick flashes first, knocking the puck cleanly to Zach, who's already moving. One seamless motion—like they rehearsed this a thousand times. Zach pivots, carving a sharp turn, and rockets down the left side.
The crowd erupts, the sound ricocheting off the glass. The Warriors are in control within seconds, every pass crisp, every movement clean.
The game's only just begun, but it's clear who owns the ice tonight.
Ten minutes in, and the scoreboard's still glaring 0–0.
But it's not for lack of trying.
Zach and Elijah have been relentless—darting across the ice like they share a brain. Zach weaving down the wing, Elijah setting him up with clean, surgical passes thatshouldhave been goals—if Northpoint's defense weren't a pack of vultures.
Their defensemen—especially number 24—are everywhere, breaking up plays, throwing sticks in passing lanes, blocking shots like it's the Olympics.
"God, this is intense," Sam mutters beside me, her fingers tightening around her cup. "Feels more like a street fight than a game."
