"That's because it basically is," I say, unable to look away as Zach collides shoulder-first with a Northpoint player twice his size. The smack echoes across the rink.
"Northpoint's out for blood tonight. They've already racked up, what—three penalties?"
"Four," I snap, eyes glued to the ice. "And Ridgewater's not exactly saints — Cody and Luke are sitting in the box for roughing."
Sam leans in, but I don't hear her. Number 24 just clipped Zach hard along the boards and skates away with this stupid, satisfied tilt to his chin — all smug like he just delivered a courtesy check. Seeing that little smug victory dance makes me see red.
I clamp my hands into fists until my knuckles blanch, trying to force my lungs to slow. I can feel my jaw working like a trap about to snap; every muscle in my neck buzzes with heat.
Breathe, I tell myself, like it's a command.
If I could, I'd march down there, yank him off his skates, and throttle him.
On the ice, the tension's crackling like static. Elijah wins the faceoff at center, snapping the puck clean to Liam, who threads it across to Zach. He takes off—fast, fluid, laser-focused—but before he can even line up the shot, Northpoint's number 24 comes barreling in and slams him hard into the boards.
The entire rink gasps, a ripple of outrage echoing through the stands. Zach's shoulder hits the glass with a dullthud, and I swear the boards shudder. He doesn't fall—of course he doesn't—but still, that wasdirty.
"That's a penalty!" Sam blurts, half-rising from her seat.
"Holy crap,that was brutal," she adds as Zach straightens, jaw tight beneath his helmet.
But the ref's whistle stays silent. Not even a damn call.
Elijah's already there in a flash, skating up to Zach and gripping his shoulder likeyou good?but his glare's fixed on the ref. Liam and Cody join in seconds later, voices rising above the crowd's noise.
"Are you kidding me?" Elijah shouts, throwing his hands up, stick clattering against the ice. "That's interference! He didn't even have the puck!"
The ref skates past with that infuriating blank expression—like he didn't just watch Zach get body-checked halfway to next week. Liam jabs a finger toward number 24, who's gliding away all smug, while Zach waves them off, muttering something under his breath as he straightens.
Coach Hopper's yelling from the bench too, arms spread wide, demanding a call that never comes.
The crowd's booing now, a low rumble shaking the bleachers.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" I'm on my feet before I realize it, one hand pointing furiously toward the ice. "HEY, REF! You blind or just collecting bribes today? That was interference—open youreyes!"
A few heads turn. Do I stop? Absolutely not.
"And YOU!" I jab my finger at number 24, who has the audacity to skate past the bench looking all smug.
"Yeah, you, cheap-shotting wannabe enforcer! Try winning a puck clean for once! Or is tripping people the only move you know?"
He glances over, glaring like I've just personally insulted his entire bloodline, and I don't even stop there.
"Keep hiding behind dirty hits, big man! Must be exhausting pretending that's skill!"
A low murmur breaks out across the section. Some people laugh, others clap, a few look at me like I've lost my mind. Down on the ice, Zach glances up mid-stride—helmet tilted, grin spreading so wide I can practically feel it from here.
And then—because of course he would—he lifts his gloved hand and sends me an exaggerated wink... followed by a flying kiss. Right there. In front of everyone.
The crowd erupts.
Oh my God. He's incorrigible.
I freeze, slowly realizing half the bleachers are looking right at me—some giggling, others straight-up whispering.
Fantastic. I'm that girl now.
I drop back into my seat, face on fire, muttering under my breath. "Great job, Caroline. Very subtle. Next time just bring a megaphone and confess your undying love while you're at it."
