I haven't seen Zach play in years, so what do I know?
The Zach I remember was never the kind to play dirty or start fights. Sure, hockey gets rough—it's practically a full-contact love language—but he was always the one breaking up scrums, not throwing the first hit.
I open my mouth to tell Sam something—probably something snarky—but the lights around the rink suddenly flicker. Once. Twice. Then dim.
A wave of confused murmurs rolls through the stands as people glance around. The kiss cam that's been playing on thejumbotron glitches mid–awkward smooch, the screen crackling to static before cutting to black.
Then—boom.
Zach's face fills the entire screen.
"Hi,"he says, grinning and waving. His hair's damp, tousled, and he's still in his full gear, pads and all. When he brushes a hand through that ridiculous mess of dark hair, every girl in the arena loses it. The sound that erupts could probably register on the Richter scale.
Is this... live? He's wearing the same jersey as tonight's game.
I glance at Sam, wide-eyed. "Do you know what's going on?"
She shakes her head, just as stunned. "Not a clue."
We both look back at the jumbotron just as Zach starts talking again—voice steady, eyes locked dead into the camera like he's hosting his own podcast for the romantically unhinged.
"Everyone thinks they know me. The hockey god. The guy with a body count stacked higher than a skyscraper. The one who doesn't give a damn about anything except keeping his image shiny.
Funny thing about my reputations? They're a load of crap. I'm no hockey god. Just a dude who happens to love the game—and yeah, I'm pretty decent at it.
The girls? The hookups? The body count?
Zero. Zilch. Nada. Goose egg.
Shocking, right? Bet none of you saw that one coming."
Wait. Did he just...?
Oh. My. God.
He basically told everybody that he's a freaking virgin.
Idiot. Absolute idiot!
"What is he doing?" I hiss under my breath, but the words barely make it past my lips because horror is detonating in my chest.
"And you're probably wondering why I'm dropping my 'no-holds-barred' tell-all confession in the middle of a game. Easy. Because of her. The most beautiful girl sitting in the stands wearing number nineteen.
You see, I lost her once. Because I was an idiot. Immature. Too busy selling an image to notice I was hurting the only girl who ever mattered to me.
But not anymore.
I'm done hiding. I'm done pretending.
So here it is—my pride, my so-called rep, the whole fake player act? Torched. All of it. Because I want her to see the real me: That I, Zach Westbrook, co-captain of the Ridgewater Warriors, am shamelessly, hopelessly, ridiculously in love with my best friend, Caroline Pennington."
A blinding spotlight snaps on—right where I'm sitting.
Every head in the arena swivels toward me.
"Oh my God," I mutter, immediately throwing a hand over my face.
My soul is trying to eject itself from my body. Beside me, Sam's snickering like she just witnessed divine comedy.
