"This is me putting it out there for everyone to see,"Zach's voice booms over the speakers."My public declaration of love—for you, Sugarplum."
He grins at the camera, sheepish but still cocky enough to make half the arena swoon."Now, I know you hate being the center of attention—especially in a crowd like this—but just indulge this lovesick side of me this once and let me pour my whole heart out right here, right now, so everybody knows how crazy I am about you, okay?"
He winks.
Another tidal wave of squeals ripples through the crowd.
Every neuron in my brain is short-circuiting, while that idiot just keeps smiling that dumb, heart-melting smile like this is the most romantic thing ever.
I'm going to kill him! After I crawl into a hole and die first.
I swear I can feel the heat of female rage aimed directly at me. It's like being caught in a laser show of jealousy—if laser beams were made of side-eyes and murderous intent.
Then, with perfect timing, Zach smirks and says,
"So... ARE YOU READY FOR IT?"
The jumbotron flickers again.
And suddenly, the speakers explode with the opening beat of"...Ready For It?"The bass shakes the entire arena as lights pulse back on, painting everything in flashing red and white.
The crowd roars.
My heart's pounding so hard it's practically vibrating out of my chest. Every nerve in me is alive with dread, awe, and something dangerously close to excitement.
The Zamboni's still circling lazily across the rink, but no one's watching it. Every eye in this arena—including mine—is glued to the screen, waiting to see what Zach Westbrook does next.
The pep band hits the first few notes, and my heart drops straight into my stomach.
No. Freaking. Way.
That'sYou Belong With Me.
And before my brain can process the absurdity of it all—Zach's voice booms through the speakers.
CHAPTER thirty-two
CAROLINE
The entire arena gasps. Heads whip around, phones shoot up, and then the spotlight swings to thetop of the bleachers.
And there he is. Zach freaking Westbrook.
Still in full gear—minus the helmet and stick—standing like he owns the damn place.
One gloved hand holding a mic, the other running through his messy hair like he's on the cover of some hockey-themed romance novel. His grin? Bright enough to make the rink lights feel redundant.
Then he starts singing.
Loud. Off-key. And painfully confident.
The first words ofYou Belong With Meecho through the arena, and it's like my whole body glitches—somewhere between laughter, disbelief, and a full-on heart attack.
The crowd goesinsane.
Girls are screaming, phones flashing, half the bleachers on their feet already.
Some are shrieking his name like he's a rockstar; others are laughing, hands over their mouths. It's chaos—beautiful, ridiculous chaos—and right in the middle of it is Zach, looking like he's having the time of his life.
