Sam, on the other hand, has been ready since... forever. Honestly, if I weren't tagging along, she'd have left an hour ago to startgatekeeping the female population from breathing the same air as her beloved Elijah.(Her words, not mine.)
I told her earlier it was fine if she went ahead—I know where the party is—but she said Zach wanted her to go with me.
He was actuallysupposedto pick me up himself. That was the plan—until Coach Hopper called while we were driving back to Miami around noonand told him to report to the rink that afternoon.
For punishment.
Apparently, Coach Hopper didn't find his mid-game serenade last night as romantic as the rest of the arena did. Something about"unsportsmanlike behavior"and"using the intermission for personal affairs."
So now, while I'm getting ready for the party, Zach's probably skating suicides or worse, cleaning the locker room toilets with a toothbrush—until Coach Hopper's satisfied he's learned his lesson.
Poor guy.
Half an hour later, we pull up to The Pond—Ridgewater's infamous hockey house—and the party's already in full chaos mode. The kind of chaos you can smell, hear, and practicallyfeelvibrating through the air.
Music's blasting so loud the windows are shaking—some upbeat remix that makes your heart thump along whether you want it to or not. The front lawn's a parking lot of half-crooked cars and red solo cups, and the minute we step inside, it's wall-to-wall people.
Laughter, shouting, and the occasional"CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"echo from somewhere deep in the house.
There's beer pong happening on the dining table, someone's already spilled something sticky on the floor, and the scent of cheap cologne mixed with barbecue smoke hits like a punch to the face.
Sam, of course, fits right in.
The second we walk in, half the team's already calling out her name or giving her nods of recognition. She's practically a legend here—not because she's a party girl, but because she'stheSam Westbrook.
Zach's little sister.
Andthegirl who's been single-handedly cockblocking the team captain.
A few players grin when they see her, clearly bracing for the usual show. Then one of them—Reese, a defenseman with a perpetual smirk and zero self-preservation instincts—spots us and nearly spits out his drink.
"Well, well, if it isn't the captain's fiancée," he calls out loud enough for half the room to hear. "Might wanna hurry, Sam—your man's out on the patio getting swarmed by an army of puck bunnies!"
Sam freezes mid-step.
Then, slowly, she cranes her neck, rising onto her tiptoes like a meerkat who just spotted danger in the wild. Her eyes lock on the patio door, laser-focused and deadly.
"Oh, for the love of—" she mutters, grabbing the nearest drink off a random guy's hand like a weapon. "If one of them's sitting on his lap again, I'm throwing this."
Sam's already glaring daggers at the patio, fingers twitching like she's seconds away from committing a homicide with a plastic cup. Normally, she'd be halfway across the room by now, ready to drag those puck bunnies back to their natural habitat—but she doesn't move.
Instead, she stays right beside me, silent and fuming.
I follow her line of sight—and there it is.
One of the puck bunnies, all hair flips and fake laughter, is practicallyattachedto Elijah's arm, giggling like he just told the funniest joke on the planet. Her hand lingers way too long onhis sleeve, and the way she's leaning in? Yeah, it's givingOscar-worthy performance in Flirtation 101.
Sam's glare could melt steel.
"I'm gonna break that girl's hand the second I get to her," she mutters under her breath.
I try not to laugh. "What's stopping you?"
Without missing a beat, she sighs. "Zach. He told me not to leave your side until he gets here."
My brows lift. "Why?"
"He said to stick with you in case any jealous fangirls come near you. You know—those girls who might not take last night too well."
