Confession: I hate Zach's teammates. They're loud, arrogant, and think their jock status makes them kings of the school. Walking stereotypes with skates. Except Jacob. Jacob's different. He's nice. Sweet. Actually human.
And, okay, cute.
"How was your weekend?" he asks, stepping closer.
I open my mouth to answer, but Zach is suddenly there—hand clamping down on Jacob's shoulder. Friendly on the surface, but I swear I can see his fingers digging in, his eyes sharp. Protective.
God, I wish it was the hands-off-my-girl kind of possessive.
Keep dreaming, Caroline.
"Come on, Jacob," Zach says smoothly. "Leave my best friend alone, she's late for class." He doesn't wait for a reply, just steers Jacob back toward the group.
Then, softer, only for me: "I'll catch you after school, Sugarplum."
And just like that, warmth blooms in my chest, spreading until my cheeks flush pink. I duck my head, biting back the smile tugging at my lips.
But it doesn't last.
"Sugarplum?" Tyler crows, eyebrows raised in fake innocence. "You mean SugarPlump,right?"
Laughter detonates around them—loud, sharp, mean. The kind that echoes off lockers and makes your skin crawl.
I freeze.
Another voice piles on. "More like Fat Plum!"
The laughter doubles, cruel and jagged.
And then Zach's voice cuts through it.
"Quit it!" His tone is nothing like before—loud, sharp, commanding. Team captain, not teammate. "Unless youwantme skating your asses into the ground at practice tonight."
The laughter dies instantly.
*****
By the time I get to the rink, the place is echoing with blades slashing against ice. I spot him immediately—number 19 practice jersey. Of course. Like I could miss him.
He looks gigantic in that thing. Not just big—intimidatingly huge.Like if Goliath played hockey.
The guys are flying across the rink, full speed, skating end to end like their lives depend on it. Some are huffing, some stumbling, one looks like he might just keel over.
And at the center of it all? Zach.
"Move! Faster! Again!" His voice booms through the rink, sharp and unrelenting. He's barking orders like some drill sergeant fresh out of boot camp. No Coach Cooper tonight. Just Zach, running the show, looking dead serious—angry-monster serious. He doesn't care if they collapse, puke, or both. His only mission is to break them.
Why though?
I slide into one of the empty bleachers right against the glass. Close enough that when he finally stops terrorizing his teammates, he'll see me.
The guys look absolutely wrecked, sweat dripping as they push themselves harder and harder. But Zach? He looks carved out of stone. Jaw set, eyes blazing, veins in his arms flexing as he points and yells.
And I can't lie—there's something amusingly hot about it. Like, unfairly hot. My brain should be concerned about their survival, but nope. Instead, it's like:yes, captain, yell at me too.
My delusion spiral is cut short when a blur of motion slides right in front of me. Jacob.
He stops with a sharp spray of ice against the glass, grinning like he just pulled off the coolest stunt in the world. His stick dangles in one hand, casual, like this is nothing.
