I blink. I didn't even realize he wasn't part of Zach's death drill.
"Hey, Caroline," Jacob says, lifting his visor. "You're still at school?"
"Yeah," I say. "Had a study group." My eyes flick toward Zach and the poor souls suffering under him. "Uh, what exactly is going on out there?"
Jacob follows my gaze, then chuckles—like watching his teammates' misery is prime-time comedy. "Captain's famous punishment drill."
"Punishment?" My eyebrows shoot up. "For what? And wait—why aren't you included?"
Jacob smirks, unfastens his helmet, and pulls it off. His damp hair is plastered to his forehead, and when he rakes his fingers through it—of course—he looks like some sweaty teen-mag cover model.
A chorus of giggles erupts from the group of girls sitting on the other side of the rink, proving my point.
"'Cause I'm a good boy," he says, smirk not budging. Then he nods toward Zach. "They kept calling you names. Even after Z warned them to knock it off. So now..." He gestures toward the chaos. "Ergo, punishment."
My heart does this weird double-thump as I watch Zach bark again, his voice slicing through the rink like thunder. And it hits me—he's doing this because of me. Because they wouldn't shut up about me.
Cue my inner delulu orchestra:See? SEE? This is proof. He's literally torturing his entire team just to defend my honor. Forget knights in shining armor—give me Zach Westbrook in a sweaty practice jersey yelling at his teammates until they collapse.
I press my knees together to keep from vibrating out of my seat.
While I'm busy melting into a puddle, Jacob shifts his stick against the glass, turning his easy grin back on me. "So... how're you holding up with English lit? That paper on Shakespeare's sonnets killed me."
We talk for a minute about iambic pentameter and how much we both hate annotations, and then—he pauses. Like mid-sentence, lips still parted.
Then, casually—but with this strange edge of hesitation—he asks, "So, uh... who are you going to prom with?"
I blink. "Prom?"
He nods, cheeks tipping pink, that boyish grin sneaking back. "Yeah. Prom. You going with Zach?" There's a sharpness in his curiosity—like he really needs the answer.
"I'm not really su...re..." The word scrapes out, all stumbly.
Lies. Absolute lies.
Because of course I'm sure. I've always been sure. The only person I want to go to prom with is Zach. Always Zach. I'm just waiting for him to ask, that's all.
"Why?" I ask instead, stalling.
Jacob ducks his head, fiddling with his stick for a second before glancing back up at me. His lashes catching the light, and when he tilts his head, he looks unfairly handsome.
"Because..." He exhales. "I kind of, uh... want to know if you'd want to go to prom with me?"
My jaw literally drops. Like,open-mouth fish impersonationlevels of shock.
Never—not once—did I expect anyone to ask me to prom. I'm the outcast, the background character, the"oh, she's friends with Zach"girl. And definitely not Jacob Hewitt. Sweet, gorgeous, varsity goalie Jacob Hewitt.
I clear my throat, cheeks burning, and manage an awkward laugh.
He just grins wider, a lopsided smile that could probably get half the school to faint on command. And now he's aiming it directly at me.
"Prom, huh," I say, rubbing at my forehead with my finger while sneaking a glance at Zach—still busy yelling at his team, blissfully unaware that his goalie is trying to sweep me off my feet.
"Isn't it a little early? We've still got, like, four months."
Jacob shrugs, still smiling, still too close. "Yeah, well... gotta shoot my shot while I've got the chance, right?" His voicedips playfully, teasing but warm. "Better ask you early before somebody else does."
And oh no. My face heats instantly. Not because I like Jacob likethat—please. My heart belongs to one delusional Zach Westbrook fantasy at a time. But still... being asked to prom by someone as sweet, as kind, as hot as Jacob Hewitt? Who wouldn't flush like a tomato?
