And the tension? It's brutal. Both teams are hammering into each other, slamming bodies against the glass so hard the boards rattle. Every pass, every check, every shove—it's all claws-out.
Rivalry games are never pretty, not when it's Everglades High versus Easton High. They're always out for blood, especially against us. It doesn't matter that the scoreboard screams 3–1 and there's barely a few minutes left in the third period.
Easton plays like it's personal—like wrecking Everglades is their life mission.
The clock ticks down, the noise rises, and then—it happens.
Zach charges down the ice like he owns it. He slices around defense like they're traffic cones, snatches the puck, and with one impossibly smooth wrist shot—bam. Top corner, past the goalie.
Goal.
His third of the night.
Hat trick. The first of the season. Against our biggest rivals. The whole place explodes. Hats fly onto the ice like it's Black Friday at Macy's, people are screaming, stomping, losing their minds.
But Zach? He doesn't look at them.
His eyes sweep over the chaos, searching, until they find me.
And when they do—God help me—he points his stick straight at me, flashes that stupid heart-melting grin, and winks.
I swear that wink short-circuits my entire nervous system. It's cocky and sweet and infuriating all at once—like he just scored the goal of the night and then decided to casually murder me with one flick of his eyelid.
My knees actually wobble sitting down.
My stomach? Gone.
My soul? Ascended.
Tell me again how I'm supposed to not be delusional? Did you see that? Everyone saw that, right?
That goal wasfor me.My best friend just scored a hat trick and basically dedicated it to the fat, ugly-me in the bleachers.
Honestly, this boy doesn't just feed my delusions—he fattens them up, seasons them, and serves them to me on a five-star platter.
My face is nuclear red now, my grin splitting in half. Roll the gurney because I'm seconds away from flatlining.
Heart palpitations? Check.
Hyperventilating? Double check.
And this isn't even the first time. Zach does this every game. Every time he scores, he looks for me. Points. Winks. Like he's not already giving his fan club enough reasons to bury me alive. At this point, they've probably got a custom headstone with my name engraved.
Do I care? Not even a little.
Still, when I accidentally glance at the cheer squad—bad idea by the way—they're glaring so hard I'm surprised the ice doesn't melt. I whip my head away.
Even worse idea. Because now I'm staring at a whole cluster of girls in Zach's jerseys,#19painted across their faces, holding a giant glittery banner that screams:
"Put a ring on it, Zach—I'll have your hockey babies!!!"
Classy.
And of course, they're all glaring at me too, hissing loser and fat ass like it's part of the chant.
And me? Still sitting here, blushing, grinning like an idiot, convinced more than ever that this is love story material.
*****
