A streak of motion flashes on the ice and snaps my attention forward.
Zach picks up a loose puck in the neutral zone, dodges a defender, and rockets toward the net—fast, vicious, unstoppable.
The whole arena rises to its feet.
And so do I.
Because my boy is hunting again.
And this time?
He's going to score.
Zachdoesscore—top shelf, just under the bar, a clean sniper's shot that makes the goalie's head snap back like he didn't even see it coming.
The crowd explodes.
I scream so loud Lucy flinches beside me and Katie grabs my arm like she's being electrocuted. Even the tiny pocket of Ridgewater fans who traveled all the way to Duluth lose their minds.
But Duluth?
Oof. They look like someone unplugged their entire fanbase.
What's even better?
Tyler tries—tries—to answer back three minutes later. He gets the puck, winds up like he's about to show off, and then—BOOM.
Zach sends him flying into the boards so hard the whole section goes OOOH—! in that universally shared "holy shit" hockey gasp.
Totally legal.
Totally clean.
Totally humiliating.
Tyler hits the ice, scrambling to get up while Zach skates off like he merely wiped dust off his shoulder.
God, that's hot.
The rest of the game?
Downhill for Duluth. They can't get momentum. They can't get angles. They can't get within sniffing distance of the net without Ridgewater ripping the puck off their sticks like it's child's play.
Final score: 5–2.
Ridgewater wins.
And the boys... oh, they'referalwith joy.
The whole team crams into the hotel restaurant, buzzing with the kind of wild, goofy energy you only see after breaking a four-game losing streak. Every last one of them is riding the high.
The coaches were here earlier—ate, congratulated everyone, reminded them to get some sleep for tomorrow's game... and then promptly dipped to leave the chaos behind.
Now it's mostly just the boys—plus Katie, who's shamelessly flirting with Reese, and Lucy, who's quietly melting under whatever the Archer twins are murmuring in her ear.
And then there's Zach—pressed so close to me it honestly feels like we're sharing a ribcage.
I'm pretty sure we haven't stopped touching since he walked off the ice—knees brushing, shoulders glued, his hand on my thigh under the table like it belongs there permanently.
