And as if the giant banners weren't enough, the student body has basically turned into a hormone convention ever since hockey season hype kicked off. Every corner I turn, girls are talking about the Ridgewater Warriors like they're ordering off a damn menu.
"The Archer twins? God, girls used to say they'd let them drag them to pound town and not even ask for return fare.
"Double the trouble, double the stamina,"they'd giggle.
"They don't call them the Dirty Double for nothing. Imagine being sandwiched between those two on the boards—literally."
Then, of course, Elijah Deveraux had his share.
"Team captain, six-foot-four, broad as hell? Yes, please. He could pin me against the glass any day."
"Bet he's got the stamina of a marathon runner. I mean, look at him. That man screamed captain in the bedroom too."
And of course, Zach's own fan club.
"Oh my god, Westbrook? Don't even get me started."
"Mm, he was cocky, you could tell—but that was half the fun. Bet he'd make you scream his name in, like, five different pitches."
"And that smirk. You knew he'd make you beg for it first."
One girl even leaned in like she was sharing state secrets."My cousin's roommate hooked up with him last January. Swore it was the best orgasm of her life. Said she saw God, then forgot her own name for a full ten minutes."
They squealed like contestants on a reality show, smacking each other's arms.
"Okay, but is it true he doesn't do repeats?"one of them asked, wide-eyed.
Cue the nodding, like a prayer circle but hornier.
"Ugh, I don't even care,"another had sighed dreamily."He could one-and-done me and I'd still die happy. Just one night with Zach Westbrook? That's bucket-list material."
I swear, the way the girls at school talk, the season opener isn't even about hockey—it is about who is gonna end up in whose bed afterward.
And of course, Zach's name comes up the loudest.
Big shocker. He's always had that reputation—Everglades High's resident manwhore. The boy who could score on and off the ice. Half the girls back then swore he ruined them for every other guy.
So yeah, nothing new here. Same old Zach Westbrook.
And I shouldn't care. I don't care. His sex life has nothing to do with me. Except... every time I overhear this crap, something hot and ugly coils in my stomach.
Because all I can think is: how is it fair that he gets to live like that—wild, reckless, worshipped—while I spent years dragging myself out of the hole he shoved me in with his words?
I hate that my body still remembers the sting of those words, like an old bruise you can't see but still press on by accident.
I grit my teeth, nails digging into my palm. No. Not going there. Not giving him that power.
Let them fantasize about Zach Westbrook. He's their problem now.
Not mine.
Absolutely not mine.
I close my eyes and inhale slow. Exhale slower.
In. Out. Repeat. Like one of those breathing exercises YouTube swears will fix your entire life.
Because no. Nope. I am not letting Zach-crap live rent free in my head. Not today. Not when I've fought too damn hard to shove all that junk down, down, and kick it into the gutter where it belongs.
