"Gross," I mutter, shaking my head, but I'm still smiling.
He leans down a little, lowering his voice into that mock-serious drawl that always makes me want to roll my eyes. "C'mon, Care. Picture it. My dorm. Quiet.Veryprivate. You, me, scripts on the table, passion in the air..."
"Passion?" I cut in, laughing. "We're reading lines, not filming a PG-13 movie."
Adam smirks, eyes glinting like he's already won. "Hey, I'm just saying—if we're auditioning as lovers, shouldn't we rehearse with a little chemistry?"
I roll my eyes so hard they might detach. "You're impossible."
But honestly? Running lines with him isn't a bad idea.
We've done it before in other classes—scriptwriting, play analysis. It works. We click. He gets me, and I'm comfortable with him. That's why, against my better judgment, I nod.
"Fine," I say. "We'll practice together."
Adam smirks like he's just won a bet. "Perfect. And who knows?" He waggles his eyebrows, all cocky playboy drawl. "Might even get you to fall for me in character. Practice makes perfect, right?"
I shove him lightly with my elbow, laughing despite myself. "Stop it!"
He just grins wider, utterly unbothered—like this, right here, was the reaction he'd been fishing for the whole time.
CHAPTER TEN
ZACH
Scrimmage's running hot—top line against the seconds and thirds. Coach Hopper, the team's head coach, loves running it this way before a big game: throw us against the depth guys, crank the compete level up, and see who can handle the pressure.
The ice is shredded to hell, snow piling up in the corners, every stride kicking dust into the air. Everyone's drenched—sweat dripping down temples, soaking through jerseys, steam rising off us in the cold rink air. Helmets get pushed backbetween whistles, mouths hanging open, guys sucking in air like they've been skating for hours instead of twenty minutes.
Faces are flushed, shoulders sagging, but nobody dares coast. Coach's watching everything. Every shift, every lazy stick lift, every second you're half a stride late—he'll catch it, and he'll rip you apart for it.
Across from me, Martin leans on his stick, chest heaving. Reese wipes his glove across his visor, leaving a foggy streak. Their eyes are tight, jaws clenched, and you can see it plain as day—they're rattled. Pressure's eating them alive.
Me? My lungs are burning, legs screaming, sweat dripping down my neck. But there's no letting up. Not when coach's whistle is hanging from his mouth like a trigger, ready to blow the second we slip.
The whistle blasts.
"Reese! You let Deveraux slide that pass right through you! Your stick was in the air, your feet were flat, and you gave him the lane clean. You keep your stick down and angle your body, that puck never gets through. Instead, you looked like a damn pylon."
Reese, third-line grinder, just drops his chin, sucking air hard.
Coach Hopper doesn't let up. He whirls on Martin.
"And Martin—where the hell were you? You're his support. That's your partner. You collapse and help him cut that seam off. You gotta step into Deveraux, take away the middle. Instead, you left Reese hanging out to dry. That's a goal against Friday if you don't fix it."
Both of them skate back to the line, faces red, still gasping.
The coach is always on them, harder than anyone else. Not because he hates them—it's the opposite. He's trying to squeeze something better out of them, get the third line to quit looking like practice dummies and prove they can hold their ice time.
If Reese and Martin can hold their own against guys like Elijah and me in practice, they'll survive anything this league throws at them.
We reset. Cody snaps the puck off the draw, quick as hell, feeding Elijah up the middle. He powers through the neutral zone like a wrecking ball, dragging both D with him. I loop wide, and he dishes it off—perfect timing.
Martin tries to angle me off, but he's too slow. I'm gone down the wing, puck on a string. Elijah's screaming for the return feed, but I've already made up my mind. I toe it in, roll it onto the blade, balance it there—crowd-pleaser move—and whip it lacrosse-style top corner.
Slater flinches late, stick side wide open. The puck buries high before he can even twitch.
I raise my stick, smirking. My shot. My mark.
