The big shiny title of national champs. Last year Easton took it, the year before too, and it ate Zach alive. He's been waiting for this season—hisseason—to prove he can lead Everglades High all the way.
And honestly? I don't doubt him for a second.
Me though? I'm just waiting to celebrate. And in our world, "celebrate" has one definition: Giuseppe's.
It's not fancy. Just this tiny old-school Italian ice place downtown with neon lights that flicker like they're on life support.
But the second you walk in? Sugar heaven.
The smell, the colors, the flavors—cherry, lemon, mango, even weird ones like licorice and mint, cheese. Zach swears it's the best Italian ice on earth, and he's probably right.
It was his dad's spot back in college. Henry Westbrook, certified Italian ice addict. He used to say it was the only way to survive Florida heat. He dragged Zach and Sam there all the time, and since I was basically the honorary third Westbrook kid, I got dragged right along too.
Then Henry died two years ago. Cancer.
And it gutted Zach. Hockey was their thing. His dad taught him how to skate, how to shoot, how to always get back up. For a while, Zach didn't even want to touch his stick.
Until one night, he showed up at my door and said,"Wanna go to Giuseppe's?"
We sat in our usual booth—him with cherry ice, me with pistachio—and for the first time since the funeral, he smiled. Just a little. But it was real.
Since then, it's been our tradition. Win or lose, every game ends with Giuseppe's. Just the two of us.
Well... it was supposed to be the five of us tonight—me, Zach, Sam, and our moms. A little family victory lap with Italian ice. But right before the game ended, Sam started feeling sick. Charlene didn't want to risk it, so they both rushed home with my mom tagging along to help.
Which leaves me.
Standing here, waiting.
Just me and Zach.
Not that I'm complaining.
CHAPTER TWO
CAROLINE
The locker room door finally bursts open, and the hallway goes insane. Players start pouring out, sweaty, duffels slung over their shoulders, grinning like maniacs.
I straighten immediately, standing on my tiptoes, scanning for Zach. But of course, I can't see him. Not right away. Because the second a Everglades jersey appears, girls swarm like it's Black Friday.
And then he shows.MyZach.
Before I can even breathe, Cici lets out this ear-piercing squeal, "Zach!" and practically launches herself at him. She hooks her arm through his like she's been doing it her wholelife, batting those fake lashes like they're weapons. Laughing too loud. Touching his arm like she owns it.
Meanwhile, the rest of the cheer squad attach themselves to other players like moths to a flame. The guys don't even hesitate—arms slung around waists, jerseys tugged, grins that scream playboy energy.
It's ridiculous. They look like a walking Abercrombie ad, all cocky posture and messy hair.
I stay rooted in place, waiting. Waiting for Zach to notice me.
He's still preoccupied—teammates hanging off each other, the whole crew buzzing about where to go next.
"Yo, Z," Tyler calls, smacking his shoulder. "Jacob's place tonight?"
"Yeah, man, you in?" another chimes in—Coby, the one with the sharp buzz cut who looks like he was born ready for a fight.
Jacob—the team's goalie—aka king of after-game parties. His house is basically hockey HQ. Huge place, unlimited booze, and no parents. They're always jetting off on business trips overseas, so the place is just permanently up for grabs. Everybody knows if you're celebrating an Everglades win, you're celebrating at Jacob's.
