*****
La Playa is ours for over an hour, and it looks like a bomb went off — shot glasses scattered like landmines, half-eaten nachos sagging in the middle of the table, and my teammates laughing like hyenas who just discovered fire.
A couple of the guys are already half-gone. Rourke slouches so low in his chair he looks like he's trying to melt into the floor, mumbling a love song to his beer. Tristan's got that glassy stare, like his brain has clocked out but his body's still on autopilot, chewing on lime wedges like they're candy.
But hell, after the grind we went through at practice, we need this. Correction — wedeservethis. You skate suicides for two hours straight and tell me you wouldn't want to drown in tequila after.
The draft comes up like it always does lately. Six Ridgewater boys went first round back in June. Six. No other school touched that number. Five of them already graduated this year. And then there's me.
Cody, wedged between Elijah and me, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder hard enough to make my teeth click. "To our boy Zach! Florida freakin' Panthers, baby!"
The table breaks into whistles and cheers, a couple pounding on the wood like they're calling last call for the apocalypse.
Tristan leans across with a sloppy grin, pointing between me and Elijah. "Man, that's wild. Elijah got scooped up by Florida last year, and now they take Zach too? You two are literally gonna be Panthers together. That's insane."
The whole table erupts again, beer bottles lifted like a hockey crowd after a hat trick.
Elijah just chuckles, shaking his head like we're all idiots, and raises his bottle toward me. I smirk and clink mine against his.
Can't lie — it feels good. Surreal, even. I've been skating with Elijah since peewee. We survived Ridgewater together, and now... NHL teammates. The same team. Florida freakin' Panthers. Back-to-back Stanley Cup champions.
And honestly? I can't picture lining up against him. Not 'cause he's a beast — though he is. It's just... after years of playing side by side, our game is wired together. Like muscle memory. We know each other's next move before even making it.
"Zach's just happy he doesn't have to eat Elijah's slapshots in practice anymore," Cody snorts, and the table cracks up again.
"Please," I shoot back, rolling my eyes. "I've been carrying his ass since peewee. Panthers are lucky they're getting the full package now."
Elijah barks a laugh. "Carrying me? Bro, the only thing you've carried since peewee is your ego. And even that's too heavy for you."
We crack up, bottles clinking again, this time harder, like we're trying to break the glass.
My eyes drift across the table to the twins. Of course they've each got a puck bunny planted on their lap — Nikki draped all over Liam, Chanel hanging off Luke. Two of the most well-known bunnies on campus, like it's their damn job. They don't just show up at games; they follow the teameverywhere.
It's gotten to the point where them showing up atthe Pondfeels less like visiting and more like they've got some premium membership. Costco Wholesale vibes — walk in, getloaded up, and they've basically sampled half the roster.
Liam leans in close to Nikki's ear, one hand twirling a strand of her hair slow, while the other is bold as hell, cupping her assright there at the table. Whispering some bullshit to get inside her pants.
Knowing Liam, he's not asking. He's flat-outtellingher they should sneak into the bar's restroom. His lips graze her ear, a quick nip that makes her shiver.
He leans back just enough to catch her face and grins wider — cocky bastard knows he's got her. He doesn't even have to work hard for it. Puck bunnies are way too easy to get laid.
Nikki shoots up from her chair, tugging at his arm like she can't drag him fast enough.
Sex is written all over her face — like she just won the damn lottery finally bagging one of the Archer twins.
Liam pushes back his chair, and without a word, cuts his eyes to the side. Luke meets his eyes and gives the smallest nod, like yeah, he knows exactly where his twin's headed.
Luke shifts his attention back to the girl glued to his lap, lips swollen from the way she was eating his face a second ago. Lipstick's smeared across his jaw like a damn marker. She's purring all over him, nails dragging across his chest like she's trying to leave scratches.
"I'll be cheering for you on Friday, baby," she murmurs, eyes half-shut, voice dripping like syrup, "wearing nothing but your jersey. Just your number stretched over me, nothing under..." Her hand's crawling all over his chest, like she's trying to climb inside his skin.
"So, when you win, you can rip it off and fuck me right after."
Luke just grins — cocky, quiet. Doesn't need to say shit. That smirk tells me he's already picturing it.
"Mm, fuck, baby... you know me well." His hand slides higher, fingers already under her skirt.
Chanel gasps, body jolting against him, eyes locking on his like they're straight-up eye-fucking across inches of air.
