All boys—especially the ones stupid enough to dream big—feel that primal, electric rush when they rip a shot top shelf and the puck hits the back of the net like a damn firework. But me? Caleb Dawson? Yeah, I don’t just feel it—I live for it.

The second the red light flashes behind the goalie, I’m already tossing my arms wide, punching the air like I just won the Stanley Cup, and practically screaming my lungs out. The roar of the crowd hits me like a wave, but honestly? They could all vanish into thin air for all I care, because there’s only one person I’m trying to impress. And she’s standing on the other side of the rink, next to her dad—aka my coach—looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. But I see it: that tiny smirk she’s fighting, the one tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’s trying so hard not to let me know I’ve gotten under her skin.

And her eyes? Jesus. Those eyes are brighter than the arena lights, sparkling like they know every stupid thing I’ve ever done and still dare me to try something dumber.

God, I’m such an idiot for her.

I don’t even notice my teammates crashing into me, gloves smacking my helmet, everyone shouting over each other about what a sick goal it was. My mind’s already buzzing like I’ve mainlined six Red Bulls. I can’t help it—I’m grinning like a complete maniac as I skate back to center ice, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might punch its way out of my chest.

And then, because I have the impulse control of a hyperactive Labrador, I do it: I lift my stick, point it right at Guest and lock eyes with her like I’m the lead in one of those cheesy, low-budget ’80s sports movies I’m obsessed with. The ones where the underdog kid scores the winning goal and finally gets the girl. Yeah, I know how ridiculous I look—number 12, sweaty and breathless, eyes only for her—but I don’t care. Not one bit.

The entire bench goes feral. I hear gasps, hoots, someone literally wolf-whistling. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Coach’s face turning the shade of a tomato, his glare promising a bag skate I’ll remember for the rest of my life. But even that doesn’t snap me out of it. Because Guest? She’s shaking her head, rolling her eyes, but that smile she tries so hard to hide is still there—and that’s better than any goal I’ll ever score.

The world melts around us, the crowd’s cheers fuzzing into a warm, indistinct hum. It’s just me, the ice, and the girl who thinks I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And honestly? She’s absolutely right.