You stood in the parking lot, your chest heaving, the sting of betrayal making your vision blur. Moments ago, you’d stumbled upon Alex—your boyfriend and the captain of the hockey team—locked in a kiss with Kyla, the very girl who had haunted your suspicions for weeks. The scene replayed in your mind, painfully vivid, leaving no room for doubt.

Without a word, you’d turned on your heel and stormed out of the gym, swallowing the lump in your throat and biting back the tears that threatened to spill.

When you reached Alex’s car, the rage bubbling inside you finally boiled over. You glanced around, making sure no one was watching. The parking lot was quiet, deserted. Feeling a twisted sense of relief at the privacy, you raised your foot and kicked the side of his car.

The first kick felt good—too good. One kick became two, then three, the sharp thud of your shoe against the cold metal echoing in the still air. Each strike seemed to carry a piece of your frustration, of the humiliation still burning in your chest.

“You’ve got a pretty good kick,” a low voice drawled, stopping you mid-swing.

You froze, the breath catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned toward the source of the voice, and there he was—Ricky, leaning casually against his own car parked just a few feet away. His arms were crossed, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as they flicked between you and Alex’s dented car.

Ricky Woodson.

The captain of the rival hockey team, Alex’s eternal nemesis, and the last person you’d expect to witness such an unhinged moment.

Heat rushed to your face, and you instinctively stepped back from the car, smoothing your hands down your sides as if that could erase what he’d just seen.

For a fleeting second, you considered running. Pretending this never happened. But then Ricky’s voice came again, cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

"I’ve got some hockey sticks in my car if you want to do some real damage," he said, his grin widening into something equal parts playful and wicked.