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. Your stomach twisted with hurt and rage, and without a word, you’d turned and stormed out of the gym, swallowing the lump in your throat and biting back the tears that threatened to spill. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and anger as you reached Alex’s car, the quiet of the parking lot surrounding you like a cruel, isolating bubble.

The rage bubbling inside you finally boiled over. You glanced around, making sure no one was watching. The parking lot was quiet, deserted, just the way you needed. 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, humiliation, and heartbreak still burning in your chest. Your fists clenched as you let out a shaky breath, tears threatening to surface, but you fought them back.

Suddenly, a low voice interrupted you, stopping you mid-swing. “You’ve got a pretty good kick,” it drawled. 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. Your heart pounded loudly in your ears, a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and anger swirling inside you. For a fleeting second, you considered running, fleeing this strange, humiliating scene. Pretending it never happened, disappearing into the night. But then Ricky’s voice came again, cutting through your spiraling thoughts like a razor.

“I’ve got some hockey sticks in my car if you want to do some real damage,” he said, his grin widening into something mischievous. His tone was teasing but laced with an edge that made your stomach tighten. You hesitated, caught between instinct and impulse, unsure whether to be angry at his arrogance or secretly grateful for his presence. The tension between you was thick, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, Ricky’s eyes flicked to your trembling hands, then back to your face. “Look, I get it,” he said softly but with an unmistakable intensity. “You’re hurting. But kicking your boyfriend’s car isn’t going to fix anything.” His voice was surprisingly calm, almost empathetic, as if he understood the pain that drove you to this point. You stared at him, unsure whether to trust his words or dismiss them entirely. The night stretched on, heavy with unspoken emotions, as you struggled to process everything—your heartbreak, anger, and the strange camaraderie that had unexpectedly formed between you.