Thrown for a Loop

Book 1: New York Legends Hockey

by Sarina Bowen

Genres: Romantic Comedy; Sports Romance

Synopsis

Fans suspect that the bad boy of hockey has a few skeletons in his closet. They have no idea he also has a sparkly bodysuit…  #toepick! 

When they met at figure skating camp ten years ago, Chase Merritt was a scrappy hockey player from the wrong part of town, and Zoe Carson was the up-and-coming ice princess. They fell in love faster than you can say triple toe loop, until Zoe makes a fateful error that ends up costing Chase dearly. 

Almost a decade later, their fortunes are reversed. Chase is the MVP of the New York Legends hockey team, while Zoe—their new skating coach—has years’ worth of personal and professional bruises. It’s hard to face him again—all six feet and two hundred pounds of muscle and swagger.  

And anger. Chase is in hot water with management, and refusing to work with Coach Zoe no matter how badly he needs to shore up his stride—and his image. Until a journalist digs up an old video of Zoe and Chase performing a skating program, and the internet goes wild. 

Management seizes on the opportunity for a P.R. redemption, ordering Zoe and Chase to reprise their flashy routine. 

Skating with him again—to a love song, of course—is pure agony. But it’s also Zoe’s only chance to unpack the truth of what really happened that night ten years ago. And to at least find forgiveness, if she can’t win back his heart.

Release date: November 4, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

January

Nerves of steel.” That’s how an NBC commentator once described me during my Olympic-medal performance. And Sports Illustrated captioned my photo with “Grace under pressure.”

If they could see me now, they’d file a retraction. My palms are sweaty as I cross the gleaming marble atrium of the New York Legends hockey team headquarters.

In theory, this is a dream come true. In reality, I just moved to the most expensive city on the East Coast for a part-time job offered to me only after the previous two candidates fell through. But I’ve always been impulsive.

So here I stand, my heart rabbity inside my chest. “Good afternoon,” I greet the security guard, an older white man with a handlebar mustache. “My name is—”

“Zoe Carson!” chirps a female voice. I glance past the security turnstiles to see a young woman scampering down the escalator in my direction. She’s a smartly dressed redhead with a quick smile. “I have your employee ID.” She practically skids to a stop on the other side of the turnstile. Then she waves a card over the sensor. The light turns green and the gates slide open for me. “You’re in!”

“Wow, thanks,” I say, nodding a silent thank-you to the guard and then walking through to the other side of the security barrier.

“You’re welcome!” She beams. At least one person is happy to see me. “I’m Darcy Kendrick, Nolan Sharp’s assistant.”

I’m sorry is the first response that pops into my head. Sharp is my new boss, the same man who’s responsible for half the anxiety that’s sloshing through my bloodstream.

The other half, though, belongs to a certain hockey star who’s probably somewhere in the building.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, offering a hand to Darcy.

She gives it a quick pump, then hands over my ID. “Here you go. I put a lanyard and some swag in your locker. But first, let’s check out the main rink, and you can see the guys in action.” Darcy waves her ID in front of another scanner and opens a door to reveal a gleaming rink with bleacher seating.

I follow her inside like a puppy—if puppies were full of dread.

“We need you, Zoe,” Darcy says. “Our stats are shakier than they should be at mid-season. And the last skating coach bailed on us.”

“Why was that?” I hear myself ask.

“He moved to Sweden for better job security.” She shrugs. “I can’t imagine that his new team is better than this one, but I’m very biased. This team can win. We’re just in a slump.”

We walk right down to the plexiglass, where hockey players in blue and red practice jerseys whiz past. I turn a critical eye to their skating. One of the defensemen sends a shower of ice chips flying as he accelerates after his teammate. His stride is powerful, but I notice a shallowness in his crossovers that could cost him precious seconds in a game.

That’s why I’m here. The Legends are fifth place in their division, which isn’t great. But it’s only January. There’s still time to climb the ranks and secure a bid for the playoffs. If these men trust my coaching, I can make a difference.

The whistle blows. Another player suddenly skates close to the glass, and my heart leaps into my throat. When he lifts his gaze to the spot where we’re standing, I stop breathing.

But the skater isn’t anyone I’ve met, although he lifts a hand in a friendly wave, which Darcy returns.

“Now let’s get you upstairs,” she says, herding me out of the rink and onto one of the escalators that climb through the glittering atrium. As we rise, she points out two more practice rinks and other world-class facilities.

This job could be a godsend. So why do I feel so sweaty? Oh, right. The memory of a pair of ethereal blue eyes crosses my mind like a shadow, and my stomach tilts again.

That second coffee was definitely a mistake.

As we step onto the final escalator, I spy a cluster of men on the fourth floor, in the players’ lounge. Tall bodies. Broad shoulders.

Oh God. I’ve spent the whole day wondering what Chase Merritt will say when we finally come face-to-face. The team gave me every player’s contact information as soon as I took this job so that I could reach out to each of them and set up our first coaching session.

I spent hours writing and rewriting my first email to Chase. The first few drafts had begun Maybe you don’t remember me… But then I’d deleted that in favor of a breezier greeting.

At least I hope it was breezier. Writing a business email to the man who once broke your heart isn’t easy.

I still haven’t gotten a reply, in spite of checking my email approximately eleventy billion times. And now I’m so tense I could burst.

When we reach the fourth floor, Darcy turns toward the left, away from the glassed-in players’ lounge. “This is the C-suite,” she announces, leading me through an open archway into a grand office suite bedecked with plush carpets and a giant Legends logo on the paneled wall. “Beyond the bigwigs’ offices are the rest of the coaching staff, and corporate employees—including your cubicle.”

“Nice.”

She leads me toward her own desk, offering to hang up my winter jacket. “Look, Zoe,” she says. “I’m going to level with you. I’m very excited to have you in the front office. You have no idea.”

This snaps me out of my nervous reverie, and I focus on her pixie-like face. She’s smiling a little maniacally, and I can’t help but think Here we go again.

This still happens sometimes—the whole skating groupie thing. For some people, it doesn’t matter that I gave a disappointing performance at the Olympics. That I let my team down with a silver instead of a gold. Or that I bailed on my entire skating career four years later—right before the games.

Some people are just so fired up about figure skating that they want to talk about it, even if that’s not my scene anymore. Not even a little. So I paste on a polite smile and wait.

“Not to make this awkward,” she says, fitting my coat onto a hanger. “But it will be so great to have another woman on staff! Plus I saw your address on your HR file—my place is two streets over.”

I blink. “Howdy, neighbor.”

She laughs nervously as she puts the hanger on a coatrack. “I mean—this job can be such a sausage fest. And I could really use a work friend. Sorry if I made it super awkward. You’re probably wondering how fast you can install a doorbell camera and change your phone number.”

“Not at all,” I say, still catching up. “I totally get it. We should have a drink together.”

Her eyes light up again. “Yes to drinks. Or pedicures! Or both at the same time. Is that a thing? It should be a thing. And the team is leaving for their game at five if you’re free this evening.”

“Tonight works fine.” I’m basically friendless in New York. “But you’ll have to pick the spot.”

She clasps her hands together. “Yay! I’m hyped. Now let’s say hello to Mr. Sharp, okay? He’ll want to welcome you himself.” She frowns. “At least in his own special way.”

Yikes. “Let’s do it.”

I follow her toward his office, setting my shoulders back and lifting my chin. It’s the classic power stance that I was taught at age six. Straighten your spine, Zoe! If you don’t hold your body in a confident way, the panel of judges won’t believe in you.

That’s the kind of winning energy I need right now. Every interaction I’ve had with Sharp so far was more like a wrestling match with a porcupine than a friendly conversation.

Luckily, tolerating difficult people is my superpower. I’ll just have to dazzle Sharp with my work ethic and deep knowledge of the sport.

Darcy marches up to his door, and I watch her take a slow breath before she knocks.

“What?” a voice croaks from inside. “There’s no one I want to see right now—unless they brought me a double macchiato.”

Darcy opens the door, revealing the jowly grump seated behind his big boat of a desk. “Sir, if you have any more caffeine, they’ll use you to power the team jet. And the new skating coach is here. I brought her in so you could say hello.”

“Ah, the ice dancer,” he says, failing to look up from his phone. “She starts today?”

Darcy briefly closes her eyes, as if in pain, and her pale eyelashes flutter. “Yessir. Coach Carson is here to say hello, and then maybe you can show her around.”

He scrolls a little further, ignoring us for a long, awkward beat. And then finally he puts the phone face down on the desk. He looks up, eyes sunk into his leathery face, and gives me an assessing glance. “Zoe Carson,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Twenty-eight years old, former figure skater, new hockey fan.”

“Not so new,” I insist before I can think better of arguing with my new boss on my first day. “I grew up at hockey rinks, where they only gave the figure skaters ice time when it was convenient.”

“So this is a grudge match?” he asks, bushy eyebrows rising.

I whip out my best ice-princess smile. “I’m here to help hockey players skate faster. Call it whatever you wish.”

He rises from his desk and holds out his hand, but it’s grudging. “Welcome. You’re a real trailblazer, Carson. Let’s hope the trail doesn’t lead us off a cliff.”

Almost too annoyed to respond, I give him a firm handshake. “Thank you,” I manage.

“The challenge will be for someone like you to command the players’ respect and attention,” he says.

“Yessir.” You sexist ass. “I have a plan for that. Once they spend some time with me and hear what I have to offer, they’ll want to work with me again. And you’ll be ready to hand me a new contract for next year.”

His expression is entirely dubious. “We’ll see, Ms. Carson. You’ve got the rest of the season to impress me. I’ll be looking forward to your scouting reports as well. I think that’s where you’ll shine.”

“Count on it, sir,” I say stiffly.

Then he picks up his desk phone and pokes a button. “Aiden! Get over here. You’re touring the new girl around. And, Darcy? I want updated stats.”

“Yessir,” Darcy shoots back. She closes the door behind us as we leave the office, then sighs. “Sorry about all that attitude. He’s just tense about the Chicago game.”

“Is he extra spicy today?” asks a deep male voice.

I glance up to see a white guy with an attractive chestnut beard smiling at us.

“Zoe,” Darcy says, “this is Aiden Sharp. He works with the coaching staff. Aiden, this is Zoe Carson, our new skating coach.”

“Mr. Sharp,” I say, taking care to make eye contact and smile as we shake hands.

“Nice to meet you,” Aiden says. “Lucky for all of us, I don’t have the same personality as my father.”

“Oh.” I swallow my surprise. “Nice to meet you, too.”

He winks. “I heard about you. Figure skater, right?”

“Not anymore,” I say firmly. “Think of me as a skating nerd. I’m interested in the mechanics of skating faster and more efficiently, no matter the sport.” I’ll be giving this same stump speech over and over until people believe me.

“Cool,” he says with another smile. “Can’t wait to see what you can do for our guys. My job is supporting all the coaching staff, so that means you, too. Let me give you a quick tour? And we’ll meet some players.”

“Great,” I say, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “Lead on.”

“Don’t forget about drinks!” Darcy says as she takes her seat. “Come back up here when you’re done.”

“Will do!” I give her a friendly wave and follow Aiden onto the escalator.

He takes me down to the second level and shows me the staff lockers and the equipment room. But it’s hard to concentrate when I’m dreading a run-in with Chase Merritt at any moment.

My tour guide waves a hand toward another set of doors. “Through there you’ll find the players’ dressing room and the steam room. Also ice baths and the like. We’ll skip the tour for now, because the players will be showering.”

“Right. Of course.” I feel a drop of sweat roll down my back. “It’s better to meet them when they’re less…” My poor overwhelmed brain struggles for an ending. “Naked.”

He laughs. “Good plan.”

The panel of judges in my mind shake their collective heads. Not smooth, Carson.

I’ve got to pull it together. And I’ve got to do it soon.

Somehow I survive the tour with Aiden and a quick introduction to Max Fairweather, the Legends’ head coach. He’s another hockey star with a long career in coaching.

When I get back to my desk, Darcy has a big grin on her face.

“Look!” she says. “FedEx just dropped this off. I had to order it for you with rush delivery. I hope it fits. Try it on!”

I take the lightweight down jacket, which has sleek styling and the Legends logo splashed smartly across the back. The shoulder even has a patch that reads COACH on it. And I can’t help but smile as I pull it on.

“Look at you!” Darcy crows as the phone on her desk begins to ring. “Now you’re one of us. Oh, heck.” She dives for a blinking light on her phone console while I surreptitiously admire my new jacket, reflected in one of the many panels of glass that surround the office.

I look like a successful skating coach. At least I’ve got that going for me. Fake it ’til you make it, Zoe. That’s another thing they taught me as a child.

“DARCY!” bellows Nolan Sharp from within his office. “I need that report before I go!”

She looks up, phone pressed to her ear. With wild eyes, she glances toward the printer on a nearby wall. “Okay, but what about Friday?” she says to whoever is on the phone, and then scribbles down their answer on a legal pad. Meanwhile, the multiline phone starts ringing again with an urgent electronic trill.

Trying to help, I step over to the printer and grab a document off the output tray.

Thank you, she mouths, taking it from me. “Linda, this is all very helpful, but I’m going to have to call you back tomorrow,” she says. “Right. Yes. But tomorrow—”

After another moment of wrangling, she finally hangs up. “God. I need a minute. Sorry,” she says to me, aiming the report I’ve given her at the stapler and smacking the handle with great force. Then she dashes into the manager’s office, emerging two seconds later empty-handed.

“Not the adversary report!” Sharp barks. “I wanted the scouting report! And where’s the damn bus?”

She whispers a curse under her breath. “On it!” she calls back. To me she says, “The team driver was sick, there’s a storm brewing over the plains, and Mr. Bossypants is on a tear—”

The phone on her desk trills again.

Darcy squints at the caller ID and closes her eyes briefly, as if in pain. “Hell. This is the third time she’s called today.” Darcy grabs the phone and answers it. She negotiates with the caller for a moment and then frowns. “If it’s really that urgent, let me see if he can be located. Hold, please.” She taps a button.

“DARCY!” bellows Sharp. “NOW! We’re leaving in five!”

“Anything I can do to help?” I offer.

She takes a deep breath. “Oh God, yes. Can you poke your head into the players’ lounge and tell Chase Merritt that he’s wanted in the GM’s office?”

“Chase Merritt?” I gulp.

“Yeah—winger? High scorer last year? Eyes like the Caribbean Sea?” She pounds on her computer keyboard like it’s on fire. “The GM doesn’t really need him, but I’m tired of answering calls for him.”

I take a step back from her desk, as if to put distance between Darcy and this unfortunate request. “Um…”

“Please? First round’s on me tonight,” she says, hitting print on a document and then running toward the printer. “I’ll be your best friend!”

Shit! Panicking, I walk slowly toward the players’ lounge. Maybe I won’t be able to find him.

No such luck, though. My gaze finds him immediately. If picking Chase Merritt out of a crowd were an Olympic sport, I’d have the gold medal. It’s always been like this. From the tilt of his rugged chin, to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. I see it all, and I can’t look away. Even from across the room, I notice the confident set of his shoulders and the way his hair—the color of darkened wheat—curls against the back of his kissable neck.

Hell.

I glance toward Darcy’s desk again. She’s watching me through the glass. And when I hesitate, she points frantically toward Chase.

So I take a breath and step forward. For years I’ve pictured the moment when I’d get one more chance to speak to him. I’ve played this like a movie in my mind—what I wanted to say and how he might respond. It never looked anything like this.

But I close the distance anyway. He’s standing with the team captain, mid-conversation, a smirk playing at his mouth.

My expression softens automatically. It doesn’t matter how nervous I am right now, because the greediest corner of my heart still craves this. I thought I’d never see Chase again, yet here we are.

Then he turns, and our gazes meet. Finally.

Except it’s worse than I expected. Because Chase Merritt stares back at me with fury burning in his deep blue eyes.

Clearly I’ve made a colossal mistake.

Nine and a Half Years Ago

June

Backpack over his shoulder, Chase Merritt whistles as he leaves the gym, his muscles twitching from that last set of squats. It’s June, so he’s had the Western Massachusetts University weight room mostly to himself.

His hockey teammates back in Minnesota would have a good laugh if they could see him pulling open the door of the arena under the Ice Dreams Figure Skating Camp banner.

He doesn’t much care, though. Working here for eight weeks as an assistant coach and camp counselor means free room and board, gym access, ice time, and a paycheck, with every penny heading straight into his depleted bank account. The camp even paid him gas money for the trip out here.

Best side hustle ever.

As he reaches the lobby, the familiar scent of rink ice washes over him—cold air and sharpened blades, with notes of old popcorn and socks. All his best moments have happened in places just like this one.

Before he can reach the rink, though, a woman flags him down. She’s a ponytailed volunteer sitting in front of an array of ID tags on colorful lanyards. And he doesn’t miss the way her eyes widen when he stops at her table.

“Well, hi,” she says, with a skittering gaze that takes in his sweaty T-shirt. “This is, um, a figure skating camp.”

“I know,” he says, holding back a smile. “Last name is Merritt.”

She blinks. “Oh.” After a beat, she looks down at the table and plucks his ID off it. “Sorry. And you’re an assistant coach, too.” She hands him the red lanyard, and the ID inside reads STAFF. “I’ve got your handbook. And what’s your T-shirt size? They run small.”

“Then let’s go with extra large.”

She hands over an orange T-shirt and directs him to where coaches and campers are gathering.

He heads for the open door to the arena, shoving the shirt and the handbook—which is surprisingly thick—into his backpack. The rules of his eight-week tenure here have already been made clear to him by his college hockey coach, who got him this job. Coach Walsh’s sister is the woman who runs this camp.

“You’re there to help my sister herd the cats, work out like a beast, and stay on top of your cardio. The only real rule is not to touch the campers. They’re high school girls, no matter how hard they throw themselves at you. And for fuck’s sake, don’t touch my niece, or I’ll cut off your dick with a dull skate blade.”

“Gross, Coach. Like I’d be that stupid anyway.”

He will, however, make nice with Coach Walsh’s sister. And at some point he’ll figure out which of the girls is the young Miss Walsh, so he can be extra nice to her. He knows where his bagel is buttered.

As he passes through the doors and into the bowl-shaped arena, there’s no mistaking the vibe of the room. Campers and their parents gather in the bleachers at one end of the rink. As he strides down the wide concrete risers toward the crowd, the sound of girlish voices rises. It’s like approaching a hive of bees, all of them buzzing at once, heads bent together in shiny clusters of conversation.

The last time Chase put on figure skates, he was in middle school. By then, he’d already transferred his interest to hockey. When he was young, though, he used to accompany his mother to the rink on Saturdays, where she taught figure skating. Sometimes he helped with the cones and the music. Sometimes he skated in every group class, back to back.

In between sessions, she’d buy him treats at the snack bar. A day out with Mom was infinitely more fun than staying home at the mercy of his father’s volatile moods. You’re a waste of space was something he heard a lot, usually followed by Get out of my sight.

At the rink, though, everyone loved him. And figure skating is like riding a bike—he hasn’t forgotten how. Sometimes he still throws jumps in his hockey skates before practice, mostly to amuse his teammates and also to impress women.

That’s how he got this job. During the playoffs, Coach Walsh noticed him throwing a toe loop. The man chewed him out for fooling around, then offered him a summer job in the next breath. “Good money, easy work. All the Walshes are hard-asses, though. Consider yourself warned.”

Even in a crowd, it isn’t difficult to pick out the hard-ass in question. She’s at the center of the action, holding a clipboard and wearing a whistle as various campers and parents approach with their questions.

Besides—she looks like the female version of Coach Walsh, and that’s not really a compliment. It’s the square face and the frown lines at her mouth. They could even be twins.

Chase works his way down to her and waits patiently while somebody’s mom has an urgent word. “The EpiPen has to be on her at all times.”

Coach Walsh lifts a jaded eyebrow. “Even on the rink?”

“When she’s skating, it’s on the bench.”

“Certainly. It will be done,” Coach Pat Walsh says, scribbling something on the clipboard. Then it’s Chase’s turn, and he offers his hand. His life might be chaotic, but he knows how to pass himself off as a gentleman. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Chase Merritt.”

She glances up with cool gray eyes and gives his hand a surprisingly firm pump. “So you’re the hockey player,” she says the way someone else would say So you’re the flesh-eating bacteria.

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives her his most obsequious smile. “Happy to wear a different pair of skates this summer, though.”

She frowns. “Read the rule book. Early is on time, and on time is late. You’re responsible for making sure your campers make it to the early sessions. No girls allowed in entryway F. For any reason. No boys allowed in entryways A through E. And no campers in your car, ever.”

“Got it,” he says, forcing another smile.

“Find your guys over there.” She hooks her thumb toward one end of the bleachers. “Oh, and put the camp T-shirt on—it stays on today and tomorrow. You’re an authority figure.”

“Right. Sure thing.”

But he’s already been dismissed, so he turns around and makes his way through the crowd to the far end of the bleachers, where eight or ten teenage boys have isolated themselves.

Versus, what, a hundred girls? The ratio would be hilarious, except that’s exactly why they’re paying Chase the big bucks. The camp teaches pairs skating, and there are never enough boys to practice the lifts. Chase is making double what he could earn anywhere else just to hoist girls in spandex and put them down again.

Best. Scam. Ever. And good for the guns, too. By the end of the summer he’ll be both rich and ripped.

He climbs over the first couple of rows of bleachers and addresses his little cohort. “Hey, dudes. My name is Chase Merritt. How’s it going?” Remembering the T-shirt, he unzips his pack and pulls out the orange monstrosity. Then he strips off his slightly sweaty gym shirt and pulls the new one over his head.

When his face clears the shirt, several teenagers are gaping up at him. “Wait,” says one of the two boys sitting side by side in front of him. The kid’s name tag reads ETHAN KIM. “Are you the new counselor?”

“Seems so.”

“Um, wow,” the other kid says. “Feel free to take off your shirt at any time.”

Ethan elbows him to shut up.

Chase ignores the comment, tugs the fabric into place. “So, dudes, what do I need to know?”

“I’m, uh, Ethan, and this jackass is Joon-ho,” Ethan says. “We’re roommates. Both sixteen, both from Southern California. This is our third year with the program.”

“Nice to meet you,” Chase says. “Now give me the dirt. Who rules this place? Who should I avoid? Where do we get the best pizza? Which rules do they care most about, and which ones don’t matter?”

“They care about all the rules,” Joon-ho says with a snort. “And we’re not allowed to order pizza or leave campus.”

“But you’re probably allowed to leave,” Ethan puts in. “And, like, bring us back a pizza? For a treat sometime?”

Chase shrugs, promising nothing.

“Coach Pat is pretty intense,” Ethan adds. “You don’t want to get on her bad side. Also, watch out for the bunheads.” He gestures toward a group of girls seated a short distance away. “They’re, like, always auditioning for the next Mean Girls movie, if you know what I mean. The worst one is Melanie.”

Bunheads. Chase cracks a smile and glances toward them. Sure enough, they all have identical hairstyles. There’s a blonde who’s already staring at him.

“Ooh, you’re on her radar now,” Ethan says. “Not good.”

“But they’ll be nice to him,” Joon-ho argues. “Besides, things might be a little different this year now that we have Zoe. Might take ’em down a notch.”

“Who’s Zoe?” Chase has to ask.

Ethan gives him a skeptical look. Then he points.

Chase turns all the way around before he spots a lone figure gliding across the otherwise empty ice. She’s a young woman, wearing workout tights, a faded Western Mass sweatshirt, and earbuds. She seems to be marking a skating combination, each movement a flick, the mere suggestion of a glide or spin.

Even so, she moves more gracefully than most humans could ever dream to. As if her skates are an extension of her feet, and her arms are more fluid than a normal person’s.

The beehive sound around Chase dims. Or maybe that’s just how it feels. Suddenly this girl, Zoe, springs off the ice into an axel, as if she has a special agreement with gravity. The jump is so smoothly rotated that it looks like slo-mo. She seems to hover in the air before alighting again, only to pop immediately into a second jump.

The hair stands up on his arms.

“Everyone sit down!” Coach Pat calls, clapping her hands together. “Let’s go over some rules and expectations!”

Chase sinks onto the bench without being conscious of doing so. His eyes don’t leave Zoe. Having landed an exquisite combination, she casually skates backward for a half rotation of the rink, her expression inward and contemplative. As if she’s the only one in the arena.

“Shiiiit,” Ethan hisses behind him. “I should just quit, right? I’ll never skate like that.”

Zoe circles back around, and when the next jump comes, it startles him all over again. It’s the effortlessness of it. Well, not truly. He’s an athlete, too, and he knows that anything impressive requires a shit ton of effort. But damn. She has that X factor—that something special that separates the talented from the otherworldly.

He isn’t the only one who’s noticed. Every eye is on Zoe, who can’t even be bothered to notice. She’s at the far side now, facing the other way. Inside her own head.

But up front, Coach Pat is still talking, and nobody is listening. When their fea. . .