“What’s wrong?” Dallas smirked, needling him. “You worried you can’t do it?”
Ty scoffed. “Of course I can. And I’m about to.”
Tyler’s weaknesses also included being proud to a fault, which made him easy to manipulate.
“I hear the Bulldogs tanked their preseason games,” Dallas added. “One-four-one. Probably won’t be hard.”
Had I known the wager would be this easy to win, I would have gotten more creative.
Three minutes into the game, the Bulldogs’ goalie failed to block Ward’s slapshot straight through the five-hole. Like he was asleep at the stick or something. Then everything went to shit for them. In the first period alone, they took several weak penalties, including tripping, slashing, spearing, and one for too many men on the ice—because apparently, in addition to forgetting how to skate, they’d also forgotten how to count.
As the second period began, we were in great spirits. Meanwhile, the Bulldogs were getting their asses kicked.
I watched as Dallas’s backhand narrowly missed the net, hitting the boards and rebounding into the corner. One of the Bulldogs’ D-men, Derek James, beat us to it and took possession, but he choked, freezing on the spot. I skated backward in position near the net while our other winger charged. Instead of taking the time to line up like he should have, Derek panicked and tried to pass to his teammate. His shot went wide, and I intercepted the puck in front of the net. With a flick of my wrist, the buzzer sounded again.
Beauty.
With a fist pump, I skated off and hopped onto the home bench.
“Sick goal.” Dallas laughed, clapping me on the back. “But you just sealed your fate.”
Not even two minutes into the second, the score was 3-0 in our favor—fulfilling the terms of our bet. Maybe I should have set the bar higher. But to be fair, I hadn’t expected the Bulldogs to make it this easy for us.
Now the Bulldogs’ first offensive line was skating aimlessly like they needed a fucking map for directions to the net. Morrison might have benefitted from a compass too.
The wheels had not only fallen off; the vehicle was on fire.
It was goddamn glorious.
“Tyler still has to bring home the shutout,” I said.
Maybe the Bulldogs would pull their heads out of their asses and score one goal so I could skip the nightclub crap. Wait, no. What the fuck? I hated myself for even thinking that. The more humiliating the defeat for Callingwood, the better.
“Please. Have you seen him tonight?” Dallas jutted his chin toward our net. “He’s a brick wall.”
“We’ll see.”
“Start planning your hair and outfit,” he said. “You’re coming.”
Fucking hell. A victim of my own success.
“Fine.” I leaned over and snagged my water bottle. “Go big or go home. If I’m going to lose this dumb bet, we might as well crush them.”
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTER 3
OceanofPDF.com
THE HELL YOU ARE
Bailey
Cheers erupted from the crowd as the buzzer sounded and the scoreboard changed. Much to my dismay, the bright red letters now read four-nothing, Falcons.
Being the away team always sucked, but it was especially bad when we were getting our asses handed to us like this.
Our goalie, Eddie Mendez, threw his stick and let out a string of colorful curses that echoed throughout the arena. I held my breath, waiting to see if Coach Brown would pull him, but he stayed on. My brother Derek pulled off his blue and white gloves and skated to the away bench, shaking his head. He was upset with himself over the botched defensive play, not with Mendez for letting it in.
And beside the net, Chase Carter—left winger for the Falcons—did a celebratory fist pump and glided over to the home bench to high-five his teammates and gloat like he always did. Irritation rippled through me.
“I hate him,” I muttered.
Amelia nodded. “Me too. He’s the worst.”
I didn’t have a strong emotional reaction to many players, good or bad, but Carter was the exception. He was the definition of obnoxious. Cockiness in a crimson jersey.
Smugness on skates.
Sure, he was good—a gritty first-or second-line winger in a Division I league—but his massive ego was disproportionate to his level of skill. And he was notorious for trash talking and causing fights between our respective teams. Specifically, for initiating altercations that ended with us taking penalties and the Falcons scoring while we were short-handed.
He wasn’t just chippy; he was downright devious.
At the end of the regular season last spring, Carter and Derek crossed paths in the second period. Despite Carter’s clear instigation, Derek received a game misconduct while Carter got off scot-free. Losing my brother had hurt, given the team was already down several defensemen due to injuries. In the end, we lost by one goal—and missed out on qualifying for the playoffs. Derek was still holding a grudge against Carter. And so was I.
We fell silent again, watching the massacre on the ice continue. Or Amelia did, anyway. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Luke. Even when he was on the bench, it was impossible to focus anywhere but on him for more than a few seconds.
She nudged me with her elbow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I wrapped my arms around my body, wishing I’d worn a jacket over my gray hoodie. Boyd University’s arena, Northridge Center, was always bitterly cold, but I’d been in such a daze that I hadn’t even thought about it before walking out the door.
“Have you guys talked since?”
“Kind of,” I said. “Not really.”
Luke had sent me a string of increasingly frantic apology texts this afternoon. Not trying to get me back so much as attempting damage control, echoing last night’s pleas to remain friends. At first, I ignored him, but after his fifth text, I finally caved and replied, telling him it was fine (it obviously wasn’t) and that I just needed some time (as in, forever). Partly because I was a pushover, and partly because I didn’t want drama between us to take his head out of the game tonight. Regardless of how I actually felt, I needed to placate him so he didn’t blow it for the rest of the team.
Despite that, Luke was almost unrecognizable on the ice tonight—slow, distracted, and all kinds of useless. He had already taken more penalties than he had in any game last season. Stupid penalties too, like obvious hooking and high-sticking. I couldn’t even blame Carter for those.
The rest of our team wasn’t faring much better. They were clearly upset with their lackluster performance, which was fueling a vicious cycle.
I wanted to tear my hair out over it all.
Amelia tipped forward, squinting at the players’ bench. “Ugh. What now?”
Paul and Carter were engaging in some sort of verbal back and forth through the plexiglass dividing the benches. Carter chirped something, and in response, Paul wound up and lobbed his water bottle over the partition, aiming for Carter’s head. He dodged it at the last minute and discreetly flipped Paul off while the coaches weren’t looking. But of course, the coaches caught the water bottle toss.
Like I said: devious.
Coach Brown shook his head and stormed over to Paul, pointing to the hallway that led to the locker room. Crap. It looked like he was being sent to change early.
Carter leaned his head back and laughed, then fist-bumped Ward beside him. The Falcons’ coach shot them a warning look, and their expressions sobered, but I swore I could see the smirk on Carter’s face from across the ice the second his coach turned.
“Carter again,” Amelia huffed. “That asshole.”
“But they’re buying right into it,” I pointed out. “He’s playing them like a fiddle.”