With less than five minutes left in the first period, I hopped back on for another shift. I mean, why not? At this rate, I might as well stay out here the whole time.
As the blades of my skates connected with the ice, the Bulldogs lost possession of the puck and it slid across the blue line into their zone. Paul and I raced for it, but I made it there first. Before I could bring it out, he pulled up in a blur of navy and gave me a forceful shove, trying to separate me from the puck. We got stuck in the corner, locked in a heated puck battle. He attempted to stick-check, and when that failed, he accidentally-on-purpose slashed me in the hand with his blade. Hard. I sucked in a sharp breath as searing pain shot through my left hand and wrist.
Cheap motherfucker.
I hated him almost as much as I hated Morrison.
The whistle sounded as the ref called a justified minor penalty. And one that was more than needed for us. We could use the one-man advantage right now. I was nothing if not consistent in my ability to draw penalties from other teams.
Hand throbbing, I headed to our bench to make a line change, skating past the visitor bench on my way. As I passed, Morrison tipped forward, nodding at the scoreboard. “How’s it feel being down by two points after the first, Carter?”
This was his idea of trash talking. Pointing out the score.
“A hell of a lot better than being a free agent with shitty stats,” I said. “Must be stressful, man.”
Coming out of high school, Morrison was good enough to get into Callingwood, a respectable Division I school, but not good enough to get drafted to the NHL. He had a massive inferiority complex to show for it. Given his recent poor performance, he was set to flounder as a free agent when he left college next spring, praying a team would pick him up as scraps. Couldn’t happen to someone more deserving.
“I’ve got lots of interest from the league.” He glowered at me, squaring his shoulders from where he sat on their bench.
“Sure,” I said. “Even farm teams need a fourth line.”
Morrison was legitimately one of the most overrated players I knew. Had two mediocre years in the NCAA, followed by a short-lived hot streak in his third, which somehow landed him a captainship he didn’t deserve. He promptly shit the bed for his final season.
Unfortunately for him, one good year in college did not a professional career make. It took consistency and steady growth as a player. But that meant hard work, which was probably where the wheels fell off for his spoiled ass. All the money and training camps in the world couldn’t compensate for a total lack of grit. That was why I had a future in the bag and he didn’t, unless leeching off his wealthy parents counted.
His upper lip curled in a sneer. “Has Los Angeles wised up and dropped you yet?”
“At least I got drafted,” I told him. “Guess there are some things your mommy and daddy can’t buy.”
Much to my frustration, our game didn’t improve during the second period. Plays were falling apart left and right, and we could barely get a shot on net. Halfway through, Ward finally managed to get a goal on the board, and then we immediately gave up one more.
Fifteen minutes in, the score was three-one Callingwood. And the Bulldogs weren’t even playing well. We were just playing that poorly. To make matters worse, the officiating in the second was trash, with blatant infractions against us flying under the radar. Several hooks on Ward, including one on a scoring opportunity. Bailey’s brother boarded me, plain as day, and it didn’t even get a whistle. What the hell, refs?
The only thing we were doing right was playing a physical game with lots of hits. It wasn’t doing squat for our scoring chances, though.
I watched from the bench, praying to the hockey gods while we scrambled around the ice, trying to run out the clock. If we could escape the second period without letting in any more goals, there was still a chance we could salvage this tire fire in the third. Some patented Coach Miller verbal ass-kicking in the dressing rooms might do the trick.
Reed sent the puck offside, and the linesman blew his whistle, stopping the play. The linesman headed to the benches to talk with the other officials while Ward and I hopped back on for yet another shift—sweaty, still winded from the shift before, and hitting the wall.
I was so fucking tired.
I was positioned a couple of feet away from Morrison for the faceoff. Unlike me, he was brimming with energy. He was as perky as a cheerleader. I wasn’t sure why—he’d contributed exactly zilch to their three goals. If anything, the Bulldogs were winning despite him.
I’d suspect performance-enhancing drugs, but then he’d probably, well, perform better.
Morrison skated by me and came to a sudden stop, trying to spray me with ice and failing. If he could get near the puck for more than half a second, I would check his sorry ass into the next state. But I couldn’t afford an interference penalty for hitting him when he didn’t have possession, especially when we were losing.
“Carter,” he said, dragging out the last R in the most aggravating way possible. “I forgot to ask, how are things going with my ex?”
Clearly, he’d been working on that zinger since we spoke during the first period.
“Fucking fantastic.” I flashed him a cocky grin. “Thanks for asking.”
Morrison was intentionally trying to rile me up. I was the king of riling up my opponents, which was why I wasn’t going to take the bait. He needed to know that he was insignificant. Completely insignificant. And I had to keep my head in the game.
“You know,” he said, “I popped that cherry.”
My molars clenched so hard they nearly disintegrated.
Forget what I said. Consider me riled.
I glared at him, nearly paralyzed with rage. “Shut the fuck up, man.”
How badly the team needed me in the game rivaled with how badly Morrison needed a fist in his face. But if I got a game misconduct, there was zero chance we’d turn the score around. And that was exactly what he wanted.
“Ooh,” he said, laughing. “That bother you?”
The sex part? Not really. What James did before me was none of my business. Besides, there wasn’t much to be jealous about when I knew all about Morrison’s pathetic bedroom performance.
Him talking about her like that, though? Yeah, it bothered me. A lot.
“No.” I shook my head, pivoting back to the faceoff. “But show some goddamn respect.”
Morrison laughed again, but it was hollow, forced. He didn’t have any other cards to play. Idiot.
Where was the linesman with the puck? My patience was waning by the second.
After being released from unofficial probation, the last thing I needed was to get right back on—or to receive a multiple-game suspension. Especially when Coach Miller had given me yet another stern lecture this morning about “staying on the right path.” I was living under a goddamn microscope.
And yet, the temptation to cause Morrison bodily harm was almost too great to ignore.
I wanted to rag doll him.
“Huh,” he said, studying me intently like the creep he was. “Interesting…”
I glanced over at him again. “Did you not hear me the first time I said to shut the fuck up?”
“Just surprised you don’t care more about her.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it’s not that surprising, given your reputation.”
The edges of my sight grayed out, my vision tunneling and my aggravation levels topping out. My frustration was at a record level. Even worse, I was frustrated about being frustrated.
No one got to me like this. Ever.
Because I did care, and he was lucky for it. I cared about James too much to throw everything I knew in his face. I never would, but damn if I didn’t want to. Hell, I’d love to send out a Callingwood-wide email with a CC to his parents to show them what garbage he’d turned out to be.
At this point, I was dangerously close to choking him with my Vapor FlyLite. But even my hockey stick deserved better than Morrison.
“Do you want me to smash your fucking face in?”