If there was any chance it would tip the scales in our favor, we were doing it.
Well, except for my pre-game nap—and not for lack of trying. I loved sleeping, never struggled with insomnia, and normally, I would have been sound asleep twenty minutes ago. Instead, I was obsessing over plays and daydreaming about inflicting severe bodily harm on Morrison. Would it be another open-ice check, or would I smash him into the boards like the pest he was? I’d planned for either scenario so I’d be ready when either opportunity arose. Hopefully, I’d take him clean out of the game again so I didn’t have to see his stupid, smug face a moment longer than necessary.
Sleep crept farther out of reach as my rage climbed another notch. Fuck. Morrison was living in my head rent-free when I should have been resting and recharging. Or fantasizing about Bailey naked, at the very least.
Finally, I slid out of bed and sank down into my desk chair, grabbing my Urban Economics textbook. Studying was the last thing I wanted to do before a game—and was something I’d never done—but I didn’t know what else to do with myself.
That lasted all of three minutes before I gave up and looked up hockey stats online, rearranging my fantasy hockey lines. I was still in the lead, and I wanted to keep it that way. This occupied my restless brain for a while, but the low hum of resentment lingered in the back if my mind, nevertheless.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, snapping me back to reality.
“Ready?” Dallas pounded on my door.
I glanced at the clock on my desk, electricity shooting through my veins. Go time. “Yeah,” I called. “Be right down.”
Body buzzing, I stood, pushed in my chair, and grabbed my stuff on the way out. I jogged down the stairs and found the guys waiting in the hallway, their faces tight. The atmosphere was so heavy it was like we were heading to a funeral rather than a game.
“Are you ready to fuck some shit up?” I asked.
Dallas nodded. “You know it.”
Tyler eyed me warily. “I know you want to crush Morrison, but don’t let him take your head out of the game.”
“I won’t,” I said.
Bailey: Good luck tonight. I love you.
Chase: I love you too. See you after.
As the clock ticked down to puck drop, Miller gave us a legendary pep talk in the dressing room that none of us needed—we were more than amped to play our biggest rival. By the time we we burst out of the dressing room, we were ready for a bloodbath.
Another overdose of adrenaline hit my veins as soon as the ice came into view. So much so that I feared going into cardiac arrest before the game even started. Knowing Bailey was watching made me want to win that much more too.
Scratch that. I didn’t want to win—I needed to.
Dallas and I hopped on for a shift against Callingwood’s first line. Morrison, of course, was nowhere to be found because he was down on Callingwood’s third line again. As the game went on, though, we would inevitably cross paths, and I wouldn’t waste a single opportunity to destroy him.
The first ten minutes were painfully tight, with several scoring opportunities for both sides without success. Ty was holding his own, but so was Mendez. With each minute that passed without a goal, the tension in the stands and on our bench ratcheted up. It could be a one-goal game at the rate things were going, and that goal needed to be ours.
A few shifts later, Morrison and I were on the ice together for the first time. The moment I’d been waiting for. The puck sailed loose, heading into their zone, and we both barreled straight for it. Arguably, he should have stayed higher and let one of their defensemen cover me instead, but he wanted to bait me, and I was more than happy to bite.
We battled for control of the puck against the boards. Morrison pushed me, and I shoved him back twice as hard. Normally, I wasn’t one to take cheap, sneaky shots, but I’d make an exception for him and spear him right in the ribs where the refs wouldn’t see.
Before I could lay a glove on him, his skate caught on his own stick and he lost his balance. When he realized he was going down, he embellished his fall, arms flailing, and flopped flat onto the ice. He remained there, pretending he’d been laid out.
Dive, much?
Did my job for me, I guess. I shook my head and pivoted, racing Derek for the puck that was now behind the net, but Derek had a significant head start and beat me to it. Winded as hell, I dug into the ice and pushed off to catch up with him. I stole a glance back at Luke, who was skating off to their bench while holding his shoulder, feigning injury.
To my shock, a whistle sounded a split second later, and the ref called a delayed penalty. On me. Morrison tripped himself, and I got called for it. He should receive a fucking Academy Award for that performance. Maybe he could go into acting when his hockey aspirations didn’t pan out.
Jaw clenched, I glided over to the penalty box to serve my time. Convicted of a crime I didn’t commit. Usually, I would have argued with the officials, but I managed to hold my tongue. I couldn’t risk pissing off the refs when the stakes were so high. A few bad calls could make or break a game.
I watched helplessly from the box while the game continued with us at a one-man disadvantage. A line change later, Morrison had mysteriously recovered and was back on the ice. Suddenly, our penalty kill fell apart, and we lost possession of the puck. Penner looked the wrong way, searching for it in vain, because evidently, he needed a fucking eye exam.
Paul passed to Morrison while our defense was still on the other side of the ice, giving Morrison a good lead—and, unfortunately, a breakaway. My stomach flew into my throat.
No. Anyone but this jackass.
Our defense scrambled to catch up while I held my breath, watching and praying. Morrison’s shots had been garbage lately, so we had that working in our favor.
With our players hot on his heels, Morrison skated up to our net and deked the puck, trying to fake out Ty. Ty wasn’t fooled by his maneuver and reacted lightning-fast, grabbing the puck in time, but it deflected off his glove and tipped into the net. Some goals were pure dumb luck, and this was one of them.
The buzzer sounded, and the scoreboard changed to one-nothing, Callingwood, with 8:06 left in the period.
Luke hollered, doing an obnoxious celebratory dance on the ice before fist bumping his entire team.
I slapped my thigh in frustration. “God dammit.”
With the power play converted and penalty now over, I was freed from the box and headed back to our bench. Dallas and I exchanged a terse look as I flopped down beside him, taking a drink of water.
“We have to turn this around.”
I hadn’t done anything to instigate my penalty, but I was still frustrated as fuck. Ending this period down a goal would make it that much easier for Callingwood to maintain their lead.
“We will,” Dallas said. “They don’t have any stamina. We’ll wear them down.”
Two minutes later, Derek took an unwarranted penalty. He’d barely looked at Penner, let alone touched him. It wasn’t justified, but I breathed out a relieved breath. Looked like the refs were being equal opportunity with their shitty calls.
Miller sent Dallas and me out for the power play, accompanied by a not-so-veiled threat to even the score or else. And I fully intended to. With Derek in the box, the Bulldogs were missing one of their better defensemen, and it gave us the perfect scoring opportunity.