Our pre-game ritual for home games was sacred. Practice skate at Northridge Arena, nap at home, meal at Ironwood Grill, then back to the rink early to warm up and shoot the shit. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It's not that we were superstitious, it's just that deviating from this particular sequence of events tended to result in us losing.

Okay, maybe we were a little superstitious.

The stakes were especially high tonight because we were playing our rivals, the Callingwood Bulldogs. I couldn't stand the team, especially couldn't stand the captain, and couldn't wait to crush them.

"Game day, bitches." Our goalie, Tyler, stretched, lacing his arms behind his head. His heavily tattooed biceps flexed, full sleeve of ink winding down to his left forearm. "You'd better be ready."

I snorted. "Says the guy who kept giving up pucks in practice. I've seen coupons that save more than you."

"None of yours managed to get by, so what does that say?"

While left wing was technically an offensive position, scoring wasn't my primary objective—at least, not on the ice. My areas of expertise were battling for the puck, being strong on the boards, and killing penalties. And, of course, antagonizing the other side to fuck with their heads and cause them to draw a penalty, both of which I found immensely rewarding.

Sometimes I also dabbled in the occasional scrum. Okay, that happened pretty frequently.

"By the way," Dallas said, ignoring our sniping, "we're hitting XS tonight. Including you." He pointed at me with his fork.

"What the hell is XS?" I asked, playing dumb. "A shirt size? I'm gonna need at least a large, dude."

He gave me a withering look. "A new club that just opened. Supposed to be full of hot chicks."

Of course I already knew that's what he was angling at.

Dallas was the pretty boy of the team, the all-American team captain; Tyler was the tattooed bad boy goalie; and, well, I was the asshole agitator. Together we were roommates, teammates, and made a pretty unstoppable trio when it came to wheeling chicks.

But nightclubs were boring as shit. Honestly, what was the point? I could accomplish the same thing at home with a strobe light and some watered-down drinks. I'd save paying for cover and a ride, too.

And as far as women went, I already had enough numbers to start my own door-to-door Dickdash service.

I took a bite of my Cajun chicken club, chewing and swallowing. "I've got a better idea."

"What's that?" Dallas looked up from his plate of fettuccini alfredo, eyebrows raised.

"We could do literally anything other than that."

I wasn't sure why they were trying to sell me on this. We all knew I was the stubborn one of the three. It was impossible to strong-arm me into doing anything I didn't want to do. Coach Miller could vouch for that fact.

Tyler leaned back in his chair. "Since when are you such a buzzkill? I thought you'd be all over this."

Buzzkill was the last word anyone would use to describe me. I never turned down a chance to get fucked up, get laid, or get into trouble. Just not at a damn nightclub. It was the last way I wanted to unwind after a physically and mentally taxing game.

"All over a party, yes. A bar, fine. But nightclubs are the worst," I said. "Bad dance music, overpriced drinks, too many other dudes in the way. Plus, they're cheesy as fuck."

"Exactly." Ty gestured, as if it were obvious. "Chicks love cheesy. Especially hot chicks."

"Cool," I said. "Have fun with that." I had lots of other options for my evening entertainment, hot chicks included. They could go on their merry way, and I'd go mine.

"Come on, man." He glared at me, taking a bite of his burger. The waitress returned, refilling our glasses with ice water before disappearing again.

"What do you need me for, anyway? Can't pull without me?"

"Well, it sure isn't for the pleasure of your company," Dallas said.

I shrugged. "Let's just have people over to our place."

"We do that every weekend," Tyler groaned, tipping his head back and looking up at the ceiling. He raked a hand through his dark hair and his gaze snapped down to mine. "I need a change of scenery."

Personally, I liked it. The party came to us. And when I got bored, I could just go upstairs to my room to sleep...or do other things. It was easy.

I laughed, because scenery was a polite way of putting it. "You mean you've finally run out of girls at Boyd to bang."

"That too," said Tyler. "I need to refresh the rotation."

People always gave me a hard time about my reputation, but Tyler made me look like Tom fucking Hanks.

"Either way, I'm down for something different. It's happening. And you're coming, fucker." Dallas leveled his icy-blue gaze in my direction. It might have melted the panties off of girls, but it held less persuasive power with me.

"What do you care, Ward?" I said. "You're going to end up with Shiv later anyway and you know it."

"Maybe, maybe not." He shrugged. "Depends how the night plays out."

Bullshit. There was a 98% chance he was going to ditch out for Siobhan by 1 AM. It happened more often than not. Dallas talked a big talk but he rarely hooked up with anyone else, even though they weren't technically exclusive. It was a weird dynamic that I didn't understand, though I did like Shiv.

Then again, when things were rocky between them, sometimes he went out in search of a distraction. Not even to hook up, just to take his mind off things. Maybe that was the case right now.

"Fine," I said, dipping a fry in ketchup and gesturing with it. "Since you two bar stars are set on going, let's make it interesting."

"Like what?" Dallas asked.

"A wager."

Tyler cocked a dark brow. "Keep talking."

"If we get a shutout against the Bulldogs tonight, we can go to XS."

There was a pretty slim chance of that happening. If it did, cool—we crushed the team I hated most. If we didn't, fine—I wouldn't have to go to a dumb disco.

As long as we still won, of course. That part wasn't negotiable when we played Callingwood. Win or die trying. We were the only division one schools in our state, which meant the rivalry ran immeasurably deep, steeped in decades of hatred and resentment. Boyd had the slight edge of having won more championships in total, though in the past decade Callingwood had been stronger overall. The past three years that I'd been playing, it was a fairly even match, as much as it pained me to admit it.

At any rate, our games were always barnburners. We hated each other. And they really hated that we beat them out for a playoff spot last spring. I couldn't wait to crush them tonight, especially their captain, Morrison. He made cheap hits, cherry picked, and was a total bag of dicks.

And if we don't?" Dallas took a bite of garlic toast, giving me a questioning look.

"We find something better to do with our time." As in, anything else.

He shrugged a broad shoulder. "All right."

"What?" Tyler gestured angrily. "No way. That puts it all on my shoulders."

"Not really." I pointed at Dallas. "Your boy over there still has to score for us to win."

That part was nearly a given, though. Dallas's points per game were at the top of the league. Slightly more impressive than my own stats, which suffered somewhat due to the penalties I drew and took. More time in the sin bin meant less time on the ice. But we each had our roles, and I performed mine well.

"I have to stand on my head by myself for three periods to get a shutout," said Ty. "Then any of the rest of you idiots on the ice could sink one goal and we'd still win."

"Fine." I sighed. "We can up the ante. A shut-out plus three or more goals for us. At least one goal has to be Ward."

"Easy. Blindfolded and upside down." Dallas took a sip of his ice water, pausing. "Let's make it two."

It's like he was doing my job for me here.

"Fuck that," Tyler grumbled, still not appeased. "He has to sneak two shots past Mendez, while I have to block like, 100 from their entire team."

He was being dramatic, as per usual. The shots on net tonight would likely clock in around half that, if not less. But goalies weren't known for being level-headed; they were their own special brand of crazy. You had to be, to be able to shake off letting a goal in and get right back to it. The mental game goaltending required was intense.

"What's wrong?" Dallas smirked, intentionally 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 the fact that he was proud to a fault, which made him easy to manipulate.

"I hear the Bulldogs tanked their preseason games," Dallas added. "1-4-1. Probably won't even be that hard."

*

As the second period began, we headed back out onto the bench, reinvigorated from the break and in great spirits. Meanwhile, the Bulldogs were tired, frustrated, and getting their asses kicked 2-0.

Dallas's backhand narrowly missed the net, hitting the boards and rebounding off 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, staying in position near the net while our Manning charged. Instead of taking the time to line up, like he should have, James panicked and tried to pass to his teammate. His shot went wide, and I intercepted the puck right in front of the net. With a tap of my wrist, the buzzer sounded again.

Beauty.

I did a fist pump and skated off, hopping back 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 and the score was now 3-0 in our favor—fulfilling the terms of our bet. The conditions that I set could have been better thought out. 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.

First, their goalie let in Ward's slapshot straight through the five-hole like he was asleep at the stick. Then everything on their side went to shit. 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.

That last penalty gave us our second scoring opportunity, which Ward landed with a shot off the crossbar. And the third goal I'd just made came from that failed pass right in front of their net. James basically fed the puck right to me. Thanks, bro.

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, reaching for my water bottle. "Go big or go home. If I'm going to lose this dumb bet, we might as well crush them."

Oh, Chase. Pretty soon, he won't know what hit him off the ice.

How did you find Offside? Was it a reading list, word of mouth, TikTok or something else? I always love hearing how readers find their way to my stories!

PS: the Bulldogs' preseason games coming in at 1-4-1 means 1 win, 4 losses, 1 tie.