For a weeknight game, the arena was packed with spectators. But that was always the case when we played Callingwood. And the stakes were especially high tonight knowing that Bailey was watching in the stands with Shiv.

Hell, I didn't just want to win, I wanted to annihilate the Bulldogs. You know, male pride and all that. Not to mention, the ever-present desire to crush Morrison in every possible way.

Unfortunately, our team seemed to be on a slightly different page. I wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but they were sloppy, disorganized, and undisciplined. Ward and I were pulling most of the weight—and putting in ridiculous amounts of ice time as a result.

Even worse, Ty was having an off game and the two goals he let in so far were weak as hell. One or two more and Coach Miller would probably have to pull him. Though I wasn't sure our backup goalie Brett would fare much better with our defense failing to show up.

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 just stay out here the whole time.

As I stepped on, 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 entire left hand and wrist.

Cheap motherfucker.

I hated him almost as much as I hated Morrison.

The whistle sounded as the ref called a well-deserved minor penalty. And one that was well-needed for us, because 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 over to our bench to make a line change, skating past the visitor bench on my way.

As I passed by, Morrison leaned over and nodded 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 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 1 school, but not good enough to get drafted to the NHL. He had a massive inferiority complex to show for it. With 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, and not just because I hated him. Had a mediocre first two years in the NCAA, followed by a short-lived hot streak in his third. Then somehow landed a Captainship he didn't deserve, and promptly shit the bed for his final season.

Unfortunately for him, one good year in college did not an NHL career make. You had to be consistent, showing steady growth as a player. But that meant you had to work hard, 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 up in a sneer. "Has Los Angeles wised up and dropped you yet?"

"At least I got drafted," I said. "Guess there are some things your mommy and daddy can't buy."

*

Much to my frustration, our game was equally disastrous 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 one goal on the board, and then we immediately gave up one more.

By 15 minutes in, the score was 3-1 Callingwood.

It wasn't even that the Bulldogs were playing well. They weren't. We were just playing that poorly. Oh, and 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 over to the benches to talk with the other officials about something 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.

Of course, I ended up positioned a couple of feet away from Morrison for the faceoff. Unlike me, he seemed to be 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.

"Carterrrrr," 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 brainstorming up 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 knew because I was the king of doing it to other people, which was why I wasn't going to bite. He needed to know that he was insignificant. Completely insignificant. Besides, I needed 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."

It was a close call between how badly the team needed me in the game versus 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 she did before me was none of my business. Obviously I didn't want to sit around and think about it, but it was in the past. Besides, there wasn't much to be jealous about when I knew all about Morrison's pathetic bedroom performance.

But him talking about her like that? It bothered me. A lot.

"No." I shook my head, turning back to the faceoff. "But you need to 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 getting off unofficial probation, the last thing I needed was to get right back on—or to receive a multiple-game suspension. Especially when Coach Miller gave 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 that 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 greyed out and I started to develop tunnel vision. My frustration was at a record level. Even worse, I was frustrated about being frustrated.

No one got to me like this. Ever.

Because the problem was that 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 damned if I didn't want to. Hell, I wanted 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?"

"Oh, I don't think Bailey would appro—" he started to say.

The minute he said her name, my blood pressure spiked so high I nearly stroked out. Everything went red.

Taking a penalty was inevitable.

My gaze snapped over to the bench, where Coach Miller was busy talking to the guys. Taking a few quick strides, I came to a stop in front of Morrison, staring him down with my jaw clenched like a bear trap.

It took every shred of self-restraint I had to keep my gloves on.

"Listen fuckface. I'm going to put you on notice once and only once." My voice was laced with menace and poison. "Feel free to shit talk me all day long, just leave Bailey out of it. Don't talk about her, don't talk to her, stay the hell away from her, and you and I will be fine."

Morrison glanced over my shoulder, probably to check if Paul was standing by in case he needed rescuing. But Paul would never be fast enough to save his sorry ass from me.

"Or what?" He said, trying to sound tough.

"Do I need to spell it out for you?" I lowered my voice so the other players didn't hear. "I'll break your fucking legs, move on to your arms, and we can go from there. Your pathetic career will be over before it starts."

Morrison's expression went blank and he blinked at me slowly like he couldn't comprehend what I had just said. Too many big words in a row, I guess.

I skated closer. "Are we clear? Or should I start now?"

"Carter!" Coach Miller yelled. He made a WTF gesture, waving for me to move.

"Watch your ass," I bit out before turning away.

I skated back into position and the linesman finally appeared, dropping the puck. Dallas won the playoff, sending the puck back to me. I caught it and began to skate up the side before passing it over to Davis.

Or trying to pass it, anyway, because my aim was off and the puck traveled way over to the left—inadvertently turning over to Grimm on the Bulldogs instead. Grimm flew straight down to our end on a breakaway, hammering out a slapshot that Ty barely managed to block.

A botched play that was 100% my fault, all because I couldn't complete a basic backhand pass.

Fuck me.

Morrison got in my head.

And now he knew I had a weakness.

I perched on the edge of my seat, my entire body tensed like a bowstring. Because attending a match between the Bulldogs and the Falcons wasn't emotionally draining enough on its own, the game tonight had been incredibly tight—and physical.

It was like both sides were out for blood.

And with less than two minutes left in the second period, both teams were practically dead on their feet, exhausted from beating the crap out of each other on the ice for the previous 38 minutes' worth of play.

There had been more hits and infractions tonight than I'd seen in ages. Chase was obviously hitting anything that moved, but the other players were unusually aggressive too. Derek was on some kind of rampage, which was completely out of character for him. Even some of the tamer players were piling on. The Bulldogs seemed to be targeting Ward in particular, probably because he was the most skilled player on the Falcons. And they were going after Chase because, well, Chase.

As for offsides and icing, the officials barely had time to call them between all of the other infractions. They'd started letting some of the less serious penalties slide too, probably so they weren't playing 4-on-4 for the entire 20 minutes each period.

After a turnover, Chase got a hold of the puck in their end and started to bring it up. Paul headed in his direction, accelerating with the obvious intent to initiate a massive hit. My breath caught and I braced myself, but Chase glanced over just in time. He pivoted out of the way and Paul slammed into the boards at top speed, making a loud crunch.

I burst out laughing. Good thing we weren't near Amelia.

"Oof." Siobhan cringed, biting her raspberry pink lip. "Tough break for that guy."

"A well-deserved one," I said.

"Falcons aren't playing very well." She shivered, zipping up her teal puffy coat. The frosty arena was even colder than usual, which only added to my mental and physical discomfort. "Not like normal, anyway." She sighed, raking a hand through her long, inky waves.

"Yeah, neither team is, really." The Bulldogs' three goals had largely been luck. I shifted my weight, crossing and uncrossing my legs because I couldn't sit still. "Too busy trying to kill penalties while killing each other."

Chase zoomed around one of our defensemen, right up to Mendez. He wound up and took a screamer of a shot on net. It was heartbreakingly close, but bounced off the crossbar with a defeating clang. Luke happened to be up front near the net, allowing him to take possession off the rebound. He began to skate up the far side, heading for the Falcons zone.

Chase turned on a dime and barreled straight for Luke like a shark that had just detected blood in the water.

Technically, someone else should have been backchecking Luke, and technically, Chase was taking himself out of position. But I knew this was about more than just hockey, especially after they'd been sniping back and forth all game. This was a way for Chase to clobber Luke with some degree of plausible deniability.

And Chase must have really wanted to make that hit, because I'd never seen him skate so fast.

A split-second before Chase made it over to him, Luke glanced over and realized he was about to get demolished. Instead of reacting, he froze, and Chase plowed into Luke with his shoulder, leveling him with a devastating open-ice check.

It was one of those brutal checks you'd see on TV, replayed in a top-10 hits of all time clip compilation.

Almost in slow motion, Luke went flying and landed in a heap awkwardly on his side.

Chase skated off without even looking back.

Some of the guys on the Bulldogs' bench, including Derek, began to protest loudly, calling for a penalty.

Siobhan turned to me, her blue-green eyes wide. "Is the guy Chase just flattened your asshole ex?"

"Yup. Sure is." I adjusted my pale pink scarf, tucking it beneath the collar of my coat. It was soft and warm, but I could have used at least two more layers of clothing. Or maybe some long underwear, not that it would be the sexiest thing for Chase to find later.

"That didn't look good." Shiv sucked in a breath through her dazzlingly white teeth, grimacing.

"Nope," I said. "Sure didn't."

The referee blew the whistle, halting the play. I watched as Luke lay sprawled out on the ice, clearly dazed. As much as I hated Luke, as a general rule I didn't like to see players get injured. Needless to say, I had mixed feelings about what had just transpired. Luke definitely deserved a solid check—just not to be like, severely maimed.

Moderately maimed, maybe.

But I didn't want Chase to get in trouble, either.

Cheers erupted from the Bulldogs bench as Luke slowly pulled himself up and skated over to the bench, his balance unsteady and with a pronounced limp in his right leg. As he stepped off the ice, the Bulldogs' trainers ran to his side, helping him into the dressing rooms. I already knew he would be out for the rest of the game due to the league's concussion protocols. Maybe longer, depending on the injury his leg had just sustained.

What was less clear was whether Chase was about to take a penalty or worse. The hit itself was clean, technically speaking; he'd kept his elbow tucked and there was no contact with Luke's head. But there was no doubt he'd intended to run Luke down. It wasn't even a little bit grey.

Shiv and I watched, waiting on pins and needles and frozen rear ends, as the officials conferred off to the side.

"Please don't let it be a game misconduct," I muttered, rubbing my frozen hands together to warm, with no success. It was about as effective as rubbing two ice cubes together.

"I hope not," said Shiv. "The Falcons need him in the game."

The referee signaled, calling a two-minute minor against Chase for charging. It was more than fair, considering he'd traveled a significant distance out of his way to make the hit.

"Phew," I said, tension in my body easing.

Siobhan nodded. "Thank goodness."

The Bulldogs bench broke into a second round of loud complaints, calling for a stiffer punishment. Chase just shrugged and skated over to the penalty box, smirking the entire way. I had a feeling he would have been happy to do even more damage than he had.

Unfortunately, there were fewer than twenty seconds left on the clock, which meant that the Bulldogs would start the third period on another power play while the Falcons were left short-handed again.