Slivers of golden afternoon light filtered in from the gaps between my bedroom blinds, rudely reminding me it was the middle of the day and I was wide awake. I let out a heavy sigh of frustration, staring at the stark white ceiling. The house was silent, air still. Both of the guys were probably out cold—like I should have been. Like I wanted to be.

Unfortunately, I'd been vibrating with excess energy from the moment I woke up this morning. My long-standing, low-level rage toward Morrison had mingled with an unpleasant tinge of anxiety, making it impossible to relax, let alone fall asleep. I hated worrying, rarely ever did it, and thoroughly resented that I was. But I couldn't help it—this was personal in a way no matchup had ever been before.

I was going to win or die trying.

Was probably going to hit the wall something fierce after the game was over, too, but as long as we emerged victorious, I didn't really care.

With classes beforehand and pre-game prep after, I didn't even get to see Bailey. I'd loosened up on my rigid pre-game routine lately but for tonight's game, I couldn't take any chances. Ty, Dallas and I religiously executed every single superstitious ritual we had, no matter how small or how silly. Even the dumb ones that we didn't really believe in, like Dallas wearing his pair of lucky socks and which one of was driving to the rink.

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 that he was? I'd planned for either scenario, depending on when the 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 further out of reach as my rage climbed another notch. I hated that Morrison was living in my head rent-free when I should have been resting and recharging. Or having enjoyable daydreams, at least, like fantasizing about Bailey naked instead.

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, but in this case, I didn't know what else to do with myself.

That lasted all of three minutes before I gave up and started looking up hockey stats online, rearranging my fantasy hockey lines. I was still in the lead and I wanted to keep it that way. This managed to occupy my restless brain for a while, but the low hum of resentment lingered in the back if my mind.

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 up and pushed in my chair, grabbing my stuff on the way out. I jogged down the stairs, coming to stand in the hallway where the guys were waiting, faces tight. The atmosphere was so heavy, it was more like we were heading to a funeral 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.

*

After a pep talk from Miller in the dressing room that none of us needed because we were already amped to play our biggest rival, we burst out of the dressing room ready for a bloodbath.

Another overdose of adrenaline hit my veins as soon as I laid eyes on the ice. At this rate, I was close to going into cardiac arrest before the game even started. Knowing Bailey was watching made me want to win that much more, too.

No, I didn't just want to win—I needed to.

Dallas and I hopped on for our first 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, I knew 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 any success. Ty was holding his own but, unfortunately, 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, I ended up on the ice with Morrison 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 came to a stop against the boards, battling for control of the puck. Morrison pushed me and I shoved him back twice as hard. Normally, I wasn't one to take cheap, sneaky shots, but I was going to 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 about to go down, he embellished his fall, arms flailing, and flopped flat onto the ice. He remained there, pretending like 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. Quickly, I stole a glance back at Luke, who was now skating off to their bench while holding his shoulder and pretending to be injured. Yeah, right.

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 even commit. I was tempted to argue with the officials, and usually I would have, but 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, depending on who they favored.

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, scoreboard changing to 1-0, 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. "Goddammit."

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 couldn't even blame myself because I didn't actually do 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. "You know they don't have any stamina. We're going to wear them down."

Two minutes later, Derek took a penalty for what seemed like absolutely nothing. He barely even looked at Penner, let alone touched him. It was some comfort to see that the refs were being equal opportunity with their shitty calls.

Miller sent me and Dallas out for the power play, accompanied by a not-so-veiled threat to even the score or else. Not a problem, because I fully intended to. With Derek in the box, the Bulldogs were missing one of their better defensemen, which was the perfect scoring opportunity.

After a beautifully executed play on our part, I got possession of the puck and barreled for Mendez like a freight train. One of their sophomore defensemen swooped in, trying to stop me. He put up a good fight but with a quick toe drag, I transitioned from forehand to backhand and fooled him into attacking my forehand side. This gave me a window to pass to Dallas, who was wide open in front of the net.

Dallas caught the pass and faked a shot, convincing Mendez he was aiming for the bottom corner. He quickly shifted laterally toward his backhand side while pulling the puck laterally on his backhand. Dallas had some of the best hands in the entire division, which meant this was essentially a blur of movement and Mendez couldn't recover in time. No goalie could have. Dallas sank the puck deep into the opposite corner, evening out the score.

The buzzer was music to my ears.

"Nice one." I gave Dallas a fistbump as we skated back to our bench.

"It's a start," he said, "but now we have to crush them."

*

As the second period began, our team emerged fired up and ready to battle. Evening out the score had reinvigorated our side and had shaken Callingwood's confidence. Our record for the season was much stronger and the Bulldogs knew this was going to be an uphill battle.

Strangely, after being whistle-happy in the first, the refs slowly but surely put their whistles away as the second period progressed. Infractions began to pile up without being called. Subtle at first, then increasingly blatant. Hit, hook, slash, spear, trip. Nothing.

For some reason, Miller also had the bright idea of splitting the lines and separating me from Dallas. I hated when he did that. But maybe Miller had a point, because Dallas sank another goal past Mendez on his first shift without me. Then I added to the score with a goal of my own shortly after, a slapshot that made it 3-1 in our favor.

With each goal, the Bulldogs were beginning to look increasingly defeated.

Couldn't happen to a more deserving team.

I watched from the bench while Dallas assumed possession of the puck and began to bring it up the side, looking for an opportunity to pass to Martin in front of the net. Hope surged through me as Dallas wound up and shot it over to Martin. 4-1 would look great up on the board.

Martin took a quick wrist shot that bounced off Mendez's glove. A nice attempt, but no dice.

A good five seconds after Dallas executed the pass, Luke skated up and checked him from behind. Hard. Dallas crashed into the boards, shoulder first, and bounced off, falling onto the ice.

I nearly snapped my stick in two.

That dirty motherfucking Morrison.

My gaze cut to the refs, waiting for them to call it, but they didn't. Were they due for a checkup at the eye doctor or what? The hit was so blatant, I was sure at least one of them saw the whole thing. Clearly interference, at a minimum, and possibly boarding if Dallas was just injured.

Chest tight, I watched Dallas stand back up and shake himself off, slowly skating up to the net. He seemed mostly unharmed by the cheap hit, but that wasn't the point. In addition to the official rules and regulations of the game, there were a number of unwritten rules that were implicitly understood—a major one being, you didn't take dirty hits on clean players. And if you did, you'd better expect to answer for it.

I was coming for those answers.

Minutes crept by without any penalties, even though there were infractions flying left and right from both sides. The tension between the teams was at an all-time high. We were dangerously close to a full-on line brawl breaking out.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Luke's game was less garbage than usual. This meant the Bulldogs were putting up more of a fight, but Luke was also giving me opportunities to hit him every time he had the puck, and I was taking full advantage. I'd checked him three times since the second period began, though none were the devastating collision I'd been aiming for. Even with us winning, I wouldn't be satisfied until I flattened him.

13 minutes in, I made a fourth hit on Morrison—a nice shoulder check right into the boards. He bounced into the glass but somehow remained upright, steadying himself. Then he started gesturing angrily, whining to the ref and pointing at me. The ref shook his head and waved him off.

Luke skated back up to where I was positioned, pretending he was covering me, but really just coming to shoot off his mouth.

"Cheap hit." He spat.

"You'd know about those." I looked away, clamping down on the ever-present urge to ragdoll him. I knew I couldn't punch him outright, much as I wanted to.

"Fuck you."

I laughed, because I knew it would piss him off more than engaging. "No thanks."

Four line changes later, the score was still stuck at 3-1 and the Bulldogs were growing increasingly frustrated, taking cheap hits left and right on our smallest, least confrontational players. One of our freshmen, a skinny gangly kid, left the game missing a tooth after a run-in with Paul, and still the Bulldogs received no consequence for drawing blood.

Despite my attempts to remain calm, my leash was about to snap at any moment. Even Dallas was getting pissed off, and it took a lot to get him worked up emotionally during a game. A fight between both sides seemed imminent.

I was still in the offensive zone when Paul grabbed the puck and wound up, taking a shot on Ty. Ty successfully deflected it and the puck bounced off Ty's pads, ricocheting out of the crease. Penner turned on a dime, skating right for it. From the other side of the ice, Morrison switched directions and headed for the net.

Morrison didn't have a chance in hell of getting there on time to beat Penner to the puck. He knew it, too. I knew exactly what he was doing—he was taking a run at our goalie.

The lowest of the low moves.

Apparently, their new motto was, if you can't beat 'em, cheat.

Much as I tried, I couldn't cross the ice in time. I watched it happen like it was in slow motion. Morrison sped up to the net and made a half-assed attempt to stop right before he hit the crease. He slammed into Ty, bringing Ty down with him.

I waited for a penalty call that didn't come. He was going to get away with it.

Not on my watch.

Line brawl in the making?