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?”
“Oh, I don’t think Bailey would approve…” he retorted.
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’ll 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, but 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 and failing to sound tough.
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” I lowered my voice so the other players wouldn’t hear. “I’ll break your fucking legs, move on to your arms, and go from there. Your pathetic career will be over before it starts.”
Morrison’s expression went blank, and he blinked at me slowly. Too many big words to comprehend, I guess.
I skated closer. “Are we clear? Or should I start now?”
“Carter!” Coach Miller yelled. He threw both arms up in a WTF gesture.
“Watch your ass,” I bit out before turning away.
I skated back into position, and the linesman finally appeared and dropped the puck. Dallas won the playoff, sending the puck back to me. I caught it and skated up the side before passing it 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 a forward on the Bulldogs instead. He flew straight down to our end on a breakaway, hammering out a slapshot that Ty barely managed to block.