Not even two minutes into the second, the score was 3-0 in our favor—fulfilling the terms of our bet. 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.

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 and snagged my water bottle. “Go big or go home. If I’m going to lose this dumb bet, we might as well crush them.”

3. the hell you are

CHAPTER 3

THE HELL YOU ARE

Bailey

Cheers erupted from the crowd as the buzzer sounded and the scoreboard changed. Much to my dismay, the bright red letters now read four-nothing, Falcons.

Being the away team always sucked, but it was especially bad when we were getting our asses handed to us like this.

Our goalie, Eddie Mendez, threw his stick and let out a string of colorful curses that echoed throughout the arena. I held my breath, waiting to see if Coach Brown would pull him, but he stayed on. My brother Derek pulled off his blue and white gloves and skated to the away bench, shaking his head. He was upset with himself over the botched defensive play, not with Mendez for letting it in.

And beside the net, Chase Carter—left winger for the Falcons—did a celebratory fist pump and glided over to the home bench to high-five his teammates and gloat like he always did. Irritation rippled through me.

“I hate him,” I muttered.

Amelia nodded. “Me too. He’s the worst.”

I didn’t have a strong emotional reaction to many players, good or bad, but Carter was the exception. He was the definition of obnoxious. Cockiness in a crimson jersey.

Smugness on skates.

Sure, he was good—a gritty first- or second-line winger in a Division I league—but his massive ego was disproportionate to his level of skill. And he was notorious for trash talking and causing fights between our respective teams. Specifically, for initiating altercations that ended with us taking penalties and the Falcons scoring while we were short-handed.

He wasn’t just chippy; he was downright devious.