Hand throbbing, I headed to our bench to make a line change, skating past the visitor bench on my way. As I passed, Morrison tipped forward, nodding 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 a 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 I school, but not good enough to get drafted to the NHL. He had a massive inferiority complex to show for it. Given 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. Had two mediocre years in the NCAA, followed by a short-lived hot streak in his third, which somehow landed him a captainship he didn’t deserve. He promptly shit the bed for his final season.

Unfortunately for him, one good year in college did not a professional career make. It took consistency and steady growth as a player. But that meant hard work, 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 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.