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.”