Near the end of the third period, Gardiner got a hold of the puck again and sped straight for Ty. We were winning by two, but that didn’t mean we could afford to give up our lead. Our defense was out to lunch, literally looking the other way, so I dug into the ice and barreled straight for him.

Seconds later, I crashed into him, shoulder to shoulder, freeing the puck while he flew into the boards. It was a perfectly clean—if brutal—hit.

Okay, fine. There may have been a slight element of retribution for the hooking.

Gardiner shook himself off, spun around, and skated after me. We raced for the puck, but when he caught up, he grabbed my jersey and yanked me toward him. He wasn’t usually that aggressive on the ice, so it caught me off guard, and before I could react, he clocked me square in the face.

He landed that initial hit.

But I landed more.

Despite that, by the time the refs intervened, I had a nasty gash on my left eyebrow. The bleeding didn’t last long, but I could feel it swelling with each second.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, I had blood on my jersey that wasn’t mine and had set a season record for both penalties taken and drawn in one game. Maybe a career record.

Without getting a look at myself in a mirror, I could tell that my jaw was bruised too. That was probably going to hurt like a bitch when I kissed James later. And when I found myself between her legs, which was the plan.

For once, I was kind of glad she was at school trying to meet a deadline instead of watching in the stands. It wasn’t my finest game. I’d gotten a goal and an assist, but I gave up the puck far more than I should have and botched a few basic passes.

Miller said my performance was uneven, and he was right.

After hitting the showers, I was a little more emotionally stable. But I still had this pervasive low-level irritation buried deep within me, like there was a tiny pebble in my shoe. Or in my skate, rather. Somehow, it made all the pressure I was constantly under a lot less tolerable.

I got dressed silently, mind swirling with a category five hurricane of thoughts and worries. Bailey, hockey, school, Coach Miller, our upcoming game with Callingwood, Bailey again, Los Angeles. Bailey and Los Angeles—fuck. Hadn’t even begun to think about that.

“What’s going on, Carter? Your fuse is way shorter than usual tonight.” Dallas slipped into his charcoal suit pants and scanned my face with those glacial blue eyes. “You have for a while now. Things all good with Bailey?”