Dallas and I hopped on for a shift against Callingwood’s first line. Morrison, of course, was nowhere to be found because he was down on Callingwood’s third line again. As the game went on, though, we would inevitably cross paths, and I wouldn’t waste a single opportunity to destroy him.

The first ten minutes were painfully tight, with several scoring opportunities for both sides without success. Ty was holding his own, but so was Mendez. With each minute that passed without a goal, the tension in the stands and on our bench ratcheted up. It could be a one-goal game at the rate things were going, and that goal needed to be ours.

A few shifts later, Morrison and I were on the ice together for the first time. The moment I’d been waiting for. The puck sailed loose, heading into their zone, and we both barreled straight for it. Arguably, he should have stayed higher and let one of their defensemen cover me instead, but he wanted to bait me, and I was more than happy to bite.

We battled for control of the puck against the boards. Morrison pushed me, and I shoved him back twice as hard. Normally, I wasn’t one to take cheap, sneaky shots, but I’d make an exception for him and spear him right in the ribs where the refs wouldn’t see.

Before I could lay a glove on him, his skate caught on his own stick and he lost his balance. When he realized he was going down, he embellished his fall, arms flailing, and flopped flat onto the ice. He remained there, pretending he’d been laid out.

Dive, much?

Did my job for me, I guess. I shook my head and pivoted, racing Derek for the puck that was now behind the net, but Derek had a significant head start and beat me to it. Winded as hell, I dug into the ice and pushed off to catch up with him. I stole a glance back at Luke, who was skating off to their bench while holding his shoulder, feigning injury.

To my shock, a whistle sounded a split second later, and the ref called a delayed penalty. On me. Morrison tripped himself, and I got called for it. He should receive a fucking Academy Award for that performance. Maybe he could go into acting when his hockey aspirations didn’t pan out.

Jaw clenched, I glided over to the penalty box to serve my time. Convicted of a crime I didn’t commit. Usually, I would have argued with the officials, but I managed to hold my tongue. I couldn’t risk pissing off the refs when the stakes were so high. A few bad calls could make or break a game.