Minutes crept by without penalties, even though infractions were flying left and right from both sides. The tension between the teams was at an all-time high. We were dangerously close to a full-on line brawl.

Luke’s game was less garbage than usual, which meant the Bulldogs were putting up a decent fight. But it also gave me opportunities to hit him every time he had the puck, and I took full advantage. I’d checked him three times since the second period began, though none were the devastating collision I’d been aiming for. Even though we were ahead, I wouldn’t be satisfied until I flattened him.

Thirteen minutes in, I made a fourth hit on Morrison—a nice shoulder-check into the boards. He bounced into the glass but remained upright, steadying himself. Then he threw his arms up, whining to the officials about “boarding” and pointing at me. The ref closest to us shook his head and waved him off.

Luke skated back up to where I was positioned, like he was going to cover me. “Cheap hit,” he spat.

“You’d know about those.” I looked away, clamping down on the ever-present urge to ragdoll him. I couldn’t punch him outright, no matter how much I wanted to.

“Fuck you.”

Knowing it would piss him off more than engaging, I laughed. “No thanks.”

Before I turned to skate away, I knocked Luke’s stick from his hand. It clattered to the ice as I started for our bench. Petty? Sure. Better than beating his ass like I wanted to and getting ejected from the game, though. He shouted something I couldn’t decipher, but I didn’t look back.

Four line changes later, the score was still stuck at three-one. Bulldogs were moments from losing their shit, taking cheap hits left and right on our smallest, least confrontational players. One of our freshmen, a gangly kid, left the game missing a tooth after a run-in with Paul, and still the Bulldogs received no consequence for drawing blood.

Despite my attempts to remain calm, my leash was dangerously close to snapping. Even Dallas was pissed off, and it took a lot to get him worked up emotionally during a game. An all-out fight was imminent.

I was in the offensive zone when Paul grabbed the puck and wound up, taking a shot on Ty. Ty successfully deflected it, and the puck bounced off his pads, ricocheting out of the crease. Penner turned on a dime and skated right for it. From the other side of the ice, Morrison switched directions and headed for the net.

Morrison didn’t have a chance in hell of beating Penner to the puck. He knew it too. But what he was doing was obvious—he was taking a run at our goalie.

The lowest of the low moves.

Apparently, their new motto was if you can’t beat ’em, cheat.