“Yeah, well…it happens.” Avoiding her eyes, I grabbed my plate and stood, pushing the stool away from the counter. “Anyway, I need to shower and hit the library. I have an article to finish before the game tonight.”

If it was even possible to focus on writing right now. That part might be a stretch. Or it could be a good escape. I could lock myself away from reality and ignore that my love life had just imploded.

“You’re still going to come?”

The question landed like a slap, even though I knew she didn’t mean it that way.

“I have to,” I said. “Derek would never forgive me if I suddenly boycotted their games.”

Besides, I wasn’t sure what I would do to fill my time if I didn’t.

2. all I do is win

CHAPTER 2

ALL I DO IS WIN

Chase

Our pre-game ritual for home games was sacred. Practice skate at Northridge Arena, nap at home, meal at Ironwood Grill, then back to the rink early to warm up and shoot the shit. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It wasn’t that we were superstitious, but deviating from this particular sequence of events tended to result in losses.

Okay, maybe we were a little superstitious.

The stakes were especially high tonight because we were playing our rivals, the Callingwood Bulldogs. I couldn’t stand the team, especially the captain, and I couldn’t wait to crush them.

“Game day, bitches.” Our goalie, Tyler, stretched, lacing his arms behind his head. His heavily tattooed biceps flexed, a full sleeve of ink winding down to his left forearm. “You’d better be ready.”

I snorted. “Says the guy who kept giving up pucks in practice. I’ve seen coupons that save more than you.”

“None of yours managed to get by, so what does that say?”

While left wing was technically an offensive position, scoring wasn’t my primary objective—at least, not on the ice. My areas of expertise were battling for the puck, being strong on the boards, and killing penalties. And, of course, antagonizing the other side to fuck with their heads and cause them to draw penalties, both of which I found immensely rewarding.

I also dabbled in the occasional scrum. Okay, that happened pretty frequently.

“By the way,” Dallas said, ignoring our sniping, “we’re hitting XS tonight. Including you.” He pointed at me with his fork.

“What the hell is XS?” I asked, playing dumb. “A shirt size? I’m gonna need at least a large, dude.”

He gave me a withering look. “A new club. Opened last weekend. Supposed to be full of hot chicks.”

Of course, I already knew his angle.

Dallas was the pretty boy of the team—the all-American team captain; Tyler was the tattooed bad boy goalie; and, well, I was the asshole agitator. We were roommates, teammates, and made a pretty unstoppable trio when it came to wheeling chicks.