“What do you care, Ward?” I tipped my chin in his direction. “You’ll end up with Shiv later anyway and you know it.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” He shrugged. “Depends on how the night plays out.”

Bullshit. There was a 98-percent chance he’d ditch out for Siobhan by one a.m. Dallas talked a big game, but he never hooked up with anyone else, even though they weren’t technically exclusive. It was a weird dynamic that I didn’t understand, though I did like Shiv.

Then again, when things were rocky between them, sometimes he went out in search of a distraction. Not to pick up chicks, but to take his mind off things. Maybe that was the case right now.

“Fine,” I said, dipping a fry in ketchup and gesturing with it. “Since you two bar stars are set on going, let’s make it interesting.”

“Like what?” Dallas asked.

“A wager.”

Tyler cocked a dark brow. “Keep talking.”

“If we get a shutout against the Bulldogs tonight, we go to XS.”

There was a pretty slim chance of that happening. If it did, cool—we’d crush the team I hated most. If we didn’t, fine—I wouldn’t have to go to a dumb disco.

As long as we still won, of course. That part wasn’t negotiable. Win or die trying. We were the only division I schools in our state, which meant the rivalry ran immeasurably deep. It was steeped in decades of hatred and resentment. Boyd had won more championships in total, though in the past decade Callingwood had been stronger overall. As much as it pained me to admit, we’d been pretty evenly matched for the three years I’d been at Boyd.

At any rate, our games were always barnburners. And they really hated that we’d beat them out for a playoff spot last spring. I couldn’t wait to crush them tonight, especially their captain, Morrison. He made cheap hits, cherry picked, and was a total bag of dicks.

“And if we don’t?” Dallas took a bite of garlic toast, giving me a questioning look.

“We find something better to do with our time.” As in, anything else.

He shrugged a broad shoulder. “All right.”

“What?” Tyler leaned forward on his elbows and scowled. “No way. That puts it all on my shoulders.”

“Not really.” I pointed at Dallas. “Your boy over there still has to score for us to win.”

That part was a given, though. Dallas’s points per game were at the top of the league. His stats were slightly more impressive than mine, which suffered somewhat due to the penalties I drew and took. More time in the sin bin meant less time on the ice. But we each had our roles, and I performed mine well.