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I want Twyler Perkins to be mine and I can’t have her.

* * *

We’re playing like shit.

No, scratch that,I’mplaying like shit.

It doesn’t help that Rodriguez, from Elan College, is determined to shut me down.

“Get any closer, Rodriguez, and I’ll think you have a crush on me,” I say, trying to shake him.

The puck zings through the ice; from Reid to Jeff, who eyes the net. It’s a distraction, he’s sending me the puck, and I sprint, anticipating his pass. It comes smooth and crisp, and I make the connection—

“Fuck!” I swear, watching the puck go wide.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Rodriguez asks, skating by with a smug grin.

“No, asshole, I’m too busy fucking yours.”

The insult rolls off my tongue before I have time to think about it. But hey, it’s hockey. Chirps are part of the game. If you can’t take a verbal sparring, find another sport. Like baseball.

His fists curl, but Jefferson swings around, pushing me away from further altercation. I’m not one to get into fights. I’m too busy focusing on the win. My brain is occupied with strategy and other than speed, my strongest skill is anticipation. Send me the puck and I’ll be there, which is what has Rodriguez so pissed.

I’m faster and smarter than he is.

I’ve played against him before, but over the last year he’s gained twenty pounds of muscle and a shitty attitude. It’s made worse by the fact we’re playing at their home arena. The whole place is a sea of red and black. Their mascot is a bulldog and their nonstop barking only fuels Rodriguez to be an asshole.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Jeff says, adjusting his chin strap.

“I’m not.” We’re down by one, and there are two minutes before we head into the third period. The last thing we need is for one of us to get tossed in the bin. Honestly, Rodriguez having a hard-on for me is exactly what I need. His taunts keep me in the game—keep me focused.

Anything to distract my mind from the dark-haired girl behind the bench.

The ref whistles and the Elan forward, Alton, and I face-off. Rodriguez is a foot behind staring at me like a fucking maniac. Just before the puck drops, he says, “You fingerbang your girl with those hands, Cain?”

It’s not enough to distract me, and as I gain possession, I whiz past him, angle the stick, and make the shot. The puck sails past the goalie and lights the lamp.

“Hell, yes!” Axel’s voice carries from our goal. It’s overtaken by a cacophony of boos—the local fans pissed that I evened up the score.

“Hey,” I say, giving Rodriguez a smirk as I circle behind the net. “At least I score.”

When I come out the other side, I see a flash of red.

“Cain!” Reid shouts in warning, but it’s too late. Rodriguez barrels toward me, his body crushing me into the boards. Chaos surges in the crowd and shouts erupt on the ice. I shove Rodriguez, but Reid is already there, fist connecting with his jaw.

* * *

It would be easier if Coach Bryant yelled at us when we got in the locker room for intermission. Instead, he’s quiet. Too quiet as he surveys the fallout. Reid has been ejected—along with Rodriguez for fighting. Jonah Murphy’s knee got tangled up in the scuffle and Coach Green is bent before him, assessing how bad it is.

“Cain,” Coach Bryant barks. “Get your side checked out.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, after I swallow a gulp of water. “He just knocked the wind out of me.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” He jerks his head. “Go.”

I stand, doing my best not to wince. Truth is, it feels like I got hit by a sledgehammer.

“Perkins,” Coach Green says, distracted by Jonah, “see to Cain.”