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And it occurred to me that the whole reason Cam was living in my house right now and suffering through terrible cartoons was that Bryan had given me an ultimatum. That he’d threatened to try for full custody, pulling the boys even farther away from me.

What if that was the plan—to steadily chip away at my relationship with the twins until I was lucky to have a weekend a month with them?

And what if it worked?

I’d been distracted at our home opener because I was an idiot for Cam. In the games since, I’d had my head together, and I was already on track for a solid season. If I kept up my current points-per-game streak, and I didn’t go down with any injuries, this could be a record year for me.

Tonight, though…

Tonight was not going to be a good game.

Ever since that bullshit from Chats during this morning’s team meeting, I’d been wound tight and pissed off.

I’d usually pass out right away during my pregame nap, but today I’d tossed and turned the whole time.

As I’d gone through all my routines, gearing up and getting ready for warmups, I’d been distracted, and the distraction hadn’t been nearly as pleasant as the home opener.

And then during warmups, Chats and I passed each other at one point and made eye contact. The grin that flashed across his face made me want to kick his skates right out from under him.

I hated this. I hated him . I didn’t even know if his aim was to make me jealous that he had Bryan, or if he was just rubbing it in my face that he was getting laid while I—as far as anyone knew—wasn’t.

Jealousy wasn’t an issue. I still had some feelings about my divorce, but I didn’t want Bryan back. Chats could have him.

The rest? I genuinely didn’t care. So what if he was getting laid? I didn’t even want?—

That thought almost made me trip as I stepped off the ice and into the tunnel.

Up until recently, I hadn’t wanted to get laid. My libido had been dead and gone, and if anything, I’d just wondered how the hell Bryan could be interested in sex or dating or anything at all. Hockey had barely interested me.

Oh, but my libido was awake now, and it had been ever since…

I shivered, goose bumps springing up under my gear as I clomped toward the locker room.

Ever since Cam had arrived.

Well… that was a pleasant, if mildly distracting and seriously frustrating, train of thought. Nothing was going to happen between us, and I was surprised I hadn’t made an ass of myself living with him, but still. Beat the hell out of fixating on Chats and his bullshit.

And that kept me going right up until we were back on the bench. We were all standing for the national anthem, the stadium lights dimmed so people could focus on the flag and the singer. Bells and Hoes stood between me and Chats, all of their backs to me.

After the song had wound down, but just before the bright lights came back on, Chats turned around, and we once again made eye contact.

He smirked.

And he fucking winked .

And all those pleasant thoughts about Cam scattered.

If not for my mouthguard, I probably would’ve ground my teeth to dust as I dropped onto the bench. I needed to stop letting him get to me like this. He was a bag of dicks. He was an antagonistic piece of shit. Why was I letting him fuck with my mood, not to mention my hockey?

Hockey, Trevor. Focus on the hockey.

I tried my level best to do exactly that. Martin’s line managed to pin Chicago into their own defensive zone, and one by one, they peeled away. Hoes, Bells, and I joined our top D-pair, and they too went for changes while the three of us kept the puck deep in the zone.

Bells managed a gorgeous shot on goal. Shit, this kid was going places; he only had a handful of points so far this season, but his instincts were on point and his shot was deadly. If not for the miraculous save by Chicago’s goalie, Bells would’ve had the first goal of the game.

Fortunately, the goalie’s rebound control wasn’t that great, and Hoes managed to snag the puck away.

Un fortunately, one of Chicago’s forwards knocked him off the puck, and suddenly all the action was heading to our end.

Spaulding, our veteran defenseman, wasn’t able to get the puck away, but he did slow him down enough that one of the other forwards crossed into the zone first. The whistle blew—offside.

We seized the opportunity for a line change before the offensive zone faceoff, and?—

“Don’t worry, Trev.” A smirking Chats smacked my arm as we passed each other. “You know I can always pick up wherever you leave off.”

The impulse to roar with fury and snap my stick over my thigh (or his stupid head) almost got the best of me, but I just mentally cursed him out before taking my spot on the bench.

Son of a bitch. He’s going to do it during games now? Really?

Yeah. Really. Because he was that kind of petty, immature jackass.

I wanted to say I got over it by the time I went out for my next shift. I wanted to say I shook it off and refocused on the game. I wanted to say I didn’t let him fuck with my game.

I wanted to, but that would be a lie.

“Son of a bitch!” I shouted when my shot went miles wide. Before the words had even finished leaving my mouth, a Chicago player had the puck and passed it to another.

One who’d managed to get behind us and behind our D.

The crowd roared as he flew up the ice. Petrovich shifted left and right in the net, blocker and paddle ready as he anticipated where the shot might come in.

The player wound back, and Petrovich rose up to anticipate a top-shelf attempt… leaving his five-hole open for the dagger of a shot.

The red light came on. The goal song was barely audible over the ecstatic crowd.

I groaned and muttered a few curses as I watched the Chicago players skating by their bench for fist bumps. One sloppy shot on my part, and now we were down by one.

Way to go, Trev. Way to fuck your whole team because your head’s not in the game.

I dropped onto the bench and took a swig of water.

My anger drained away in favor of just feeling like shit.

I’d let my team down. Yeah, it was only one goal, and we were only halfway through the first period, but it was never fun to have to dig ourselves out of a hole.

Knowing my stupidity had put us in that hole… ugh.

A hand landed on my padded shoulder, and I turned my head as Coach leaned down beside me. “You here tonight, Trev?”

My face burned, and I nodded. “Yeah, Coach. I’m good.”

He studied me skeptically. Then he nodded, gave my shoulder a smack, and stood again to watch the action on the ice.

I needed to be here. I needed to get my head together.

Against my better judgment, I found Chats on the ice. He was fixated on a puck battle, jostling with an opposing defenseman while he waited for someone to get the puck free and pass it to him.

I gnawed furiously on my mouthguard. Why was I letting him under my skin? Why was I letting him fuck up my game?

Ugh. My kids are watching. The Pittsburgh Rebels fanbase is watching.

Ignore him and get it together. Fuck.

I told myself all that and more. Over and over and fucking over.

Can’t say it really helped, though.