Offside: Rules of the Game Book 1

Slivers of golden afternoon light filtered in from the gaps between my blinds, rudely reminding me it was the middle of the day and I was wide awake. I let out a heavy sigh of frustration, staring at the stark white ceiling. The house was silent, the air still. Both of the guys were probably out cold—like I should have been. Like I wanted to be.

Unfortunately, I’d been vibrating with excess energy from the moment I woke up this morning. My long-standing, low-level rage toward Morrison had mingled with an unpleasant tinge of anxiety, making it impossible to relax, let alone fall asleep. I hated worrying, rarely ever did it, and thoroughly resented that I was. But this was personal in a way no matchup had ever been before.

I was going to win or die trying.

Was probably going to hit the wall something fierce after the game was over too, but as long as we emerged victorious, I didn’t care.

Because of classes and pre-game prep after, I didn’t get to see Bailey. I’d loosened up on my rigid pre-game routine lately, but I couldn’t take any chances today. Ty, Dallas, and I religiously executed every single superstitious ritual we had, no matter how small or how silly. Even the dumb ones, like Dallas wearing his pair of lucky socks and which one of was driving to the rink.

If there was any chance it would tip the scales in our favor, we were doing it.

Well, except for my pre-game nap—and not for lack of trying. I loved sleeping, never struggled with insomnia, and normally, I would have been sound asleep twenty minutes ago. Instead, I was obsessing over plays and daydreaming about inflicting severe bodily harm on Morrison. Would it be another open-ice check, or would I smash him into the boards like the pest he was? I’d planned for either scenario so I’d be ready when either opportunity arose. Hopefully, I’d take him clean out of the game again so I didn’t have to see his stupid, smug face a moment longer than necessary.

Sleep crept farther out of reach as my rage climbed another notch. Fuck. Morrison was living in my head rent-free when I should have been resting and recharging. Or fantasizing about Bailey naked, at the very least.

Finally, I slid out of bed and sank down into my desk chair, grabbing my Urban Economics textbook. Studying was the last thing I wanted to do before a game—and was something I’d never done—but I didn’t know what else to do with myself.

That lasted all of three minutes before I gave up and looked up hockey stats online, rearranging my fantasy hockey lines. I was still in the lead, and I wanted to keep it that way. This occupied my restless brain for a while, but the low hum of resentment lingered in the back if my mind, nevertheless.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, snapping me back to reality.

“Ready?” Dallas pounded on my door.

I glanced at the clock on my desk, electricity shooting through my veins. Go time. “Yeah,” I called. “Be right down.”

Body buzzing, I stood, pushed in my chair, and grabbed my stuff on the way out. I jogged down the stairs and found the guys waiting in the hallway, their faces tight. The atmosphere was so heavy it was like we were heading to a funeral rather than a game.

“Are you ready to fuck some shit up?” I asked.

Dallas nodded. “You know it.”

Tyler eyed me warily. “I know you want to crush Morrison, but don’t let him take your head out of the game.”

“I won’t,” I said.

Bailey: Good luck tonight. I love you.

Chase: I love you too. See you after.

As the clock ticked down to puck drop, Miller gave us a legendary pep talk in the dressing room that none of us needed—we were more than amped to play our biggest rival. By the time we we burst out of the dressing room, we were ready for a bloodbath.

Another overdose of adrenaline hit my veins as soon as the ice came into view. So much so that I feared going into cardiac arrest before the game even started. Knowing Bailey was watching made me want to win that much more too.

Scratch that. I didn’t want to win—I needed to.

Dallas and I hopped on for a shift against Callingwood’s first line. Morrison, of course, was nowhere to be found because he was down on Callingwood’s third line again. As the game went on, though, we would inevitably cross paths, and I wouldn’t waste a single opportunity to destroy him.

The first ten minutes were painfully tight, with several scoring opportunities for both sides without success. Ty was holding his own, but so was Mendez. With each minute that passed without a goal, the tension in the stands and on our bench ratcheted up. It could be a one-goal game at the rate things were going, and that goal needed to be ours.

A few shifts later, Morrison and I were on the ice together for the first time. The moment I’d been waiting for. The puck sailed loose, heading into their zone, and we both barreled straight for it. Arguably, he should have stayed higher and let one of their defensemen cover me instead, but he wanted to bait me, and I was more than happy to bite.

We battled for control of the puck against the boards. Morrison pushed me, and I shoved him back twice as hard. Normally, I wasn’t one to take cheap, sneaky shots, but I’d make an exception for him and spear him right in the ribs where the refs wouldn’t see.

Before I could lay a glove on him, his skate caught on his own stick and he lost his balance. When he realized he was going down, he embellished his fall, arms flailing, and flopped flat onto the ice. He remained there, pretending he’d been laid out.

Dive, much?

Did my job for me, I guess. I shook my head and pivoted, racing Derek for the puck that was now behind the net, but Derek had a significant head start and beat me to it. Winded as hell, I dug into the ice and pushed off to catch up with him. I stole a glance back at Luke, who was skating off to their bench while holding his shoulder, feigning injury.

To my shock, a whistle sounded a split second later, and the ref called a delayed penalty. On me. Morrison tripped himself, and I got called for it. He should receive a fucking Academy Award for that performance. Maybe he could go into acting when his hockey aspirations didn’t pan out.

Jaw clenched, I glided over to the penalty box to serve my time. Convicted of a crime I didn’t commit. Usually, I would have argued with the officials, but I managed to hold my tongue. I couldn’t risk pissing off the refs when the stakes were so high. A few bad calls could make or break a game.

I watched helplessly from the box while the game continued with us at a one-man disadvantage. A line change later, Morrison had mysteriously recovered and was back on the ice. Suddenly, our penalty kill fell apart, and we lost possession of the puck. Penner looked the wrong way, searching for it in vain, because evidently, he needed a fucking eye exam.

Paul passed to Morrison while our defense was still on the other side of the ice, giving Morrison a good lead—and, unfortunately, a breakaway. My stomach flew into my throat.

No. Anyone but this jackass.

Our defense scrambled to catch up while I held my breath, watching and praying. Morrison’s shots had been garbage lately, so we had that working in our favor.

With our players hot on his heels, Morrison skated up to our net and deked the puck, trying to fake out Ty. Ty wasn’t fooled by his maneuver and reacted lightning-fast, grabbing the puck in time, but it deflected off his glove and tipped into the net. Some goals were pure dumb luck, and this was one of them.

The buzzer sounded, and the scoreboard changed to one-nothing, Callingwood, with 8:06 left in the period.

Luke hollered, doing an obnoxious celebratory dance on the ice before fist bumping his entire team.

I slapped my thigh in frustration. “God dammit.”

With the power play converted and penalty now over, I was freed from the box and headed back to our bench. Dallas and I exchanged a terse look as I flopped down beside him, taking a drink of water.

“We have to turn this around.”

I hadn’t done anything to instigate my penalty, but I was still frustrated as fuck. Ending this period down a goal would make it that much easier for Callingwood to maintain their lead.

“We will,” Dallas said. “They don’t have any stamina. We’ll wear them down.”

Two minutes later, Derek took an unwarranted penalty. He’d barely looked at Penner, let alone touched him. It wasn’t justified, but I breathed out a relieved breath. Looked like the refs were being equal opportunity with their shitty calls.

Miller sent Dallas and me out for the power play, accompanied by a not-so-veiled threat to even the score or else. And I fully intended to. With Derek in the box, the Bulldogs were missing one of their better defensemen, and it gave us the perfect scoring opportunity.

After a beautifully executed play on our part, I got possession of the puck and barreled for Mendez like a freight train. One of their sophomore defensemen swooped in, trying to stop me. He put up a good fight, but with a quick toe drag, I transitioned from forehand to backhand and fooled him into attacking the wrong side. His confusion gave me a window to pass to Dallas, who was wide open in front of the net.

Dallas caught the pass and faked a shot, convincing Mendez he was aiming for the bottom corner, but then he shifted toward his backhand side while pulling the puck laterally. Dallas, who had some of the best hands in the division, moved so quickly that Mendez couldn’t recover in time. No goalie could have. Dallas sank the puck deep into the opposite corner, evening out the score.

The buzzer was music to my ears.

“Nice one.” I gave Dallas a fist bump as we skated back to our bench.

“It’s a start,” he said, “but now we have to demolish them.”

As the second period began, we emerged fired up and ready to battle. Evening out the score had reinvigorated us and had shaken Callingwood’s confidence.

Strangely, after being whistle-happy in the first, the refs were letting more and more slide. Infractions piled up without being called. Subtly at first, but it became increasingly blatant as the game went on. Hit, hook, slash, spear, trip. Nothing.

Miller went off script and split the lines, separating me from Dallas. But maybe he knew what he was doing, because Dallas sank another goal past Mendez on his first shift without me. Then I added to the score with a goal of my own shortly after, a slapshot that brought the score to three-one.

With each goal, the Bulldogs looked incrementally more defeated.

Couldn’t happen to a more deserving team.

I watched from the bench while Dallas assumed possession of the puck and brought it up the side, looking for an opportunity to pass to Martin in front of the net. Hope surged through me as Dallas wound up and shot it over to Martin. Four-one would look great up on the board.

Martin took a quick wrist shot that bounced off Mendez’s glove. A nice attempt, but no dice.

A good five seconds after Dallas executed the pass, Luke skated up and checked him from behind. Hard. Dallas crashed into the boards, shoulder first, and bounced off before falling onto the ice.

I nearly snapped my stick in two.

That dirty motherfucking Morrison.

My gaze cut to the refs, and I waited for them to call it, but they didn’t. What the fuck? The hit was so blatant, there was no way none of them saw it. Clearly interference, at a minimum, and possibly boarding if Dallas was injured.

Chest tight, I watched Dallas stand and shake himself off, then slowly skate to the net. He seemed mostly unharmed by the cheap hit, but that wasn’t the point. In addition to the official rules and regulations of the game, there were a number of unwritten rules that were implicitly understood—a major one being, we didn’t take dirty hits on clean players. And if we did, we expected to answer for it.

I was coming for those answers.

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.

Much as I tried, I couldn’t cross the ice in time. I watched it happen like it was in slow motion. Morrison sped to the net and made a half-assed attempt to stop inches before he hit the crease. He slammed into Ty, bringing him down as he toppled over.

I waited for a penalty call that didn’t come. He was going to get away with it.

Not on my watch.