Page 112 of Habits

“You sure?”

I nod my head. “Yes, sir.”

“Because if you’re not …”

“I’m ready, Coach.”

“You've had your ups and downs this season, but you’re a good player, Andrew. That is, when you’re not acting like a little shit, which is often.” His face relaxes, if only a little, and his mouth even tilts into something that can be considered a smile. “In case you were wondering.”

The guy almost never smiles, so I guess I should just take it.

“Now grab your shit and let’s go win this game.”

* * *

I look at the seconds ticking by on the huge clock on the screen. Only five more minutes to go and the score is six to five in St. Jonah’s favor.

Those snarky little bastards meant business today. Not that they usually don’t. God knows there is enough bad blood between Greyford High and St. Jonah’s to last the lifetime. I don’t even remember how or when it all started, not that I care. My problem isn’t with the school; it’s with one of their players.

As if he can hear my thoughts, jackass lifts his head, his eyes finding mine from the other side of the ice. Ethan-fucking-Williams. A taunting smirk curls his lips. Anger spikes in my blood, but I try to keep my face impassive like I’ve done for most of today.

A hand lands on my shoulder as determined eyes find mine through the protective face shield. “You cool, bro?”

Gritting my teeth, I grab the offered water bottle and take a pull from it, swirling the liquid in my mouth before I spit it. “Fine.”

Playing fair or dirty, it didn’t matter one bit to them as long as they take the win and go to the tournament. The stakes were high, but they were getting pretty desperate if you ask me.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Derek and coach discussing something, probably our next move once we get back on the ice.

My blood is still rushing through my veins, right leg bouncing nervously. I want to get back out there so I can unleash what’s left of this pent-up energy inside of me and get this game over with.

“Hill, Sanders, King,” coach yells over the noise filling up the rink. “You’re up, boys.”

Without giving him a backward glance, we launch back to the ice, making the exchange.

For the next couple of minutes the game is intense. Both teams are doing whatever is in our power to keep the puck on our side—we need to score not one, but two goals so we can win, and the only thing they want is to keep our sticks off the puck so we can’t score and tie the game.

Currently we have the puck. Max stole it from one of the opposing players, to their distress, and we all chase it toward the goal. The guy following Max is close on his heels, and I put all of my energy into reaching him to either move the dude out of his way or get clear so he can pass me the black rubber, when I see a flash of red in the corner of my eye.

A shoulder runs into my side, making me stumble.

“Son of a bitch,” I hiss, shooting my stick forward just in time. He trips over the stick, losing his balance and falling into the Plexiglas.

Take that, fucker.

Just when I turn to get back to the game, I hear the buzzer. Red light flashes as my eyes shoot up, looking at the scoreboard. Six to six. One more goal. Just one more, and we’re going to the tournament.

Anticipation and adrenaline rush through my body, pumping me up. Max and Derek skate backward, waiting for the next play. They give each other a passing stick tap, but that’s the only acknowledgment of the score because now we’re tied, and if we don’t want to go into overtime, we have a minute and a half to score another goal.

Jonah’s players have the puck and they start the attack. We’re running out of time. I skate backward, ready to stop anybody who wants to go through.

A tie or a win. These are the only acceptable options.

“Hill.”

“Williams.”

Even through his face shield, I can see his smug smile.

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