Page 113 of Habits

Play it cool. You have to play it cool. Think about scoring the goal and don’t let him get to you.

“Still pining after that raven-haired bombshell?” he yells over the crowd.

I grit my teeth, trying to hold in my rage.

Don’t let him get to you, I chant in my head, my eyes following the progress of the puck, but the dude doesn’t shut up.

“She’s stunning, that’s for sure. But don’t forget, she was mine first.”

This time I don’t even try to control myself. I launch at him, shoving his unprepared body away and pinning him against the Plexiglas. My hands curl around his jersey, pulling him off the ice.

“Don’t you dare say her name.” I shove him into the glass, making it tremble with the force I put behind the movement. “Don’t you dare.”

“Aww.” He pouts his lips in exaggeration, taunting me. The guy has a death wish, that’s for sure. “The little hussy has you wrapped around her little finger. How cute.”

“You’re a dead man,” I murmur, my voice dangerously low.

I let him drop down and start pulling off my gloves when two sets of hands wrap around my forearms pulling me away.

“Think about the game.”

“We need you to win this thing.”

Both Derek and Max start pulling me away when the ref comes between us. His mousy eyes look from me to Williams, frowning as he assesses the situation. “All good?”

“Good.” I nod stiffly as we get back to the game.

With less than a minute on the clock and the puck in their possession, the best outcome we can hope for is to go into overtime.

They push and pull, everything they can do to bulldoze through our ranks and get to our net. I can see one of our guys get shoved aside forcefully, making an opening.

As the guy holding the puck sees it and skates in that direction, I hold my own fort with Williams at my heels. He goes through the opening. Our goalie sees him and gets ready to defend the net when a flash of white skates between them, stealing the puck.

Fuck yeah.

Everybody notices the puck exchange. Jonah’s defenders shoot to catch Sanders, while the rest of them try to stop us from coming forward.

“You’re not going anywhere, pretty boy.” Williams sneers at me.

“That’s what you’d like to think.”

I start right, which is the logical option, but instead go left. Using all the strength I have left in my legs, I shoot over the ice and between the players, making a half circle and coming from the other side.

The defenders are at Max’s back. He shoves off one, his eyes meeting mine for a millisecond, and then the second guy’s at him just as he slides the puck in my direction.

I watch the black rubber glide on the white surface toward me.

My eyes lift, staring straight at the goalie. He’s glaring at me through his mask. Drops of sweat slide down the side of my face as everything slows down.

Seconds. That’s all that’s left. Seconds.

And I only have one chance. I cannot screw up.

My body moves on its own, muscle memory kicking in when my brain shuts down. I’m coming diagonally from the left side, so it would be logical to shoot left.

One shot.

I shoot right.

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