Offside: Rules of the Game Book 1
Offside: Chapter 2

Our pre-game ritual for home games was sacred. Practice skate at Northridge Arena, nap at home, meal at Ironwood Grill, then back to the rink early to warm up and shoot the shit. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It wasn’t that we were superstitious, but deviating from this particular sequence of events tended to result in losses.

Okay, maybe we were a little superstitious.

The stakes were especially high tonight because we were playing our rivals, the Callingwood Bulldogs. I couldn’t stand the team, especially the captain, and I couldn’t wait to crush them.

“Game day, bitches.” Our goalie, Tyler, stretched, lacing his arms behind his head. His heavily tattooed biceps flexed, a full sleeve of ink winding down to his left forearm. “You’d better be ready.”

I snorted. “Says the guy who kept giving up pucks in practice. I’ve seen coupons that save more than you.”

“None of yours managed to get by, so what does that say?”

While left wing was technically an offensive position, scoring wasn’t my primary objective—at least, not on the ice. My areas of expertise were battling for the puck, being strong on the boards, and killing penalties. And, of course, antagonizing the other side to fuck with their heads and cause them to draw penalties, both of which I found immensely rewarding.

I also dabbled in the occasional scrum. Okay, that happened pretty frequently.

“By the way,” Dallas said, ignoring our sniping, “we’re hitting XS tonight. Including you.” He pointed at me with his fork.

“What the hell is XS?” I asked, playing dumb. “A shirt size? I’m gonna need at least a large, dude.”

He gave me a withering look. “A new club. Opened last weekend. Supposed to be full of hot chicks.”

Of course, I already knew his angle.

Dallas was the pretty boy of the team—the all-American team captain; Tyler was the tattooed bad boy goalie; and, well, I was the asshole agitator. We were roommates, teammates, and made a pretty unstoppable trio when it came to wheeling chicks.

But nightclubs were boring as shit. I could accomplish the same thing at home with a strobe light and watered-down drinks. I’d save paying for cover and a ride too.

And as far as women went, I already had enough numbers to start my own Dickdash service.

I snatched my chicken club from my plate. “I’ve got a better idea.”

“What’s that?” Dallas looked up from his plate of fettuccini alfredo, eyebrows raised.

“We could do literally anything other than that.”

Why did they bother trying to sell me on this?. We all knew I was the stubborn one. It was impossible to strong-arm me into doing anything I didn’t want to do. Coach Miller could vouch for that fact.

Tyler leaned back in his chair. “Since when are you such a buzzkill? I thought you’d be all over this.”

Buzzkill was the last word anyone would use to describe me. I never turned down a chance to get fucked up, get laid, or get into trouble. Just not at a damn nightclub. I’d choose literally any other way to unwind after a physically and mentally taxing game.

“All over a party, yes. A bar, fine. But nightclubs are the worst,” I said. “Bad dance music, overpriced drinks, too many other dudes in the way. Plus, they’re cheesy as fuck.”

“Exactly.” Ty gestured, as if it were obvious. “Chicks love cheesy. Especially hot chicks.”

“Cool,” I said. “Have fun with that.” I had plenty of options for evening entertainment, hot chicks included. They could go on their merry way, and I’d go mine.

“Come on, man.” He glared at me, taking a bite of his burger.

The waitress returned and refilled our glasses with ice water before disappearing again.

“What do you need me for? Can’t pull without me?”

“It sure isn’t for the pleasure of your company,” Dallas deadpanned.

I shrugged. “Let’s have people over to our place.”

“We do that every weekend.” Tyler groaned, tipping his head back and looking up at the ceiling. He raked a hand through his dark hair, and his gaze snapped to mine. “I need a change of scenery.”

Personally, I liked it. The party came to us. And when I got bored, I could go to my room to sleep…or do other things.

I laughed. Scenery was a polite way of putting it. “You mean you’ve finally run out of girls at Boyd to bang.”

“That too,” said Tyler. “I need to refresh the rotation.”

People always gave me a hard time about my reputation, but Tyler made me look like Tom fucking Hanks.

“Either way, I’m down for something different. It’s happening. And you’re coming, fucker.” Dallas leveled his icy-blue gaze in my direction. It might have melted the panties off girls, but it held less persuasive power with me.

“What do you care, Ward?” I tipped my chin in his direction. “You’ll end up with Shiv later anyway and you know it.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” He shrugged. “Depends on how the night plays out.”

Bullshit. There was a 98-percent chance he’d ditch out for Siobhan by one a.m. Dallas talked a big game, but he never hooked up with anyone else, even though they weren’t technically exclusive. It was a weird dynamic that I didn’t understand, though I did like Shiv.

Then again, when things were rocky between them, sometimes he went out in search of a distraction. Not to pick up chicks, but to take his mind off things. Maybe that was the case right now.

“Fine,” I said, dipping a fry in ketchup and gesturing with it. “Since you two bar stars are set on going, let’s make it interesting.”

“Like what?” Dallas asked.

“A wager.”

Tyler cocked a dark brow. “Keep talking.”

“If we get a shutout against the Bulldogs tonight, we go to XS.”

There was a pretty slim chance of that happening. If it did, cool—we’d crush the team I hated most. If we didn’t, fine—I wouldn’t have to go to a dumb disco.

As long as we still won, of course. That part wasn’t negotiable. Win or die trying. We were the only division I schools in our state, which meant the rivalry ran immeasurably deep. It was steeped in decades of hatred and resentment. Boyd had won more championships in total, though in the past decade Callingwood had been stronger overall. As much as it pained me to admit, we’d been pretty evenly matched for the three years I’d been at Boyd.

At any rate, our games were always barnburners. And they really hated that we’d beat them out for a playoff spot last spring. I couldn’t wait to crush them tonight, especially their captain, Morrison. He made cheap hits, cherry picked, and was a total bag of dicks.

“And if we don’t?” Dallas took a bite of garlic toast, giving me a questioning look.

“We replace something better to do with our time.” As in, anything else.

He shrugged a broad shoulder. “All right.”

“What?” Tyler leaned forward on his elbows and scowled. “No way. That puts it all on my shoulders.”

“Not really.” I pointed at Dallas. “Your boy over there still has to score for us to win.”

That part was a given, though. Dallas’s points per game were at the top of the league. His stats were slightly more impressive than mine, which suffered somewhat due to the penalties I drew and took. More time in the sin bin meant less time on the ice. But we each had our roles, and I performed mine well.

“I’d have to stand on my head by myself for three periods to get a shutout,” said Ty. “Then as long as one of you idiots on the ice sank a goal, we’d win.”

“Fine.” I sighed. “We can up the ante. A shutout plus three or more goals for us. At least one goal has to be Ward.”

“Easy. Blindfolded and upside down.” Dallas took a sip of his ice water. “Let’s make it two.”

It was like he was doing my job for me.

“Fuck that,” Tyler grumbled. “He only has to sneak two shots past Mendez, while I have to block, like, a hundred from their entire team.”

He was being dramatic, as usual. The shots on net tonight would likely clock in around half that, if not less. But goalies weren’t known for being level-headed; they were their own special brand of crazy. They had to be in order to shake off their frustration and get right back to it after letting a goal in. The mental game goaltending required was intense.

“What’s wrong?” Dallas smirked, needling him. “You worried you can’t do it?”

Ty scoffed. “Of course I can. And I’m about to.”

Tyler’s weaknesses also included being proud to a fault, which made him easy to manipulate.

“I hear the Bulldogs tanked their preseason games,” Dallas added. “One-four-one. Probably won’t be hard.”

Had I known the wager would be this easy to win, I would have gotten more creative.

Three minutes into the game, the Bulldogs’ goalie failed to block Ward’s slapshot straight through the five-hole. Like he was asleep at the stick or something. Then everything went to shit for them. In the first period alone, they took several weak penalties, including tripping, slashing, spearing, and one for too many men on the ice—because apparently, in addition to forgetting how to skate, they’d also forgotten how to count.

As the second period began, we were in great spirits. Meanwhile, the Bulldogs were getting their asses kicked.

I watched as Dallas’s backhand narrowly missed the net, hitting the boards and rebounding into the corner. One of the Bulldogs’ D-men, Derek James, beat us to it and took possession, but he choked, freezing on the spot. I skated backward in position near the net while our other winger charged. Instead of taking the time to line up like he should have, Derek panicked and tried to pass to his teammate. His shot went wide, and I intercepted the puck in front of the net. With a flick of my wrist, the buzzer sounded again.

Beauty.

With a fist pump, I skated off and hopped onto the home bench.

“Sick goal.” Dallas laughed, clapping me on the back. “But you just sealed your fate.”

Not even two minutes into the second, the score was 3-0 in our favor—fulfilling the terms of our bet. Maybe I should have set the bar higher. But to be fair, I hadn’t expected the Bulldogs to make it this easy for us.

Now the Bulldogs’ first offensive line was skating aimlessly like they needed a fucking map for directions to the net. Morrison might have benefitted from a compass too.

The wheels had not only fallen off; the vehicle was on fire.

It was goddamn glorious.

“Tyler still has to bring home the shutout,” I said.

Maybe the Bulldogs would pull their heads out of their asses and score one goal so I could skip the nightclub crap. Wait, no. What the fuck? I hated myself for even thinking that. The more humiliating the defeat for Callingwood, the better.

“Please. Have you seen him tonight?” Dallas jutted his chin toward our net. “He’s a brick wall.”

“We’ll see.”

“Start planning your hair and outfit,” he said. “You’re coming.”

Fucking hell. A victim of my own success.

“Fine.” I leaned over and snagged my water bottle. “Go big or go home. If I’m going to lose this dumb bet, we might as well crush them.”