Page 71 of A Little Tempting

Griffin hits him from behind, celebrating our first point with his best friend as I make my way to the center line. It’s for the best. If he kept bragging, I would flip him off and wind up in the penalty box.

Aaaand, here we go.

The rest of the period flies by in a blur, and the Bulls score once, bringing us to a tie at our first break. During the second period, I manage to score a goal, but I’m thrown into the penalty box a few minutes later for high sticking an asshole who checked me into the glass earlier in the game. Cameron joins me within seconds for roughing a player. It’s a bullshit call, and the Bulls take full advantage of our time off the ice, scoring thirty-two seconds later.

Fuckers.

Two to two.

Most of the third period stays at a standstill, and now, the clock’s winding down. If we don’t score soon, we’ll head into overtime, and I’m not in the mood. Not when I’m tied with Everett. Not when the Hawks are tied with the Bulls. Not when my date with Dylan’s on the line, along with the entire game.

As the timer taunts us from the wall, Everett heads to the middle of the rink, going head-to-head with the Bull’s center but flinches at the last second, causing a face-off violation. The ref has us switch places.

With sweat dripping along my temple, I take Ev’s spot at the blue line and wait for the referee to drop the puck. My opponent waits for the same thing across from me while the crowd’s cheers buzz in my ears, acting like gasoline on my already heightened adrenaline spike. Instead of distracting me, I bask in it. The energy. The applause. The tension.

In a flash, the black biscuit slips from the referee’s fingers, and I reel my stick back in preparation. As soon as it hits the ice, I slap the puck off the boards, passing it to Griffin on my right, and he makes a run toward the goal while two defenders race toward him. By some miracle, he’s able to get the pass off in time before he’s checked against the glass. As he’s sandwiched between the two assholes, I take advantage, cycling the puck down the left side of the ice as the clock continues counting down in my periphery, which is when I notice Everett in the perfect position.

If I take the shot toward the Bull’s goalie, whose sole focus is on me, I might miss. He could block it. We’ll go into sudden death and potentially lose the game. If I pass the puck to Everett, he could make a goal, give the Hawks a win, and take the lead on our bet when we both know there isn’t enough time in the third period for me to have another opportunity to match him again. Another heavy dose of adrenaline shoots through my veins, along with the knowledge it’s do or die. Now or never. Be a team player or a selfish dick, losing the respect of my teammates or the girl I’m interested in.

I don’t have to look at the crowd to know Dylan’s watching. To know she’s standing, her hands covering her mouth as the seconds wind down on the shot clock.

Seven. Six. Five.

Sometimes it sucks not being a selfish asshole.

Knowing I’ll regret it, I wind up, faking out the opposing team, and snap the puck toward a waiting Everett. He scoops it right past an unsuspecting goalie into the bottom corner of the net.

The alarm blares, and I look up at the scoreboard. LAU Hawks 3. BTO Bulls 2. One second on the clock.

I put the team first, and we won.

So why do I feel like I lost?

18

DYLAN

The place is packed. I’m not sure if everyone was invited or if people assumed the guys would want to celebrate LAU’s first win of the season, but the entire street is lined bumper to bumper with parked cars. Normally, I wouldn’t care—you do you, boo, and all—but since the guys’ house is kind ofmyhouse until my kitchen is fixed, I can’t help but feel dejected as I take in the over-crowded street. I’ve slept like crap lately, thanks to the early morning banging from the construction work next door. Add in the late-night parties, and I feel like I’ll never have a full night’s rest again.

“Do you think they’ll play any games tonight?” Finley wonders aloud as we walk up the street. We borrowed Griffin’s car for the game but had to park down the block since we couldn’t even pull into our own garage.

“No idea,” I answer.

Ophelia went with Maverick to his parents’ house after the game. I guess I don’t blame her. After the really sweet but also incredibly emotional dedication to Archer, I can only imagine how they feel. I don’t doubt they want a quiet night to unwind.

I wish I could have the same thing.

“So, how do you feel about Everett being the winner?” Finley prods.

“I feel like an object.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not an object. You’re a prize.”

I give her the side-eye. “Which is basically an object.”

“Ashinyobject,” she argues. “Besides, as we already discussed, there’s a definite possibility Everett’s Cinderfella, so it’ll be good to test the waters and find out for sure, one way or another.”

“And if he isn’t the one who kissed me?”