Page 54 of Game Misconduct

“No,” Leif muttered and ripped the tape off his stick. It wasn’t quite right. He needed to fix that.

Apparently, Leif’s father noticed his nerves too, because he bent down to talk to Leif on the bench after his first shift out. It had gone horribly. Leif had lost the faceoff and Team USA had nearly scored.

“You’ve got this,” Aksel said in his ear. “You’re skilled and prepared. You just need to dial in and you’ll be ready to go.”

Leif released a breath, trying to force the tension from his shoulders, because his father was right.

It helped when he was on the ice again, because he could do something about that nervous energy. A couple of good shifts settled him down and the first period was high energy, with lots of good scoring opportunities but zero actual goals. USA wasn’tan overly physical team, and they did their best to shut down all the attempts to stir up some aggression.

Tanner, of course, was in the middle of it.

And, as Leif had expected, he was the target of Tanner’s attention.

To his surprise, however, Leif forgot all about the way Tanner’s skin tasted and how he wrinkled up his nose.

All he could see was red as Tanner chirped him relentlessly. As he stole the puck.

And during the second period, when Tanner shoved his way into the blue paint in front of Gunnar Berglund’s net, Leif dragged him out.

They ended up in a shoving match, which led to them fuming in their respective boxes. Leif shifted on the bench, trying to get comfortable. Despite the padding, by the end of this game Leif’s ribs were going to be littered with bruises from the butt end of Tanner’s stick and his pointy fucking elbows.

Pissed, Leif was out of the box the second the door opened. The puck landed on his stick, a nifty little drop pass from one his teammates, and then he was tearing down the ice toward Team USA’s net. Time seemed to slow as he approached Roman Poole.

He’d fired enough shots on him in practice for the Rockets to know his weaknesses.

With a slick little deke, Leif fired high, the puck glancing off Poole’s shoulder pad before tumbling into the net behind him.

“Goddamn it,” Poole muttered, slumping, but the words were drowned out by the sound of the goal horn and the roar of the crowd.

Leif allowed himself a single raised arm to acknowledge the cheers before his teammates swooped in to join him in celebration. He’d never been a fan of players who had a showy celly—like Tanner, becauseof coursehe did—but he couldn’t resist a small one at getting the first goal of the game.

And he couldn’t resist a smug smirk in the direction of the Team USA bench on his way back to his own.

Of course, Tanner got even more obnoxious after that, and he and his teammates really poured on the pressure. Tanner seemed to be everywhere at once, darting around and disappearing like smoke the moment someone tried to catch him,

“God you’re fucking annoying,” Leif roared on his next shift out, after Tanner stole the puck off him for the umpteenth time.

“All part of my charm,” Tanner said as he wheeled away, firing the puck to Dustin Fowler.

Of course, because that was always Leif’s luck, Fowler deked around one of the Nordic defensemen and buried the puck in the back of Berglund’s net. The building shook with the roars of the Team USA fans and Tanner and Fowler got smothered by their teammates.

It was on after that. No-holds-barred.

No one had been quite sure how hard guys would go at these games, but this felt almost playoff-level intense as guys battled along the boards and tore up and down the ice.

Team USA got another goal in the second period, and Leif tried his best, but Poole was cool and calm, unruffled by the earlier goal he’d allowed.

Frustration built as they headed into the third period, and Leif’s aim got worse. After the third time his shot hit one of the posts and there was a stoppage in play, Poole tilted his mask back and took a swig of water.

“You know, Rasmussen,” he said, in a casual tone, like they were having dinner with the team back in New York, “I thought your mom was a model, not a pole dancer. Because that kind of talent has got to be genetic.”

Leif snarled and would have gone after him, but one of the refs grabbed his arm.

“Nope. We don’t want any extra-curriculars today,” he called out. “C’mon. Are you gonna play hockey or what?”

Leif scowled and followed him to set up for the faceoff.

Leif’s mood didn’t get better when he watched from the bench as Graham Pennington scored on a breakaway, bringing it to 3–1.