“I wouldn’t have to hit you so hard in practice if you weren’t such a pussy during games, Metzger,” I say, pulling my lips from the rim of my beer bottle just long enough to dish out a quick insult to my best friend.

“Fuck off, you’re just bitter that girls like me more ‘cuz I’m the sexy captain,” he says in this fucking annoying-ass voice while he rubs his chest like he’s a stripper. It’s creepy.

“Yeah, you got me. Totally jealous of all that,” I deadpan, gesturing toward him.

I kid with him, but truth is Trenton Metzger is the most talented goddamned hockey player I’ve ever been on the ice with. He’s the only reason people talk about Northern Tech hockey, and it’s an honor to be on the roster with him.

Hell, it’s an honor to be on any roster at all. I’m a partial-scholarship player; partial lots of things, really. After two years of busting my ass in junior college and proving myself in junior leagues, I managed to pull together enough of an academic and athletic resume to get my ass into Tech. My grades were never the issue. It was my stint at Lake Crest that gave people pause. The list of schools willing to hand out free money just so I would go there dried up fast even though I finished out high school in the Excel Program, my senior year in independent study—graduating early with shining academics. I was still accepted lots of places, I just couldn’t pay for them.

What a fucking tease college is. Hey, come to our university and have this awesome life we’re showing you in these glossy pictures. Oh…what? You can’t afford it? Here…here’s a nice mug and calendar magnet of our football schedule instead.

Luckily, I’m enough of an asset on the ice for NTU to pay for part of my last two years. Part. I get another small percentage in academic scholarships, but even then there’s still a shitload I have to figure out on my own. My mom and step-dad Dwayne help, but they don’t have much either. They gave me what little they made from combining households when they got married two years ago, and that little went right to what was left on my tuition tab my first semester. So I work the rest off with odd jobs. Right now, I have two. In the mornings, I work at a nearby elementary school. I get there early for the parents who have to drop their kids off before school actually starts. We play dodgeball for two hours, and the girls sit at the tables and color. It pays shit, but it’s better than nothing.

My other gig is…different. But the pay is awesome—when it comes. I’m a fall guy. Basically, I spar with wannabe fighters for this dude Harley who manages up-and-coming boxers. He pays me ten bucks an hour to throw a few punches, but take way more than I throw. It builds up confidence in the guys he wants to move up and it keeps me aggressive on the ice. When he thinks his guys are almost ready, he sets up small fights at a few of the gyms in the city, and my job is to always go down, but not until we’ve gone at least three or four rounds.

This is where I make my tuition money.

Harley takes bets on the side—rolling money into the thousands with a network of bookies he knows. I get a cut—because I’m the one who gives him the lock. He’s careful about running me too often, switching me up with two or three other guys who have the same deal, and he always loses a bet when he needs to make it look legit.

The fights are only on Sundays, so it never runs into practice or games. And it’s rarely more than one a month. But one fight can land me a few grand in a night. It’s money I need, and the first time I did it, I couldn’t believe how many of my financial problems it helped make go away. But that’s not what made me come back.

That feeling—the one of knowing my arms aren’t going to move fast enough, that my instincts are going to be purposely numbed, is a rush. To know the hit is coming, and that I’m going to deny myself protection. When I get hit—gloves to the temple, chest, chin, ribs—it’s like getting high. Everything that hurts gets centered on the pain, and my runaway thoughts and fears come to a grinding halt. Regret fades. The only thing that exists is getting my ass kicked, feeling my flesh sting and my body hum with pain.

Sometimes, I think that if I didn’t do this—if I hadn’t stumbled into Harley’s gym one day and found my way into a ring with a boxer twice my size—that I would have turned to something else. My body can take the abuse, and my mind…it craves the distraction. It’s the same way on the ice.

“All right, Harper. Who’s the target tonight?” Trent leans over me, startling me out of my trance, grabbing my next beer and taking it for his own.