Page 9 of The Bad Boy Rule

It didn’t make a difference to me.

When everything started imploding and going to shit in my life, I turned to the one and only thing I had: hockey.

It’s been my escape for as long as I can remember. It saved me. It gives me an outlet, a way to get out every ounce of my aggression without getting into trouble that I already can’t afford.

I’ve been obsessed with the game since I picked up a stick for the first time when I was seven and learned early on the more I pour into it, the better off I’ll be.

I once heard this saying in a class back in high school that you are a product of your environment. Meaning that if you were raised by fuckups, then nine times out of ten, you’re going to become the very same fuckup.

It’s statistics.

But if nothing else, I’m a stubborn motherfucker, and I refuse to let that happen, if not for myself, then for my mom. Because she deserves at least one good thing in her life, and I want to make her proud.

I know that she loves me, but my mother is a victim. She’s fallen prey to my father’s narcissistic, brainwashing bullshit and abuse. That’s what motivates me, pushes me harder, to be the best and accept nothing less.

Her.

My plan has always been to get drafted by the NHL, and then I can put her in a nice house in a safe neighborhood that’s not falling apart. Get her anything she needs or wants without blinking or having to think twice about where the money will have to come from. So I can take her the fuck away from my father and make sure she’s safe, cared for,happy. Until then, I put my head down and keep the tunnel vision.

Besides, I would never give my father the satisfaction of ending up like him.

And that’s why whenever I’m exhausted and weary, I remind myself of that very thing.

How no matter what hand I’m dealt, I’m going to be more than just the poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks with a shitty life and an even shittier father. More than the kid who had to pay for dinner in quarters or had to take secondhand hockeygear because it was all he could get. But mostly how much Icannever fucking be like him.

Sticking the end of the hockey tape in between my teeth, I work on wrapping the end of my stick, shifting it back and forth in my hand to make sure it’s taped correctly.

“Hooooooly shit,” a voice sounds from beside me as my teammate Bennett Legros flops down onto the bench, dropping his hockey bag on the floor next to him. “I have to tell you what the hell happened to me this weekend. You’re not even going to believe it.”

Let’s be real, my tolerance for people in general is pretty fucking low. Never been much for small talk. I can barely tolerate my teammates, and that’s really because I have no other choice.

But if there was anyone I couldalmostcall a friend, I guess it would be the dramatic, cocky, and completely unaware-of-personal-space goalie sitting beside me.

We’ve been playing hockey together for the last two years, and the fucker just has a special talent for weaseling himself in, so I couldn’t get rid of him if I tried.

Trust me, I’ve tried. Until I was blue in the face, but apparently, “fuck off” in Bennett language is “love me forever.”

“Yeah, something tells me I’m going to believe it if it has anything to do with you,” I grunt my retort, glancing back at my stick and pretending that I didn’t spend the last five minutes taping it just so I can cut this conversation short.

“Listen, dude, honest to God, I accidentally found a dead body.” His voice is exasperated, but there’s a hint of awe in his tone like it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to him all month.

“You know I actually do believe that, Legros, because whenever there isshit, you’re not far behind.”

“What can I say? It follows me around,” he mutters, unzipping his bag and pulling out his water bottle. He might annoy the shit out of me the majority of the time, but he’s one of the best goalies I think I’ve ever seen.

As long as I’ve been playing hockey, I’ve learned one thing: goalies are a whole different breed, and Bennett is no exception.

He starts to suit up for practice and shakes his head. “It was wild. The one time I decided to go off campus and go to Bourbon like a fucking tourist, and there’s a dead dude in the middle of the street. It was traumatic, to say the least. Fuck, I think I might still be a little drunk.”

“Well, you were on Bourbon Street, so I’m not really sure what you expected.”

Shrugging, he rakes a hand through his hair. “I mean, I went there for a good time and… a hand grenade because you know that’s my shit, not the coroner on the literal corner.”

I roll my eyes, and he just smirks, a shit-eating grin that reveals teeth that are far too perfect for a dude that plays hockey, but he’s like me and never takes off his mouth guard. “Surprisingly, though, finding a dead body is not the talk of the campus.Youare.”

“Enlighten me. Why am I the topic of conversation this week?” I sigh.

“Everybody’s talking about your little stroll”—he waves his fingers through the air—“down sorority row in nothing but underwear. Jesus, dude, can you leave a little for the rest of us?”

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