Torresi was in danger of stroking out. Green eyes, as cold as glaciers, bulged from a face that was turning redder with each shout that echoed around the locker room. The screams bounced off the concrete walls, the rubber mat on the floor doing little to absorb the sound.

The man was seriously pissed, no doubt about it. But fuck, didn't he know the rest of them were just as pissed? They'd lost their last seven games. They fucking knew that. Hell, they'd been there, just like Coach had been there. He wasn't telling them anything new.

Maybe he'd just had enough. Had reached his limit and finally exploded. Zach could appreciate that. Hell, he had a feeling the entire team was ready to explode. He could fucking feel it—the tension, the wariness, the weariness. A heavy blanket of expectation hung over everyone, like the calm before the storm. All it would take was the strike of a single match before shit went boom.

Zach wrapped his hands around his stick, afraid to so much as move. Hell, just glancing around the locker room was risking the full brunt of Coach's ire. He wasn't the only one who felt it, either. Not a single man was moving.

Better to let Coach get it out of his system.

"I expect better from every single fucking player on this team. Do you hear me? We should be ahead on the board, not fucking falling to Bridgeport. Defense, get your fucking asses in there and protect Bowie. You think he's fucking Superman? He's not. Do your fucking job." Torresi loosened the tie around his neck then started pacing. His fingers tightened around the roll of papers in his hand, the crinkling loud in the silence as he tapped the roll against his leg with each step.

Step. Tap. Step. Tap.

Torresi reached the wall, stopped, spun back around. "Offense, get in their shoot. Fucking shoot the fucking puck. How the fuck do you expect to score if you don't even take the fucking shot? The lines are breaking down. You're letting them get into your fucking heads. It needs to fucking stop. Now. You hear me?"

There was a murmur of agreement, the voices subdued, cautious. Torresi looked around, his jaw clenched so hard Zach expected to hear the sound of teeth cracking.

Coach finally sucked in a deep breath, let it out with a sharp hiss, then looked around and shook his head. "Jesus fucking Christ."

He spun on his heel and stormed out of the room, Coach Richards and Coach Kroncke following him. Several long seconds went by, the silence finally broken by a loud collective sigh. One by one, everyone came to life—subdued and cautious maybe, but they were finally breathing.

Zach relaxed his grip on the stick then grabbed a roll of tape, just for something to do. Nervous energy—he'd been plagued with it since he left his condo for the game a few hours ago. Unsettled. Anxious. Edgy.

He shrugged it off, chalked it up to the tension that had been hanging over everyone the last few days. No, more like the last few weeks. It had nearly come to a head during warm-ups, at least between Jason and Tyler. Something had happened between those two, something that would have come to blows if Harland and Aaron hadn't stepped between them. Zach didn't know exactly what was said but he wouldn't be surprised if it had something to do with Jenny.

Whatever. Not his problem. He didn't need the extra tension. None of them did.

At least he'd been able to separate himself from it for the most part because he'd been occupied with Haley. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with that, as far as he was concerned.

But he still couldn't shake off the unsettling edginess, like something was going to happen. He didn't like it, didn't like the way it crawled up his spine and made his neck tingle. Didn't like the way it made him want to look over his shoulder, like something was creeping up behind him.

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, held it deep in his lungs and forced himself to relax. Tyler was real big on shit like this, swore it helped. Zach wondered if he was doing all that meditation shit now, or if he was still busy having his ass handed to him by Kolchak.

"What do you think is going to happen?" The quiet voice was just as subdued as the atmosphere hanging over the locker room. Zach opened his eyes and looked up. Travis was standing in front of him, bouncing from skate to skate as he twirled his stick in one hand.

"Happen with what?"

"I don't know. Everything, I guess. Something is off. I can feel it."

"Yeah—our fucking game." Zach double-checked his laces then stood and rolled his shoulders. It was time to head back out to the ice, to see if they could turn things around in the second period.

"Nah. It's more than that." Travis followed Zach out to the tunnel.

"Just focus on the game, Grasshopper. That's all that matters."

"Yeah. I guess. You going out after? To Mystic's?"

Zach nodded. He didn't want to—he'd rather go straight to Haley's. But Aaron had insisted everyone meet after the game, for some serious bonding and relaxing. A team night, he called it. Yeah, because they didn't already see enough of each other as it was.

But Zach had agreed. And maybe Aaron had a point. Maybe they just needed to blow off some collective steam. They only had two weeks left in the season. They sure as hell couldn't keep playing under this stifling tension.

And the tension only grew worse during the second period. They'd finally managed to get one on the board but it still wasn't enough. Tyler was off his game, his reactions slow, like his mind was on something completely different. And Jason—

Who the fuck knew what was going on with Jason. Krasnoff, the fucking Russian goon from Bridgeport, had been chirping him all night. The chirping had gotten worse during the second period. Whatever Krasnoff was saying was really getting into Jason's fucking head.

Zach leaned forward, his hands gripping the stick, his legs bouncing with pent-up energy as he watched the play unfold on the ice. The second line had been out there too long, unable to clear the puck long enough for a line change. They were beyond tired, Zach could see it in the red sweaty faces, in the forced strides as they kept chasing the fucking puck.

And fuck, Bridgeport had the puck, they were taking the shot and—

Tyler snagged the puck from mid-air, pulling it into his chest and holding it until the whistle blew. Finally. Maybe this was the break they needed.

Or maybe facing off right in front of their own fucking net was the worst thing that could happen.

Zach held his breath, watching Jason go head-to-head against Krasnoff as they waited for the puck to drop. Krasnoff said something, his sneer clear even from the bench. Whatever it was couldn't be good because Jason threw his stick to the ice and went after the Russian.

And holy shit, all hell broke loose. Tyler flew out of the net, lunging for Krasnoff while the other man had Jason pinned to the ice. Zach didn't think, didn't pay attention to Torresi's warning to not fucking move. Nobody paid attention.

Zach vaulted over the bench, hauling ass as he raced toward the brawl. Equipment went flying, almost as fast as the fists pounding against flesh. A blur of orange and blue came out of nowhere, catching him in the side. Zach stumbled, nearly fell, caught a handful of jersey and steadied himself. A fist clipped his eye, just enough to sting.

Fuck that shit.

Zach spun around, one punch landing squarely in the other player's gut, another one catching him on the mouth. Hands grabbed him, pushing and pulling, breaking them apart. Zach spun around again, ready to start swinging, caught himself at the last minute when he noticed it was Aaron. There was a cut on his forehead, blood dripping into his eye. Aaron wiped it away then nodded toward center ice.

"Stop Tyler."

Zach turned, saw Tyler propping up a nearly-limp Krasnoff by his bloodied jersey. He swung, hit the Russian in the nose. Swung again and caught him the jaw. Swung one more time, and again, and again.

Holy fucking shit.

Zach pushed off with his back leg, blades cutting deep into the rough ice as he hurried toward Tyler. He caught the goalie around the shoulders, yanked him away from Krasnoff and threw him to the ice, holding him down with his own body. Tyler was in a frenzy, bucking and cussing, trying to throw Zach off.

"Stop it. Just fucking stop it. Now." Zach's voice was low and furious, filled with urgent warning. They must have finally gotten through whatever frenzied haze was gripping Tyler because he stopped fighting, his body going limp against the ice. He nodded, once, to show his understanding.

Zach waited, just to be sure, then jumped to his feet and hauled Tyler up. The goalie grabbed the hem of his jersey and wiped it across his face, the material coming away stained with blood.

Tyler didn't say anything, just nodded and looked around, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his cut mouth.

The fight was winding down now, the officials slowly gaining control. Zach looked around, a smile on his face when he realized the tension that had been clawing at him had finally eased. Not disappeared—there was still a slight edginess there, just under the surface. But for the most part, the tension was gone.

He moved around the ice, helping to collect equipment, a goofy ass grin on his face. Yeah, nothing like a good fight to release all that built-up tension. The only thing better would be sex.

And if he was lucky, that would come later.

His grin faltered for a second. Yeah, probably much later. The game was going to be delayed as the officials tried to sort out this fucking mess. And Torresi was probably going to go ballistic and keep them after the game just to read them the riot act.

And then he had to put in an appearance at Mystic's. Maybe Haley would wait for him there.

Or maybe he'd stay just long enough for one drink and meet her back at her place—and work on getting rid of the last bit of edginess.

It didn't matter. As long as he was able to see Haley tonight, he could handle the delays.

Because she was definitely worth the wait.