Page 72 of Forbidden Forward

Chapter 33

Hero or Goat

Jackie

I’m back in the fancy suite with the rest of the players’ wives, girlfriends, and family members, watching a heated game on the ice. The Surge are fighting for their playoff life, but so is their opponent. They’re tied at one apiece, duking it out for a wild card spot. And it’s intense. Their guys are taking shots at our guys, and Colby’s had a busy night, though he’s only visited the sin bin once—for a call he didn’t earn. Not this time anyway.

Is it weird that I find his play sexy as hell? I love that he sticks up for his teammates, no matter what, no matter how much bigger the other guy might be. He plays all out with a ferocious combination of grit, determination, and heart. I’d love to be able to point at him and say, “That one’s mine.”

For now, I’m in the “family” category, but I’m itching to move into the “girlfriend” column. It’s been two weeks since our relationship heated up, and we’re still trying to figure out how this is going to play out.

We spend a lot of time on the phone, mostly FaceTiming, sometimes texting. There’s an undeniable thrill every time I’m with him—no doubt some of that excitement is from the taboo nature of our relationship. But the constant worry that my brother will discover us eats at me when I’m alone. And when it’s time to go our separate ways and pretend we don’t know each other, that tip of the scales almost completely undoes the bliss of being together. We’re on a constant roller coaster with no end in sight. It’s exhausting and not nearly as fun as being on the mindless amusement ride.

My phone pings with a text. I glance down at it, and a panicked gasp stalls in my chest.

Having fun at tonight’s game?

This can’t be from Colby. He’s down on the ice. Only one other name leaps to mind, and I fight the urge to look around and see if I’m being watched. Could be a lucky guess from my mystery “friend,” who’s been dropping into my texts every few days. The number changes along with the messages, so even if I knew how to trace them, they jump around too much.

Before I can tuck the device away, another text lights my screen.

You looked damn good the other day. I especially appreciated how you stuck out your ass when you bent to get your purse. Made me miss you, pigeon.

Bile rises in my throat. Two more pings, in quick succession.

I want my money, and I’m going to get it, with or without your cooperation.

You could make this easy on both of us and just hand it the fuck over.

I know without a doubt who “Unknown” is. I want to scream, followed by the impulse to thumb a response that says, “I don’t have it!” Except I tried that the first few times he texted his demands, and the exchange devolved into him hurling ugly, degrading words at me. I don’t need that. No, I don’t deserve that.

Chills ice my blood as I revisit the first text. Was Randy spying on me in the garage? Turning off my phone, I stuff it in my pocket and refocus on what’s happening below.

Lose yourself in the game.

Colby’s line is out there, and they take advantage of the other team’s breakdown and charge toward the net. Colby dishes it off to his winger, Nick Hammond, who skates in hot and fast. He gets tripped from behind by one of their guys, which sends him flying into the goaltender. The net comes off its moorings, the goalie flops backward like a hooked tuna, and Nick winds up in the back of the net. Without the puck.

Teams get a little testy when their goalie gets knocked down—even when it’s not intentional and the goalie embellishes the hell out of it. Tonight is no different, and a scrum breaks out in the crease. Colby eggs on one of their guys, who takes exception to whatever words of wisdom he’s no doubt imparting. That guy lets his fist fly. It glances off the side of a linesman’s jaw, and the momentum carries through to the player’s own teammate standing just behind said ref. The blow catches the teammate by surprise, and he goes down. Two teams come together, exchanging blows and face washes.

The crowd’s on its feet, cheering and jeering—including us in the suite, but my gaze is focused on the player splayed out on the ice. He’s vulnerable, unable to protect himself while sharp skate blades shuffle around him. Then the strangest thing happens. Colby drops and covers the guy’s body with his own. His gloved hands stack on top of the prone guy’s helmet, as if he’s protecting his head. One of the guys in the scrum kicks up a leg as he’s falling backward, and the blade slices through the air mere inches from Colby’s calf.

A strangled shriek rips from my lungs, and I’m helpless to hold it back. Terra glances over at me, worry etched in her features. “What is it?”

I point. Colby doesn’t move from his position; he’s the only defense the opposing player has against the scuffle growing more chaotic around him. But now Colby is exposed.

Usually, it’s the linesmen who wade into the melee, but all four refs jump in this time, pulling guys apart. Colby disappears under legs and skates. When the scrum is finally broken up and players separate, he’s still there, blanketing the other guy. Nick helps him up and gives him a stick tap while a linesman checks on the player lying on the ice.

The player wobbles to his feet and turns to Colby. From the looks of him, he’s barely shaving. He gives Colby a chin lift before skating off. The ref whispers something in Colby’s ear, and my agitator nods. While the ref hands out penalties, Colby returns to his own bench, Nick skating alongside him. Colby looks no worse for wear, but still, my heart thunders behind my rib cage.

I plop back down next to Terra, who’s looking at her phone. “Wow!” she says under her breath. Before I can ask, she thrusts the device at me. “Look at this.”

It’s a replay of the skirmish. Her husband isn’t on the ice, and I’m puzzled as to what she’s showing me. Another WAG leans in, and her eyes go wide. She points at the screen. “Chase protected the rookie on the other team!”

Sure enough, two talking heads show replays on their national broadcast—not of the donnybrook, but of Colby throwing himself on the guy.

“Not something you’d expect from the team pest,” one broadcaster pontificates, “but he might have saved that kid from serious damage.” The “kid” turns out to be a nineteen-year-old phenom who was just called up from the minors. Tonight was his NHL debut.

“That’s a classy move from a guy with no class,” his partner remarks.