Page 8 of Forbidden Forward

I crouch down so my eyes are level with the tugger, whose name is Robbie. He’s eight. “Finish the story, Captain Colby,” he insists.

“Sorry, bud, but our time’s up for today. You did awesome with your knot-tying, better than most sailors. Maybe you can be my first mate next time.”

“But you didn’t finish the story,” he complains.

No, I didn’t because somebody invaded my turf.

I poke him gently on the shoulder and stand so I’m addressing all the kids. “It’s called a cliffhanger. I’ll finish it next time, okay?” When I chance a look, Harper’s sister is still standing there like some damn marble statue with pucks for eyes. I wave a few fingers at her in a come-here motion. I need to get to the bottom of this.

She doesn’t move. Why am I not surprised?

Darla’s dark eyes fasten on mine as she limps a little closer. She’s twelve going on fifty and has trust issues—for good reason. “When is next time?” she demands.

I wave at Peggy, who skirts Sis, giving her a once-over. “I think we’re set for Friday,” I say. “We’ll check with Miss Peggy to make sure.”

One of the kids giggles. “I said Peggy, not Piggy. We’ve talked about this,” I admonish in my sternest voice. I’m sure Peggy’s been called all kinds of things and would let a Miss Piggy reference roll off her turtle-shell back, but these kids need to show her respect—especially with all she does for them.

Meanwhile, Darla’s eyes fill with hope, and it about crushes me. She wants this time, needs this time, and she’s afraid she won’t get it. She knows my schedule is irregular, and I’m hoping she doesn’t think I’m irregular. In her world, adults aren’t trustworthy. They make promises they don’t keep. I keep my promises, but I can’t always make them fit neatly into a non-hockey time line.

She’s new to the group, and if she sticks around, she’ll see a different me this summer when my life doesn’t revolve around the sport. Between Peggy and me, maybe she’ll understand that some adults can be counted on through the good times and the bad. But she has to stick around, and I’m not the one with the final say.

Peggy gives me a sly smile as she herds the kids. “Who’s the young lady?”

“Not anyone who should be here,” I growl.

Peggy’s brows crawl up her furrowed forehead. “On the outs with the girlfriend, huh?” she whispers so the big ears attached to little bodies don’t hear. “That’s new for you. The girlfriend part, I mean.”

I don’t bother pointing out that if the girlfriend was new, being on the outs would also be new. Instead I hiss, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

The kids line up—sort of—and yell, “Thanks, Captain Colby!” as I walk past each one, fist-bumping or high-fiving small hands. For the kid with a hand difference and one arm shorter than the other, we bump elbows. Makes him feel special, his dad says, and it also makes him laugh in this goofy yuck-yuck way that always cracks me up. The fact that he finds joy in the tiniest moments is remarkable and a good lesson for someone like me.

The good-bye ritual is similar each time a session is over, and I eat it up because for a moment I can almost believe I’m not a fuck-up.

Peggy shrugs. “Too bad. She’s very pretty. Have you thought about—”

“Bye, Peggy.” Shooting her a warning glare, I hold up my fist, and she bumps it and winks.

“Bye, Oscar.”

My brows knit. “Who’s Oscar?”

“If I’m Miss Piggy, then you’re definitely Oscar the Grouch.” She tosses her head back and practically brays as she starts the kids on their procession to the van. One or two peel off toward waiting parents.

I trail them because Ms. Harper hasn’t budged from her spot, and I’m not letting her leave here until I know what she’s up to. She swivels her head, watching the kids roll or limp or march along the dock, and stumbles a few feet forward.

“Watch the boards,” I warn. “They’re uneven.” All I need is for her to trip and smash her face on the dock. Nothing like handing her brother more ammo to fire at me.

Her eyes narrow into two mean slits. “I can see that, thank you.”

What the hell does she have to be pissed about? I’m the one being spied on here. Maybe she’s mad because she got caught.

I perch my hands on my hips. “It’s Jackie, right?”

She blinks.

“Jackie Harper?” I repeat, but she clams up. “Wanna tell me what you’re doing here?”

The universe has a warped sense of humor because, without warning, the heavens decide to open up and pour. It’s been overcast all day, but the clouds never looked threatening. Guess they saved it up for this very moment.