Page 87 of Forbidden Forward

“Colby!” she cries when she picks up, and my spirits are as high as they’ve been in the last twenty-four hours. “That’s twice in two days. Does this mean I won’t hear from you for another month?”

“Hardly,” I snort. We usually talk at least once a week, though I’ve been a little spotty lately because I’ve been occupied with someone else. But that’s about to stop. “I was wondering if you heard anything else from Peggy.”

“Ah. I see how it is. You’re calling me to pump me for information about your girlfriend because you’re afraid to ask Peggy,” Lindsey teases.

She’s not wrong, and that truth is like a burr under my collar. “She’s not my girlfriend,” I grouse. “And how’s Sean, by the way?”

“Sean’s great,” Lindsey enthuses. “You’re going to have to meet him—someday, when you’re done being a grump.”

No, I don’t have to meet him.

For fuck’s sake, I really am a grump. I spear my fingers through my hair, and my sister continues.

“Anyway, sorry, bro. I haven’t heard a peep out of Peggy. You know how she gets when it’s nonprofit business.”

“Which is one of the reasons I trust her,” I admit. Peggy has kept my most important secrets locked away in her vault for many, many years—including the biggest one of all: Lindsey.

We warm up on the ice for our second and final game of the road trip. The music’s blaring, the crowd’s buzzing, and my legs feel like lead. Sleep eluded me, and my head’s not in the right space. All of me wants to get home and see Jackie, to know she’s all right. I struggle to keep from asking Harper if he’s talked to her, if he knows she’s been frozen out of her job, if he knows her ex was hanging around the building yesterday. But I don’t. Especially after my little “chat” over dinner with Cap last night.

This situation is so goddamn twisted up. Why couldn’t I have listened to my saner self? I’ve not only let myself go down this path I should have turned away from, but I’ve dragged Jackie down it with me. I lost control and let chaos take over. There’s only one way out of this mess, and it’s not an out I want.

Too many what-ifs circle my head that have nothing to do with puck drop in twenty minutes. It doesn’t escape me that we have four more games in the next seven days, then the switch flips to playoffs. We’ve been trading places with our closest division rival, and while we’re playing the best hockey of the entire season, we still don’t know if we’ll make the final cut. I need to get my head out of my ass.

It takes a period and an intermission, but partway into the second, I’m finally in the game. We’re tied at zero apiece, and we’ve just been called for icing. We’ve got a broken line out here—Harper and the first-line center Dylan, plus me, another center, which makes for an odd mix, plus those two guys are at the end of their shifts and need to get off the ice.

Dylan takes the face-off and loses, and the other team keeps us pinned in our own zone. Harper and Dyl are gassed, so I go into the corner to help Blue battle our opponents for the puck. Until we clear the zone, our first-line guys are stuck. Big bodies thrash, throw elbows, and lay the wood. My kidneys take a few poundings until I get my skate blade on the puck and kick it out.

The ice is choppy, and it hits a rut, takes a funny bounce, and hops over our other D-man’s blade. One of their wingers is in the perfect spot to pick it up, and he fires it around the net to his linemate. The puck hits a seam in the boards and caroms right into our goalie’s crease. Thank fuck his reflexes are sharp because he covers it before it can find its way into the net.

The ref doesn’t see it, and one of the other team’s players whacks at it, even though our goaltender has it covered up. Dylan takes exception—any of us would—and bumps the other guy to move him off our goalie. The guy doesn’t budge. Just keeps jamming at our goalie’s glove with the blade of his stick.

I come up behind him, yelling at the ref to blow his fucking whistle before our netminder gets injured. At the same time I reach out and catch the player’s jersey, our goalie shoves at him with his stick. The guy flails and falls back awkwardly. He goes down and groans in pain.

Finally a damn whistle sounds, but not before one of their guys takes a swing at me, catching me on my shoulder pad. Harmless. Another dude goes for Dylan.

Oh hell no!

I lunge for the guy wanting a piece of Dyl, but I’m hauled backward by a linesman. “Whoa, Chase! Back up! Back up!”

Another linesmen yells, “Watch the skates!”

It’s a full-on scrum, a mess of bodies and testosterone and tempers. And lots of “talking.” Basically, we’re shouting obscenities at each other.

God, I love hockey!

I chirp their guy as he’s “escorted” to the penalty box for a roughing call. Me? I don’t get called for anything, which pisses off the other team royally. Wait till they see the replay and realize who really took out their teammate. They won’t be happy our goalie got away with one, especially as their player has to be helped off the ice. Hopefully, it’s a stinger and he can return. If not, it sucks for him and them—he’s one of their top scorers.

Getting through the rest of the game takes a while. Each time the whistle blows, our two teams come together, pushing and shoving and jawing. The other team spends a lot of energy head-hunting Dylan. They’re also after me every time I’m out there, and I fucking love it. I scrap every which way I can, employing all my ever-loving agitating power to stay in their faces. In other words, I do what I do best and keep the attention off my teammates.

It’s late in the third, and we’re tied at one apiece. God, do we need a victory here! I win a face-off deep in their zone and wait for my cue from Coach to leave the ice. When I get it, I skate for the bench, and Dylan takes my place. The first line is on.

On the edge of the bench, I yell, “You got this, boys!”

Blue one-times it. It hits a stick in front of the net and squirts into the slot. Dylan pounces on it and wrists a beauty through the seven-hole, right between the goalie’s arm and his body. We jump up and cheer on the bench while our boys bunch up for a celly against the glass. Dylan’s potted both our goals tonight. How sweet would it be if he got a hat trick?

The asshole who was after Dylan before skates by our bench, head down and cursing under his breath.

I can’t help myself and throw a taunt his way. “You’re doing a great job out there, dude. Keep covering him so he can score a few more for us.”