Page 88 of Forbidden Forward

The guy turns and fires daggers at me. “Fuck you to hell and back, Chase.”

I sprout a self-satisfied smirk. Yep, I’m definitely burrowing under this asshole’s skin. “Aw, did I hurt his widdle feelings? Need a minute to go cry to Mommy?”

Nick elbows me. “Go easy on him. He just lost his mom two days ago.”

Oh. Shit. I shrink to about two feet tall. “Did not know that.”

Harper’s back on the bench and sits beside me. “If you paid attention to stuff that’s going on in the league instead of focusing on yourself all the time, you would have known,” he growls. “I just hope he takes it out on you instead of one of our good players.”

Asshole. I’m about to tell Harper I hope the guy takes it out on me too—that’s the reason I stir pots—but Blue barks at us. “Hey! Both of you get your heads in the game. Let’s win this.”

He’s right, and this is why he’s our captain. Before I hone my focus, I ponder cornering the guy on the other team after the game and apologizing because I don’t care how big a douche canoe he is, losing your mom has got to suck. Mine and I aren’t close, but it would blow. Maybe I should call her.

The clock winds down to two-plus minutes, and the opposing team pulls their goalie, leaving their net empty. Coach sends our top line back out there; they’ve earned the ice time, and they’re pumped as hell to get Dyl his hatter. Dylan beats his man and corrals the puck, sending it to Harper. They race up the ice, and Harper dishes it back in a sweet little give-and-go. One guy stands in their way—the player who’s been harassing Dylan and whose mother just passed. Dylan goes to deke, but the guy steps into him and Dylan goes flying. He hits the ice and rolls to his back, clutching his knee and writhing in pain. What the fuck just happened?

We’re a somber group on the charter flight home. Dylan’s not with us. After being helped off the ice—because he couldn’t put any weight on his leg—he was evaluated at the arena by the other team’s medical staff. They decided he needed a closer look-see and sent him to a local hospital. One of our training staff went with him, and we’re staring at our phones. No one eats, no one jokes, no one starts up a game of cards.

Whatever they’ll find, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that this is bad. Very bad.

Seeing their guy hurt and hearing later he suffered a concussion doesn’t help either. Two players down in one game. But it’s hockey, right? Shit happens. Maybe it wasn’t my fault that their guy cracked his head, but I’ll carry the weight of Dylan’s injury into the foreseeable future.

My eyes are glued to the window and the lights sprawling in the inky darkness below. I see Blue’s reflection in the pane as he slides into the aisle seat in my row at the mostly empty back of the plane, where I’ve sequestered myself.

I turn my head. “What’s up, Cap?”

He looks at the back of the seat in front of him as though he’s watching something on a screen—except there’s no screen. Several beats pass before he says, “I know why you’ve isolated yourself back here, and I’m here to tell you that what happened to Dylan isn’t on you.”

Pulling in a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “I didn’t have to push that guy.”

“No, you didn’t, but he didn’t have to intentionally stick out his knee and hurt our player either. What you did is part of the game; what he did has no place in the game.” Blue stands and, gripping the seat backs, leans in. “Remember that, Chaser.” Then he’s gone.

He repeated what Coach told me in the locker room, but it doesn’t help. If I hadn’t goaded that guy, he might not have taken Dylan out with a knee-on-knee. Talk from the staff was that Dylan had major swelling and instability in the knee—and tons of pain. No good.

Thinking about the gravity of Dylan’s injury, I swallow a knot that’s settled in my throat. If only I hadn’t needled the guy. Fucking hell, he was reeling from his mom’s death, and I just had to twist the knife. And now Dylan—the entire team—pays the price.

Coach and Blue are wrong. This is on me. I do my shit, and people I care about get hurt. Just like Lindsey.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the images of that awful, awful day so long ago.

Chapter 40

Blame Game

Jackie

“What do you mean, they suspended you?” Donny stands by the stove in a T-shirt, his plaid PJ pants, and severe bed head. He got in late from their road trip and crashed hard, judging by the tufts of hair and the pillow creases on his face.

“What I said.” I repeat what I told him when he stumbled into the kitchen, surprised to see me drinking coffee and tapping on my computer at ten o’clock in the morning. The first words he grunted were, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

It takes a moment for my explanation to sink in, but when it does, he shows his fury in a spectacular scowl. “They can’t do that!”

“Actually, they can,” I say, my voice calm. “At least they didn’t fire me outright, which I appreciate.”

“What’s there to appreciate?”

“Well, they’re taking time to dig a little deeper into the accusations. This also gives me a chance to do my own investigating.” I don’t mention seeing Randy in front of the building yesterday because I have some suspicions I want to check out first. “Can I make you some eggs?” Smiling, I clasp my hands and wait.

Confusion clouds his features, and I cock my eyebrow in question. “Yeah, sure,” he finally spews. “That would be great.”