Forest.
He’s here in this room.
It’s not even a low-blood-sugar hallucination. That calm, brown gaze is one hundred percent real when it lands on me, and he puts a hand to his chest and takes a slow breath in. Relax, Beck.
He lifts his hand. Not like a wave. More like a lifeline. He’s holding a paper bag with the beginnings of a grease stain on the side—the kind that might hold a postgame chicken sandwich.
The message is clear. Survive this interview, and you can have the sandwich.
Something settles in my chest. I clear my throat and turn back to the reporter. “Yeah. I did have something to prove tonight. But not to anyone in this room. To myself, I guess.”
“And how’d you accomplish that?” the reporter asks. “How did you turn your season around?”
“Well actually…” I let out an awkward laugh, thinking about the game that turned my season around—the beer league game against the Plague. “I remembered why I used to play hockey—for fun, as a team. And I surrounded myself with good people.” I give Forest a pointed glance. “Nobody does well in this sport in a vacuum. Coach Powers helped me figure that out, and I’ve been super grateful.”
Lord, that better be the last question, because I’m holding it together like a champ, here, and I’m too emotional to take any more deep questions.
Luckily, the next one is for Kapski, and I survive the next seven minutes on adrenaline, plus a few more hockey platitudes.
Then it’s finally over. The reporters get up and start to file out. Coach Powers shakes my hand and tells me he’ll see me at Sportsballs.
“Oh, you’re coming?” I babble.
He looks at his watch. “I’ve got time for a couple beers. Wouldn’t miss it. Kinda wonder who’s behind the bar, though, because doesn’t that guy own the place?”
I swivel my head, and here comes Forest, threading his way through the bodies in the room, a determined look in his eye.
I can’t look anywhere else. I’m locked onto him like a laser beam. Then he’s right in front of me, gripping the shoulder of my suit jacket. The pressure of his hand, combined with the intensity in his brown eyes, is like medicine.
“Look, I’m still angry at you,” I say. Although, right this second, it’s hard to remember why. “I didn’t even tell you about tonight because…”
“I know why you didn’t tell me,” he says. “I get it. And I’m sorry.”
We’re sort of gaping at each other, and then Coach Powers clears his throat. I realize with horror that the head coach of the most important hockey franchise on the continent has just been third-wheeled by our staredown.
“See you at the bar, Beck,” he says.
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Coach.”
He chuckles and passes me with a thump on the back. “Good game, by the way. We’ll be seeing more of that here, I hope.”
Even those career-boosting words aren’t enough to make me look away from Forest, who suddenly pulls me into a hug. “God, I’ve missed you,” he says, and his voice is rough.
“You… have?” My own voice catches a little.
“So much,” he whispers, pulling me in. “It’s bad. My friends even tried to stage an intervention.”
“I didn’t think you…you…” I have trouble swallowing again.
“Cared? Aw, Beck. I always did. I still do. And it messed me up.”
“But you…” A little flare of latent anger curls inside my chest, even as I revel in the grip of his hug. “Why’d you do me dirty like that? It’s… It’s insulting.”
“Yeah.” He sighs and pulls back. “That was just me being an idiot. I was fucking scared to put myself on the line again.”
“James!” yells a voice from the corridor. “Where are you, buddy? Time to get drunk with Uncle Stoney!”
“Shit,” I whisper.
