Page 12 of Flashback for the Forward

“Shit,” I cursed under my breath, feeling like an asshole. To the bartender, I said, “I’ll take that cab now.”

“Wait!” A warm palm landed on my forearm when I shoved off the barstool. “You don’t have to have another drink, but will you stay until I finish mine?”

All of a sudden, I realized that I hadn’t let a woman touch me since I broke things off with Bridget.

It was strange, but not wholly unpleasant.

Like a bolt of lightning, an idea hit my alcohol-soaked brain.

Resisting Bridget was damn near impossible. Every day, I pulled up her contact in my phone, my finger hovering over the screen, itching to call her. I was so desperate to hear her voice that every night I fell asleep listening to past voicemails she’d left me.

While it might be a creative interpretation of Russ’s request, the best way to honor his wishes in looking out for his little sister was to stay far, far away from her. And I could only do that if I permanently closed the door on the possibility of us ever getting back together.

Even though I would never be ready, it was time to move on.

“Yeah,” I rasped, sitting back down. “I’ll stay.”

The smile she flashed me was bright enough to light up the entire city of Vancouver. “I’m Kennedy, by the way.” Her lashes fluttered to kiss her cheeks, which had turned pink.

“Cole,” I offered my name in return. “It’s nice to meet you, Kennedy.”

“Astor!” Coach’s booming voice snapped me back to the present. “Put your phone away, or else you’ll be skating suicides for the first half of practice.”

There was nothing like that threat to scare the living daylights out of a hockey player. So, of fucking course, I was startled enough that I dropped my phone.

Crew reached down to pick it up before I could, and took a long look at the text thread still open on the screen.

“Are you fucking serious with this shit?” Anger colored every word. “You’re giving her money? After she got millions in the divorce?”

I snatched my phone back, hissing, “It’s none of your business.”

“The fuck it’s not! I had a front-row seat to the hell she put you through for years. That woman is nothing more than a manipulative, cheating bit—”

Temper spiking, I was on my feet, screaming, “You don’t know a damn thing about her!”

My twin was finally rendered silent, while every man in the locker room was staring at me wide-eyed after that outburst. Their shock wasn’t surprising. I was known for my even-keeled personality, so losing my cool was completely out of character, but Crew had pushed me too far.

Crew had only been privy to a fraction of what my marriage was like. He didn’t know about the guilt I carried, knowing I would never love my wife, would never give her the child she so desperately wanted. He didn’t know that all the negative behaviors he witnessed in her were purely reactive because of how I treated her, how distant I’d grown over the years. She might’ve been the one who was unfaithful, but I was the one to blame.

Clearing his throat, my brother held out my phone. “Here.”

I snatched it out of his hand without a word, shoving the device into my bag before dropping onto the padded bench in front of my stall.

“Sorry, Coach,” I grumbled.

Our bench boss grunted. “Is your little family spat over?”

“Yeah, just so long as he keeps my ex-wife’s name out of his mouth.”

Cameron Davenport, ex-pro turned head coach, made eye contact with each player. “Anyone else have dirty laundry they’d like to air before we proceed?”

There was a chorus of “no, sir” from my teammates.

“Good.” He picked up a dry-erase marker and wrote on the large whiteboard affixed to the wall. When he turned around, he pointed to the giant number eleven in black ink. “Who can tell me what this number represents?”

Levi piped up from my left. “The number of mail-order Russian brides who have left Jagger at the altar?”

Our teammates couldn’t help but snicker as he roasted our young defenseman.