Page 36 of Flashback for the Forward

I followed her into the guest room, where she set my bag down on a queen-sized bed.

Curiosity had me asking, “Which one of you brought the kids to your marriage?”

“Maisie is Levi’s.” Arizona dropped onto the mattress, a heavy exhale rushing past her lips. “And Austin is . . . Technically, he’s mine.”

“Technically?” I repeated, not quite understanding.

Her lips twisted into a sad smile. “My past isn’t the greatest. I wasn’t in any shape to raise a baby when Austin was born, so my mom took custody of him. For the first fourteen years of his life, he believed her to be his mother and me his sister. It was only recently that he learned the truth, but our dynamic hasn’t really changed, so don’t be surprised if you hear him call me by my first name.”

“But he lives here, with you?”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “My mom’s got early-onset Alzheimer’s and has been in a memory care facility for the past few years. It’s been rough watching her disease progress and knowing there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

“I’m sorry.” I dropped down beside her. “But I get it. My mom’s under heavy sedation in a mental health facility.”

Arizona sucked in a hissing breath. “Shit.”

“Yeah. She didn’t handle my brother’s death well. I mean, none of us did, but she took it the hardest.”

“Grief is a real bitch,” she agreed.

“You can say that again.”

Her hand came down on my knee. “All right, enough moping. Let’s get you fed before Maisie gets into sleepover mode and wants to give you a manicure.”

That sounded so damn normal that I wanted to cry.

Chapter 11

Cole

The San Francisco Bridgers were always a tough opponent, more often than not taking the top spot in our division, and had represented the Western Conference in the championship finals several times in the past decade. Their roster featured several league champions acquired via trade and free agency, and they had a goaltender who duked it out each year for the top goalie award against Sasha Gusev of the Indy Speed.

No one expected us to make the trip up to Northern California and win. Which would only make it that much sweeter when we did.

Coach preached the importance of taking the season one game at a time, that we could beat any opponent if we focused on playing team hockey. Every man in the locker room had bought into that belief, and we stepped onto the ice confident that the outcome was fully within our control.

But that only lasted for about one period before the wheels started to come off and we became the disjointed mess of seasons past all over again.

The first domino to fall was when Christian decided it was a good idea to skate out of the net to collect a puck dumped behind it by the Bridgers. While he had plenty of time to gather it and shoot it up the boards to Crew or Jagger, he put too much pepper on it, lifting the puck high enough that it hit one of the metal stanchions between the panes of curved plexiglass. The puck then took a weird bounce, which put it right in front of the open net, and our defensemen were unable to stop the Bridgers forward from slamming it home for the easy score.

To say Coach was pissed was an understatement. He called a timeout just so he could scream at Christian.

Red-faced, he grabbed a fistful of our netminder’s jersey, violently shaking the man, who topped out at six-five.

“Do you see a yellow school bus anywhere?”

Eyes wide, Christian stammered, “N-no.”

“That’s because it’s not time to go on a fucking field trip!” Coach roared, releasing our goalie so suddenly that he lost his footing and almost crashed to the ice. Thankfully, Levi was nearby to steady him. “Your job is to protect the net at all costs. That’s where you belong. If you refuse to stay there, I have no problem sending you back down to the minors.”

That threat was enough to scare any player on a two-way contract straight.

“Won’t happen again,” Christian promised, skating toward the net without a backward glance.

Unfortunately, things didn’t get better from there.

Everyone was gripping their sticks too tightly, afraid of making a mistake, which in turn became a self-fulfilling prophecy.