Page 4 of Flashback for the Forward

Crew, who had never been one to know how to read a room, stood, placing two fingers into his mouth before letting out a wolf whistle so loud that everyone in the stands and on the ice turned to stare.

Then he proceeded to jump up and down, acting like a teenage puck bunny who came to see her crush play. “Oh my God! It’s Austin Cleary! I know him!” He waved a hand wildly. “Hi, Austin!”

I dragged a hand down my face. The secondhand embarrassment was so fucking real.

Even through his facemask, you could see the kid had gone as red as a tomato, and he sliced a hand in front of his neck, signaling for my twin to knock it off.

“Sit your ass down and stop making a fool of yourself,” I hissed.

Crew plopped down, pushing his lower lip out in a pout. “Party pooper.”

Maisie giggled. “I thought it was funny, Uncle Crew.” Her eyes darted to the ice. “But don’t tell Austin I said so.”

They might have only met a little over six months ago, but Austin and Maisie connected instantly, becoming each other’s person. I dared to say they were a closer pair of siblings than me and my twin, which was saying something, considering we’d shared a womb and even as adults spent every day together. There was no doubt in my mind that Maisie would be commiserating with her stepbrother over Crew’s mortifying public display later this evening.

The buzzer sounded, indicating warm-ups had concluded, and both teams huddled up at their respective benches for a pre-game speech from their coach.

One of the two referees blew his whistle at center ice, calling the teams to line up for the opening puck drop.

He wasn’t even my kid, but still, my chest puffed up with pride when Austin was named the team’s starting center—my position on the Surf. Over the summer, we’d covered all the bases, preparing him to play as both a forward and a defenseman, and I had personally been in charge of teaching him how to win a face-off.

The ref checked with both goalies to ensure they were ready before another whistle sounded, and he bent his knees, holding the puck over the ice.

Time slowed down, and I held my breath, anticipating the moment that black disc would drop.

It clattered to the icy surface, and Austin was lightning quick with his stick, sliding the puck backward to his defenseman.

Atta boy.

While I agreed with Levi that it wouldn’t be appropriate to throw Austin into the deep end by having him try out for a travel team when he was just starting out in hockey, it quickly became apparent that he was too skilled for this level of play. He was able to outskate almost every other kid on the ice and, within the first few minutes, had already scored a goal.

By the time he netted the hat trick, he’d become a target. The other team was double- and triple-teaming him in an effort to slow him down. And when that didn’t work, they got physical—aggressively so.

Austin was cutting through the neutral zone when a defender laid a heavy hit in open ice, knocking him off his feet.

I knew from experience that it looked worse than it was, but Arizona didn’t. She let out an ear-splitting scream, burying her face in Levi’s chest with a muffled “I can’t watch.”

While consoling his wife, my teammate hissed, “Goddammit,” before shouting to his stepson, “Keep your head up!”

Austin got to his feet, giving a quick shake of his head as he regained his bearings. His coach called him over to the bench, sending out another player as his replacement, before going through a quick concussion screening. Our boy must’ve passed because the volunteer bench boss flashed Levi a quick thumbs-up.

When the buzzer sounded at the end of the second period, I noticed someone sliding closer in my periphery. Turning, I saw it was a little boy, probably no older than five or six, a mini stick clutched in his tiny hands.

A smile tugged onto my lips as I gave him my full attention. “Hey there, bud. Enjoying the game?”

He gave a shy nod.

“Do you play hockey?” I gestured to the stick he held.

“It’s my first year,” the boy confirmed.

“Let me guess. You’re a Junior Surf mini-mite.” I had a fifty-fifty chance of being right if whoever he came to see play tonight was on Austin’s team.

His eyes grew large. “How did you know?”

I leaned in conspiratorially. “Because I play for the Surf, and we can always tell when someone is one of our junior teammates.”

“You can?”