Page 101 of Pucking Forbidden

“You should remember,” Carson shoots back from where he’s sitting on the floor, his arm wrapped around Skyler’s waist. “Almost everyone should remember.”

Somewhere in the middle of the laughter, Grace stands up, raising her paper cup of wine into the air.

“Alright, quiet down, everyone,” she commands, smiling down at me. “As the first person to have stayed here, I have an official decree to make. Hadley, this place has looked after a lot of us when we needed somewhere to land. So, I am officially declaring this apartment a permanent Night Hawks legacy, and it couldn't have passed to a better person.”

A chorus of cheers and clinking cups echoes through the room.

I look around at the smiling faces of the men and women who carried my burdens today without a single question. My gaze finally lands on Julian, who is sitting with his back to the wall across from me.

He isn't joining in on the loud cheering, but he’s watching me with a tender smile playing at the corner of his lips.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THANKSGIVING

JULIAN

For the past week, ever since Hadley’s fight with her dad and the girls mobilized extraction to get her into Carson’s old place, I’ve been living in a state of hyper-vigilance. I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for her dad to come back, demanding his daughter pack her bags and fall back into his meticulously designed line.

Hadley hasn't been much better since moving, unfortunately. She’s been throwing herself into what she can control between her job, school, and finding time to skate. She hasn't really stopped moving. I know that’s just kind of her, but I also know she's trying to distract herself from the biggest fight she's ever had with her dad.

It was Coach who finally defused the bomb. Hadley had called him in a panic, and her grandfather had merely let out a low, gravelly sigh over the receiver.

“I’ll handle it, sweetie,” the old man had rumbled, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve bought you some time. You just focus on your classes. Your father won't be crossing my line.”

Hadley has been so grateful for her grandpa’s intervention. The quiet has given her room to breathe.

But the worst part, the part that feels like a slow-burning acid in my gut every time I look at Hadley, isn't just the fear of her father’s wrath.

It’s the weight of my own silence. I haven't told her. I haven't told a single soul on the team.

She doesn’t know I went to her father for help, or that he agreed to look over the legalities of the Chicago transfer, to dissect the contract. She doesn’t know I’ve been ignoring emails from the Ironclads confirming a contract signing meeting while I’m in Chicago for Thanksgiving. I’ve looked through the notes her father sent me, and apart from an image reproduction clause that Liam thought was too limited, he thought it was all pretty solid. There’s really no reason for me not to sign.

The week before Thanksgiving, after Wednesday practice, I linger in the hallway outside the coach’s office.

Usually, the guys are practically knocking each other over to get out of the arena, their voices echoing off the concrete as they argue about who is hosting Thanksgiving dinner, which turkey-frying method is most likely to burn down a garage, and whose family is bringing the most drama this year. I had walked with them as far as the lobby, but then I quietly slipped away, doubling back down the quiet corridor of the executive wing.

My focus is locked on the solid oak door of Coach Sullivan’s office, which is cracked open just a few inches.

I lean against the brick wall opposite the door, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my heavy Night Hawks hoodie. Through the narrow gap in the doorway, I can see Hadley. She’s standing near the edge of her grandfather’s heavy mahogany desk, looking small in an oversized cream-colored knit sweater. Her fingers are curled around the leather strap of her backpack, her shoulders hunched as she listens to the low, gravelly rumble of the old man's voice.

I can’t quite make out the words they’re exchanging—just the steady, comforting cadence of Coach’s voice and the occasional quiet, defensive nod from Hadley—but the sheer sight of her is enough to anchor me. She looks exhausted, the physical toll of her classes and the lingering stress of the fight with her father catching up to her.

As I watch her, my chest tightens with that familiar, fierce protectiveness. No matter what her grandfather is saying to her in there, and no matter what her dad is planning next, I’m going to be right here waiting for her when she walks out that door.

“Maybe you should just take Thanksgiving to breathe for a little while, sweetie,” Coach is saying, his voice carrying a rare, soft tone. “Spend it with friends. Get out of your head. Then, you can think about talking things out with your dad after the holiday weekend is over.”

Hadley shifts her weight, her mouth pulling into a tight, frustrated line. I can see the exhaustion etched into the delicate slope of her shoulders. She wants to be strong. Wants to prove she’s fine on her own. But I know the weight of her dad’s disapproval is eating at her.

“I know,” she murmurs. “It’s just…he won’t even listen to me.”

“He’s stubborn,” Coach sighs, patting her shoulder. “But he’s still your father. Take the weekend. Let the dust settle.”

As Coach turns to walk out of his office, his sharp eyes find me through the crack in the door. I stare back, frozen, my jaw set. Coach doesn't reprimand me for eavesdropping. Instead, he gives me a wink before heading out the door connecting to the main hallway, leaving his granddaughter standing alone in the room.

Ten minutes later, Hadley’s in the passenger seat of my truck. I’m navigating the Denver traffic toward Carson’s old building. She’s quiet, staring out the window at the gray November sky. I reach over, grabbing her hand and squeezing. She doesn't look at me, but her thumb traces the back of my knuckles.

When we get up to the apartment, she drops her bag on the counter and heads into the bedroom to change her clothes. I hover in the living room, my eyes scanning the space as I tap my hands against my thighs, wishing there was more I could do for her. I notice the heavy glass window looking out over the city skyline isn’t sitting flush against the frame.

I walk over, my brow furrowing as I inspect the latch. It’s stripped, the brass lever failing to catch the lock properly. Anyone with a crowbar or enough leverage could force it open from the outside balcony. I get on my knees, pulling a small multi-tool I always keep on me from my pocket. My fingers work with practiced efficiency to realign the striking plate.