Page 25 of A Little Too Forward

MAX:Sure, let’s go with that and that you didn’t watch because you’re amazed by my talent. Now that we’re BFFs again, you can admit these things to me. I get it.

SABRINA:We are definitely not BFFs - you’re delulu. We just started talking again. If anything, we’re friendly-ish.

MAX:According to my records, we’ve talked every day for the past week, AND you’ve watched all my games. We’re totally BFFs.

How in the goddamn hell does he know I watched all his games this week? The man is a frickin’ warlock. Even with that thought in my head, I find myself grinning like an idiot at the screen. He is such a dumbass.

SABRINA:Whatever, crazy.

I don’t really have a good defense against his comment, so I leave it at that. My lips purse in thought. Do I tell him what an awesome game it was? Or would that just feed his ego even more and lead him to believe…whatever he wants to believe about our friendship?

My fingers begin typing, but I pause when I see his next message pop up.

MAX:Boarding our flight now, Bean. See you in two days.

I delete my half-written message. Dodged that bullet.

As I read over his message again, it hits me that the filming of his documentary series starts in two days. The preparation and planning for the series are all done, both on my end and production’s, but time has honestly flown by. Nerves and excitement swirl in my belly at the thought.

I am ready.

Ready for this new path in my career. Ready for something new and different.

But if I’m really being honest with myself, I’m also ready to get to know Max in a new light.

And that is terrifying.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MAX

Raising my stick in thanks to the crowd, I skate off the ice and begin walking down the lane into our home team dressing room. The roar of the arena follows me until the thick doors close behind the last of the team.

Sweat is pouring down my face, and taking off my helmet feels good for a brief second before I’m blinded. With an outstretched hand, one of the assistants throws a clean towel in my direction.

“Thanks, man,” I say in their general direction and head for my locker. That was a brutal game. We got the win, but it was a tense and physical overtime to get there. I can already tell tomorrow, my shoulder will be sore from all the hits I took.

Fucking Chicago always sends their goons after me. I humbly admit that I am one, if notthe, best player on the Toronto Nighthawks and am used to players targeting and crowding me on the ice. For some godforsaken reason, Chicago seems to be the most aggressive. I always have to mentally prepare myself for these games. I can’t let these assholes get in my head.

Minkenov especially. He’s the definition of a slimy asshole and never plays a clean game. The public knows how much we hate each other. We don’t hide it and have gotten into some brutal fights on the ice.

Even off the ice, he’s the scum of the Earth. But I can’t let myself think about that right now.

Coach walks in, his black hair in disarray, shaking his head. Running a hand over his dark beard, he locks eyes with each player before moving on to the next. It’s a tense silence as we wait for him to say something.

“You all were a bunch of bobbleheads out there tonight! Watching the puck pass you and moving as fast as molasses! The only corn nut on this team actually paying attention was Sidney, and he was just sitting on his keister in net! You dummies got real lucky tonight.”

The rookie, still not used to having a coach who doesn’t swear and finds unique yet devastating names to call us, stifles his amusement with a towel. I catch his eye and give my head a tiny shake. If Coach doesn’t think we’re taking his comments seriously, we’ll pay for it. Either in the gym or during drills.

“Daws, get that shoulder checked out before you leave tonight. That scum bucket Minkenov got you good since you were in la-la land, and your puck handling was juvenile. Get it together, or get off the ice next time. Mason! What the ever-loving heck happened to your brain in the second period?”

Coach’s words fade into the background as I start to take off my gear. He’s right—I was distracted at the beginning of the game and not at my best. Too focused on Minkenov and his punchable face. My team and the Toronto fans deserved better than that.

The locker room slowly clears out. A couple of the boys along with Coach go off for the post-game press conference, and the rest of us slink away silently. No doubt thinking about the game and what we need to do better as the season progresses.

Oliver takes a quick look at my shoulder and tapes me up for additional support. I’ll have to ice it for the next twenty-four hours, but that’s nothing new. Some part of my body is always bruised or needing extra TLC.

As I’m leaving our team area and heading for the parking lot, Mason joins me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just walks step in step with me.

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