Page 29 of A Little Too Forward

“Hell of a goal, Daws!” Mason yells, his grin stretching ear to ear.

I laugh, my helmet askew, dizzy from the adrenaline and the noise.

Through the boos and moans of the home team crowd, I can hear my name. The chant starts somewhere high in the stands and spreads like wildfire: “Max Speed! Max Speed! Max Speed!”

I skate to center ice, lifting my stick to the fans in a quick salute before heading to the bench. My lungs burn, my heart is hammering, but I can’t stop smiling. Moments like this are why I play.

This is what it means to be a Nighthawk.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SABRINA

Max Daws in action is truly something to behold. The entire Toronto Nighthawks team are fierce competitors, but there’s something about Max’s speed and hunger on the ice that makes him stand out.

As I watch from the team box, my hands are clenched together in tension, and my eyes dart back and forth from the countdown clock to Max. Holding my breath, I gasp as black and blue blurs on the ice weave toward the home team’s net.

The buzzer sounds, loud and long, signalling that Toronto has scored and is about to win the away game with only seconds on the clock.

The suits around me, who I don’t know, give me high fives and shake each other’s hands in victory. I’m giddy, beaming down at the players as the timer runs out. Boston fans aren’t thrilled with the loss, but mixed in with their boos is something else.

“Max Speed! Max Speed! Max Speed!” The Toronto fans in the arena are chanting for Max, supporting him from afar on the team’s win. I can’t help the smile that lights up my face as Max takes a lap around the ice and salutes the fans cheering for him.

“Miss Sutton. Let’s head down to the dressing room and get some footage. After that nailbiter win, the energy level down there will be off the charts.”

Not wanting to look away from the ice, but knowing I’m here to do a job, I turn to the filming executive who called me and nod. I do need to get to Max.

To interview him, of course.

The walk down to the team dressing rooms takes us longer than anticipated. The crowds are still dense in the arena, and navigating as a group slows us down. It’s colder on the lower levels, and I find myself shivering. I can’t put on my jacket if I’m about to interview team members. I bunch my hands into the sleeves as I quickly go over the plan with the camera guy who’s with me.

Cracking open the double doors that lead to the main dressing and lounge area, I call out a warning.

“Make yourself decent, boys. A lady is coming in!”

There’s some muffled laughter and scurrying before I deem it clear to enter.

“Yo, Sabrina! Didn’t know you were coming to this game,” the rookie calls out to me with a huge smile on his face. He’s sitting shirtless at his station, giving me his brightest and most charming smile, I’m sure. “You should have travelled with us. I would have taken care of you.”

Ignoring the last part of his proposal, I send him a small grin. “Couldn’t. Had a conflict, so I flew in separately.” Quickly moving my attention away from him in case he gets the wrong impression, I gaze around the room. “Spectacular game tonight, boys. You never let Boston have a moment’s peace.”

“Damn right!”

“Jar!” the whole room yells. Confused, I twist in the direction most of the men are pointing and watch as Sidney Crane, the goalie, waddles in his pads to a jar at the far end of the room and shoves a five-dollar bill into the semi-full container.

“You have got to be kidding me. You have a swear jar?”

“We do, Miss Sutton,” Coach comments as he walks in, arms crossed over his chest. “These lads know I keep a clean locker room.”

I have a million questions. I’m so curious to learn more about Coach Taylor’s practices with the team but can’t say anything at the moment. Moving off to the side so he can address the team and pinpoint the highlights, I let my eyes wander around the room.

When my attention lands on Max, I can’t help the little flutter that bursts in my chest. He’s looking at me with an intensity that I’ve never seen before. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable, but my whole body ignites with a sensation that’s almost overwhelming.

Rubbing my lips together, I look away, not able to take the heat.

When Coach Taylor claps his hands and congratulates the team again before heading out for the post-game press conference, I step forward with the cameraman by my side.

“Can I get some footage, boys? Maybe ask some questions?”

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