Page 5 of A Little Too Forward

Or think about what my life will be like two weeks from now.

Urg, on that nauseating thought…

“Excuse me for a moment.” I smile at the group of couples I’ve mysteriously found myself surrounded by.

“Only a moment,” laughs one of the men. “I want to pick your brain on the NFL season. It’s not every day I meet a sports reporter who can give me the inside scoop.”

I force a strained smile, my eyebrows rising in fake agreement as I quickly turn for the door and make my exit. There’s no way I want to talk sports with him. It’s a general misconception that sports reporters have any insider knowledge. We see what the general public sees—we just have statistical knowledge to back up what we’re seeing and make general statements that sometimes play through to reality.

I’m not a person to ask for betting advice.

The buzz of chatter is everywhere in the house. It’s becoming a little too much, and I need a break from the noise and the crowds. Avoiding eye contact as much as I can, I fast walk through the house to the front door. Peeking out, I see there’s no one mingling on the lawn.

“Yes,” I whisper to myself, stepping out into the cool breeze. I feel instantly relieved. Heading in the direction of the Muskoka chairs that are tucked into the garden, I slip down into one and let out a long, calming breath.

This is harder than I thought it was going to be. I convinced myself that I could get through this party with no problem. No one would know that my career, and soon to follow, no doubt, my life, was crumbling around me.

I don’t regret the decision I made. Giving my notice was the right thing to do. I’ve been passed over for a promotion twice now in the last two years. Both times, I showed the powers that be that I could do the job and do the job well. And both times, I was overlooked in favour of a less experienced male colleague.

Being a woman in the sports world is hard—I knew this from day one. Yet this level of incompetence theToronto Sphereis trusting with their live broadcasting is insulting. The quality of their reporting is teetering, and I had hoped I’d be one of the people to help restore it to its former glory.

I was wrong. Obviously.

So if that is the path they want to take, I don’t want my reputation or the quality of my work to be tarnished with them. I made the right choice. It just feels like a catastrophic event at the moment.

“You out here hiding, Bean?”

My slowly relaxing body tenses again at the noise. I’m so shocked by the interruption that my brain doesn’t process why the voice sounds so familiar.

I turn my head upward, an agreeable response on my tongue that dies the instant I see who it is.

A million different emotions and thoughts zoom through my head. My body goes hot, then cold, then hot again. I’m a whirlwind of contradictions and absolutely stunned into muteness.

Heis the absolute last person I ever expected to see here. The last time we spoke, I truly believed it was the last. But standing just off to the side of me is the man I could never get a good read on and the boy I had once called my best friend.

Until he chose evil and became my nemesis.

CHAPTER THREE

MAX

It didn’t matter to my family that it was the beginning of hockey season or that I had training that morning and afternoon. All they cared about was that I had a couple of free hours in my day before I had to hop on a flight to Montreal, so there was no excuse for me to be a no-show to the party for family friends.

I didn’t want to miss Sven and Savanah’s retirement party. After all, they’d been my childhood neighbours and had been like a second pair of parents to me. They’re good people, and I wanted to celebrate with them.

It was just…I wasn’t sure how I’d be received by them after…well, everything. What had their daughter told them about our last conversation?

I’m sure my parents also thought there was a bit of ego at play about not going. I’m a sports celebrity now. Even if admitting that feels weird and wrong. People recognize me no matter how hard I try to lie low. This was an important day for the Suttons, and I didn’t want to take away their spotlight.

“Even just standing hurts,” I hear murmured to the left of me. Grinning wide, I turn toward Miller Scotts, one of the rookies, and laugh. “Sorry,” he says louder this time. “Didn’t mean for that to be said out loud.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there,” I reply, my voice full of humour.

“You remember your first season, old man?” Tyson yells across the room. His booming laugh follows quickly after.

I give him the middle finger. “This old man skated circles around you today. Better watch yourself, 34.”

At twenty-nine, I’m not the oldest on the team by far, but I am the only one who’s been part of the Toronto Nighthawks for over five years. To some of the team, that puts me in grandpa territory. If they want to call me old, that’s up to them, but I’ll give as good as I get.

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