Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  Life, overall, was good.

  Until Forrest insisted on playing in Saturday night's game.

  He knew he wasn't ready. I could see it in his eyes, and I couldn't let it pass. "Why so soon? It hasn't even been a week."

  "The season's a month old. I need to play."

  I turned to Mike. "You agree with this?"

  He looked at Forrest. "You sure?"

  "It's fine."

  "He's been saying that since the first day." I shook my head. "It's not fine." I faced Forrest head-on. "You're going to make it worse. You know that, right?"

  His jaw tightened and he didn't meet my eyes. "I need to try. I need to be part of the team."

  "Then we'll all support you, won't we?" Mike threw me a skate-blade-sharp look.

  "I do support him, and he knows it."

  Forrest nodded without looking at me.

  I sighed. "You know how it feels, so play if you're okay."

  As I watched him warming up before the game that night, though, I knew he wasn't okay. Not even close. His skating did flow better than the first day, but he looked tentative, like a new skater terrified to fall.

  I tried to blame the impression on my new vantage point. Filmore had insisted I watch the game from his private box, which was huge, better decorated than my apartment if you like swamp-green and silver, and so high in the arena's rafters I could see the entire ice surface at once. I'd grown used to being down at ice level; from this height the players, especially Forrest, seemed too small and delicate for what they were about to endure.

  "You've done a great job, Grayson," Filmore said. "I figured his career was over."

  Nice. He'd only been hurt a month. "He's working really hard," I said, staring down at Forrest.

  He'd taken part in the team's activities at afternoon practice, although still wearing the red jersey that meant he was injured and shouldn't be bumped into, and most of the guys clearly didn't know how to handle his presence. Some of them dished out a little too much fake cheerfulness and reassurance, the youngest ones seemed too over-awed by his former superstar status to even look at him, and Corey and the small group of players who followed him around ignored Forrest entirely.

  Forrest had pushed himself hard but his injury meant he kept falling behind the others, and as his frustration increased he withdrew from his teammates until he barely even responded to the few who were able to make normal conversation with him.

  If he'd been a longstanding member of the team, it would have been easier. But he'd ruined their playoff hopes last season, then he'd spent two weeks of training camp with them and raised their expectations again, and since then he'd been on the sidelines while they went on without him. I understood why he'd wanted to play in the game. I disagreed with his decision, but I understood it. He was determined to prove himself worthy of the sacrifices the team had made for him.

  Sympathy filled me, sympathy and a desire to wrap my arms around him and hold him safe. He didn't want that, though; at least I didn't think he did. He was a strange mix of yearning and standoffish, reaching out to me and then snapping himself away at almost the same moment, and I wondered if missing his late fiancée was what made him swing between showing extreme pain and showing no emotion at all.

  The players left the rink and the Zambonis came out to flood the ice and get it ready for the game. Time dragged as I made awkward small talk with Filmore but at last the arena lights dimmed and the fans burst into raucous cheering. The other team's five starting players skated onto the ice, roundly booed by the fans, then heavy pounding music began to play. My heart pounded right along with it.

  "... on left wing, Corey Miles!"

  Corey took a few running steps and jumped out onto the ice already skating fast, like the two defensemen who'd been announced before him. Forrest would be next, and I pressed my hand against my upper chest to keep my racing heart from leaping from my body and catapulting itself down to the ice.

  "And introducing on right wing, in his first game for the Hogs, wearing number eighty-five, Toronto native Forrest Williams!"

  The announcer sounded excited but the crowd didn't share his sentiment, and I longed to punch each and every one in the stomach to let them know how their boos felt to me.

  I couldn't imagine how they felt to Forrest, who'd made his own running jump onto the ice and now skated around with the others as if he couldn't hear the crowd. He'd told me he'd grown up watching the Hogs and dreaming of being one. Now he was here, and the fans hated him?

  "They're pretty pissed about last year still," Filmore said, his tone consoling. "They'll forgive him when he shows what he can do."

  The boos changed to cheers when the starting centre, Magnus Axelsson, appeared. At thirty-six, the team's captain was nearing the end of his career but still a strong player, and I hadn't heard anyone badmouth him. Being so close to the ice, I'd been privy to little squabbles and feuds, but none involved Magnus. He'd also been one of the few who'd been comfortable talking to Forrest, and the only one to keep trying long after Forrest turned distant.

  The two teams stood facing each other, shifting from skate to skate as a tiny blonde sang the national anthems at a pace that made me want to scream, "Hurry up, already!", then Magnus and an opponent scrambled for the puck the referee dropped between them. The game was on.

  For three whole seconds.

  I'd noticed some odd body language between our defenseman and a guy from the other team during the warm up, and they both dropped their gloves the instant the puck hit the ice.

  The crowd went insane, yelling and hitting seats or the glass around the rink and pumping their fists in the air, as the two players took swings at each other. Our guy grabbed the other guy's jersey and gave him three good shots before they tumbled to the ice and the officials stepped in and separated them.

  I turned to Filmore, sitting beside me in an armchair just as plush as mine and infinitely better than the molded plastic seats in the arena itself. "I thought they weren't allowed to fight."

  He nodded. "Five minute penalty for each. But the crowd loves it."

  Sure, but for Forrest, who'd been set to play, the delay must have been agonizing.

  After the two combatants had been removed and replacements brought in, the game restarted. The players poured down toward our goalie, then up the other way, then down again.

  On the way, though, an opponent made a pass even I could see was terrible, handing the puck right to Forrest.

  Who skated off full speed toward the opponents' goal, the other team in hot pursuit.

  The crowd rose to its feet, cheering him on, and I found myself standing too, palms pressed to the box window, excitement stealing my breath. Forrest ducked around the other team's defenseman, leaving him behind, and the crowd's noise shook the rafters.

  He pulled his stick back to take his shot.

  Then he crumpled to the ice, the puck drifting aimlessly away.

  My excitement turning to a sick buzzing horror that blocked out most of Filmore's ranting and the crowd's infuriated boos, I watched Magnus bend over Forrest then wave at the team bench. Mike walked out, surprisingly stable on the ice in his running shoes, and they towed Forrest, all his weight on his left leg, to the bench.

  I took deep breaths, knowing Filmore would be disgusted if I showed any emotion, and by the time Forrest and Mike disappeared into the dressing room tunnel I'd regained control.

  "What the hell was that?" Filmore glared at me as if I'd tripped Forrest myself. "He's so hurt he can't even take a shot?"

  "Must be, or he would have." I tried not to imagine how much more damage he'd done to his leg in those short moments on the ice. "He wants to play, so if he's not it's because he can't."

  "Bloody well better want to play, with what we're paying him." He lowered his head and scowled at me from beneath his eyebrows.

  I'd heard the other players refer to 'Filmore's look', but they hadn't done its intimidation power justice. He'd given me a taste at my interview
but the whole look was much harder to swallow. I fidgeted but made myself say, "He's trying."

  "We're paying you a fair bit too, come to think of it. Not getting much in return."

  "It's five days in. You can't expect miracles."

  "I can and I do." Jerking his head toward the crowd, he added, "More importantly, they do."

  "They've already moved on." Indeed, the game had restarted while we'd been arguing and the crowd was again cheering as if nothing had happened.

  "Damn it, that's my point. They're fickle. All they'll remember is 'that jackass falling down instead of scoring' and some of them won't bother coming back. And besides--"

  The ringing phone cut off the rest. Just as well.

  "Filmore. Yeah. Why? Whatever."

  He held the phone out to me.

  "Who is it?"

  He pushed the phone at me again, and I had to take it.

  "Tess, it's Mike." The strain in his voice made my heart lurch. "Act unconcerned, but I need you down here right away."

  "Fine, thanks," I said, trying to sound casual. "How are you?"

  "Forrest needs you."

  "Sure, I can do that. Now?"

  "Five minutes ago," he said, and hung up.

  I returned the phone to Filmore. "Mike wants to talk to me, so I guess I'll go. If you don't mind."

  He waved me to the door without a word.

  I hurried from the heights of the building to its depths but Mike stood shifting from foot to foot when I arrived.

  "Don't bother," he snapped at the security guard trying to check my identification. "Let her in already."

  Once we'd entered the tunnel, he said, "He's locked himself in your massage room and we think he's trashing the place."

  I stopped and stared at Mike. "What am I supposed to do about it?"

  "Get in there and stop him."

  Chapter Five

  I knocked on the door for the third time. "Forrest, come on. Let me in."

  He'd been smashing something when I'd arrived, and the sound had been dreadful, but the repetitive thumps as he now punched a wall were worse. How much damage was he doing to himself?

  The other players came stomping down the hall toward us, and I realized the game's first period had ended. He'd never open the door with them there. As they passed by without looking at me or Mike, one of Corey's buddies slapped him on the back. "Nine seconds left and you score. Nice goal, but could you have done it any later?"

  "Hey, aren't you glad we went into intermission with the lead?" Corey grinned at him, then flashed me a wink. "Just glad I can help the team."

  He put the faintest of stresses on the 'I', but I heard it. As he'd intended. I raised my chin and didn't speak, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of knowing I'd recognized his shot at Forrest. The other player gave me an awkward smile, which I didn't return.

  When he reached the open dressing room door, Corey turned back and called in a joking tone, "Want to come in here and hang out with some real hockey players, Tess?" Several guys in the dressing room laughed, uncomfortably, but most remained silent.

  Something burst in my chest, sending a shuddering rage through me. Forrest had to have heard that. How could Corey be so cruel? "He's ten times the player you are," I snapped back, "and twenty times the man."

  Corey's grin collapsed and his eyes widened then went cold and hard. He shut the door without another word.

  I turned back to Forrest's door, ready to pound on it until he relented, but as I raised my hand I heard the lock click and Forrest say, "Just Tess."

  Mike waved his hand at me in a 'hurry up' gesture, so I slipped into the room, ignoring my body's frantic urging to run away from the angry strong man. Forrest pushed the door shut behind me and relocked it.

  I stared up at him, surprised by how much bigger and taller he seemed wearing his skates and equipment. At least with his padding on he'd been protected from himself and his actions. Defiance and pain fought in his eyes and a muscle flickered beside his jaw. Before I could react, he returned his focus to the wall by the door, now covered in numerous fist-sized dents and a few actual holes, and began attacking it again.

  Wishing Mike had come in instead, I looked away to survey the room, which, strangely, reeked of roses.

  The average tornado didn't do this thorough a job of destruction. Forrest had ripped huge strips of fabric from the ratty couch, now upside-down with stuffing leaking from its shredded cushions. I wondered if he'd torn it apart with his teeth since he had his gloves on, then decided I didn't really want to know. The video games lay in shards, and even a stuffed Hogs mascot hadn't escaped the carnage, its body and head flung into different corners.

  The only things left intact were the massage table and my oils. One bottle was missing, which explained the room's scent, but the rest sat as I'd left them atop the desk.

  Warmth filling me at the realization he'd mostly left my belongings alone, I looked back at him. "Wow."

  "If you say so." That deadened neutral tone again.

  "You're going to hurt yourself."

  "Whatever, I can't play anyhow."

  A particularly violent punch made me grab his arm. "Stop it. You're being ridiculous."

  "Am I?" He jerked his arm free and locked his suddenly blazing eyes on my face. "Hockey's all I know how to do, it's all I want to do, it's all I've got now. And I can't do it."

  "It's been five days." I struggled to hide my rising aggravation. He'd done this to himself. "You've got time."

  "You heard Corey," he said, his voice so low I could hardly hear it and so intense I didn't want to. "They all think like that. If I don't get it together right now, they won't respect me. If they don't respect me, they'll never pass to me. And then I can't score and I'm useless and my career's gone. I have to be ready to play."

  "Well, you're not," I said, my frustration making the words tumble from me. "And you knew it and you played anyhow and made it worse, and I can't respect that. Nobody could. They don't all think like Corey, but yeah, they probably don't respect you much at the moment. I respected you before, but now? Not a chance."

  He took a sharp breath, then froze, leaving whatever retort he'd been planning unsaid. The corner of his left eye twitched. "You respected me?"

  "Of course." I rested my hand on his shoulder, for emphasis and to try to calm him. "Forrest, they all do. Except maybe Corey, but who cares about him? And of course I respect you. You work so hard, and you're doing everything you can to get better." He'd survived his fiancée's death too, but I didn't want to go there. "You can't force your recovery, though. It takes time."

  He pulled away from me and punched the wall several times in rapid succession before I caught his wrist.

  "Give me the gloves."

  "Why?"

  "Because you've put enough holes in the wall, for one thing, and because I don't want to have to fix your hands too. Take 'em off."

  He threw them on the floor then began kicking the couch with his left skate.

  "Skates too."

  He kept kicking.

  "Fine. Be that way." I headed for the door.

  He stopped kicking. "Where are you going?"

  I turned on him. "Home. I can't work with you like this, and if you're going to be a baby I can't work with you at all. I thought you wanted to get better."

  "You know I do," he said, his voice low and passionate.

  "Then stop breaking shit and get up on the table so I can relax you already!"

  We stared at each other, my utterly un-relaxed words ringing, and he gave me a smile that looked like he'd done everything possible to hold it back.

  "I mean, are you ready for your massage now?" I said, embarrassed at my loss of control.

  "I like you better the first way." He bent to untie his skates. "More real."

  I turned to examine the slashed couch so he wouldn't see how his casual comment was making me blush. Forrest had seemed at best indifferent to me as a woman, as a person. Of course, he wasn't saying he l
iked me, just that he liked me better. As a shrew. Great.

  I usually waited in the hall while he took off his pants (still never his shirt) and got settled on the table, but if I left him this time he might not let me back in. "I'll tidy up while you get ready."

  "No, you won't, it's my mess."

  Not bothering to respond, I pushed the game pieces into a pile with my foot, afraid to touch the sharp bits with bare hands, then loaded couch stuffing into the garbage can. The massage table creaked as he climbed on, and I waited until he'd drawn the blanket over himself before picking up the beheaded Hogs mascot and moving to his side, hoping to lighten his mood.

  "This poor guy." I brandished the toy in Forrest's face. "He was only two days from retirement, you know."

  That reluctant smile tugged at his mouth again. "He was?"

  I nodded. "That's what they always say on TV, right? The one who gets killed in a car accident or a shootout is always two... days..." What was I saying? I pressed my fingers to my lips and stared at him, my mind swept blank with shock.

  He turned his head away.

  "Forrest, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking."

  "You know about her." It wasn't a question.

  "I looked you up after I got the job," I said. "So, yeah."

  He turned back toward me, his eye twitching again. "How much do you know?"

  The intensity in his voice confused me. "Just that... it happened. I found an online newspaper article, only a few lines and a picture of you playing hockey. And I know you broke your ankle. It healed all right, I take it? Any other injuries I should know about?"

  He shook his head. "Other than the ankle, and a concussion, I was fine." A grim laugh. "Then I wrecked the other leg. It's been a hell of a year."

  He lay back and closed his eyes. I closed mine too, feeling sick at having reawakened it for him, then opened them and dropped the mascot onto the desk. The desire to hug him swept me, but I forced it back. He'd never given any hint he'd appreciate it. Instead, I picked up the ocean-scented lotion he liked best. "Thanks for not wrecking all these," I said, wishing I could do more to comfort him.