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

by Heather Wardell

  I'd never seen him this close to happy. I liked it.

  *****

  "Can I have a tour?"

  "Sure. It's pretty dull, though."

  I smiled, preparing to implement my plan to stop him exercising.

  I'd never expected to see his apartment, but when we spent a few minutes chatting with Jen before her next class, she pushed through her shyness with Forrest to tease me about my hockey ignorance. Forrest then suggested we watch his past games together so he could teach me.

  I'd tried to weasel out, despite Jen's joking insistence it'd be good for me to learn, but Forrest had given me a dramatic sigh and said, "A whole evening of boredom. What'll I do with myself? I know, I'll go for a run."

  "You will not. Drive. I'll follow you." My plan had hit me in the car.

  His spacious apartment looked brand new, the white walls above rich red-brown hardwood floors bearing no pictures or paintings. Lake Ontario, filling his bare living room windows from thirty-five floors below, made a stunning focal point and a good substitute for art, though.

  "And here's the bedroom," he said awkwardly when I'd finished staring at the water.

  I peered in to see more white walls and a bed with one pillow and a Hogs blanket. "You keep your workout clothes in here?"

  He blinked. "Yeah. Why?"

  "Give them to me."

  "Pardon?"

  "I'm taking them. You don't need them for the week and this way I can be sure you're not working out."

  We locked eyes. He backed down first, and began gathering t-shirts and shorts and pants. "I could buy new ones. Or go naked."

  "You know what," I said, fighting back a grin, "if you want to go to the gym or run outside naked, be my guest. Just let me know so I can alert the media. I'm sure they could make a story out of it."

  "You're a slave driver." He returned to his packing.

  "No, I'm the opposite, I'm forcing you to rest. Running shoes too, please."

  He handed me his gym bag, stuffed to the top. "Anything else? Pint of my blood?"

  "It's for your own good. You need to rest."

  He grimaced. "Okay, fine. I hate it, but you're right."

  I widened my eyes so far they hurt. "Pardon? Didn't quite catch that."

  "You did too." He sighed. "The yoga showed me how stiff I am, and how tired. I get it now. I will take the time off. But you're smart to take my stuff."

  "Why?" I hauled the gym bag to the front door, calling over my shoulder, "Were you planning to sneak some workouts?"

  He didn't answer, and I looked back to see him standing with his palms facing upward, his eyes dancing.

  "You were, weren't you? What am I going to do with you?"

  "Let me teach you about hockey?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Do I have to? I know enough."

  "Which is?" He passed me my share of the food he'd picked up on the way and pointed to the living room.

  I dropped into a black leather armchair and began unloading my burger and fries onto the coffee table. "The puck goes in the net, lots of fighting, and the fans get way over-involved. My dad and Pam treated every game like a sacred event and Mom and I got so bored."

  He looked up from the DVDs he was flicking through. "Pam?"

  "We're identical twins."

  He turned to face me. "I wanted a twin so badly. Used to believe I had one but my parents gave him away."

  He smiled, and I smiled back and asked, "Do you have any actual brothers or sisters?"

  He shook his head. "My dad died when I was nine. Heart attack. I don't know if Mom wanted more kids. She didn't have them with her second husband, and she's always busy with work, so maybe not."

  "What does she do?"

  "Runs an art gallery."

  I froze with a fry halfway to my mouth. "She does? Here?"

  He turned back to me and nodded. "Her last name's Smyth. Williams was my dad's last name. She's Jayne Smyth."

  Jayne Smyth, the most respected gallery owner in Toronto.

  "What's wrong? You look like you swallowed a bug."

  I forced a smile. I'd process this new information later. "That's your first guess, a bug?"

  "Hey, it's fast food, anything's possible."

  He laughed as I pretended to throw up.

  "No, it just surprises me you have no artwork but your mother runs a gallery."

  He shrugged. "I'd either have to let her choose or listen to her complain about my bad taste. Besides, I'd expected Mari--"

  He cut himself off, but I knew. He'd intended to let his fiancée do the decorating. No wonder he didn't have the heart to do it himself.

  "I'm sorry, Forrest."

  He turned back to the DVDs. "It's okay. Tell me about Pam. Is she like you?"

  Until she had her first drink at fifteen and started her descent into alcoholism, pretty much. She'd always been artistic and sensitive, and I'd been sporty and outgoing, but we'd looked identical until the alcohol aged her.

  Pam's huge paintings were vivid swatches of color with no precision, but somehow details revealed themselves to the viewer, like a slash of pink becoming the reflection of a setting sun in a pitcher of water. Her work was beautiful but disturbing, with darkness always lurking, and while I admired it I couldn't look at it for long. She'd sold quite a few paintings when she first started, but nothing recently.

  "She has... problems." I couldn't open up Pam's secrets to Forrest.

  After a brief but respectful pause, he said, "Okay, here's the game I wanted," put the DVD into the player, and took a seat on the leather couch at the end nearest my chair. "Now, you obviously know nothing about hockey, so listen up."

  "I told you what I know."

  "Exactly. Nothing. So, here we're playing a zone defense. That means..."

  I let his running commentary roll over me and watched the game. At first it looked frantic, as hockey always did to me, but I listened to him explaining why the players went where they did and began to see.

  I saw the tiny details, the intricate designs the players' skate blades left on the ice, the spray of snow at their quick stops sparkling like diamonds in the air. I saw the big picture, as the players traded positions along the ice and worked together to make a play succeed.

  But mostly I saw Forrest. He played so confidently, avoiding his opponents without ever looking hurried. Time and again he moved in a different direction than seemed right only to end up meeting the puck. He'd known where it would be, not just where it was.

  When he scored, his teammates hugged and head-butted him, bumping helmet against helmet, as the crowd roared. His joy and pride lit up his face. The game lost its appeal when he rested between shifts; his passion shining through made the ice seem a brighter white and the lights more vibrant, and his teammates played with more energy too.

  "Are you listening?" Forrest said into my ear.

  I jumped.

  "You're not." He shook his head and paused the game. "I did yoga. Yoga! The least you could do is pay attention."

  "I am."

  "Then what did I say last?"

  I hadn't even heard his voice. "I don't know. I was watching. I didn't know hockey could be so..." I struggled for the word.

  "Boring? Violent? Useless?"

  "What? No. I've never seen it as... beautiful before."

  Our eyes met and something shockwaved between us. Not lust, not emotion, not anything I'd experienced before. I just knew, deep in my core, that I was female and he was male. I'd known before, obviously, but my body felt my femaleness and his maleness and the fundamental difference between the two, how nothing about him was the same as me and how amazing that was.

  His pupils dilated and he turned away. "I guess you'd better get home."

  "Yeah, you need your rest," I said, and he looked back at me and smiled. His eyes were open but somehow closed to me at the same time. I'd heard cats had second eyelids; maybe Forrest did too and had used them to keep me out. "So, tomorrow's treatments. If you'd rather not be at the arena,
we can do them here."

  He shook his head. "I want to stay in touch with the guys. Bad enough we've taken away their game room. At least I should be there, showing them I'm trying to get better."

  Having seen him play at his peak, I understood more why he so needed to bond with the other Hogs. He and his old teammates had played like one person, and losing that link must have been agonizing. "Usual time tomorrow morning then?"

  He nodded then stared past me at the darkened sky beyond his apartment. "Thanks for coming over. I watch those by myself a lot, but it's more fun with someone else."

  How had I never noticed the depth and richness of his hazel eyes? Striking, especially when they held such softness and vulnerability. The thought of him sitting alone reliving his past successes, and no doubt questioning whether he'd have any future ones, made my chest tighten in sympathy, but I didn't think he'd want to see that.

  What I didn't want, though, was him to be alone every night of his week-long rest, so I pursed my lips and made a show of coming up with an idea. "You know, if you taught me more I could finally make Jen stop teasing me."

  He rubbed his lightly stubbled chin, frowning thoughtfully. "True. But don't you hate hockey?"

  "Vicious rumor."

  His eyes were full of amusement now instead of sadness. "I assume I have to feed you dinner again?"

  "Only if you want me to listen." I grinned at him. "And while we're at it, can I have dessert next time? I can't concentrate without sugar."

  He laughed. "Will do. Tomorrow night, then?"

  "Sounds good."

  Chapter Seven

  Jen grabbed my shoulder. "Sit still already."

  "I am."

  "You are not." She pulled my jacket's hem from my fingers and smoothed it out. "You're twitching and fidgeting and making me crazy. What's your deal?"

  "No deal. I just want the game to start."

  "I've never seen you so nervous."

  "I'm scared for Forrest," I admitted. "He needs this to work."

  "But he's skating well, right?"

  I nodded. "Especially this morning. But still, I want him to score so much."

  "I bet you do." Her voice was innocent, her eyes anything but.

  It took me a second to understand. "Not like that. In the game. I don't think about him like that."

  "Of course not. Mind if I do?" She shut her eyes and let a ridiculous leer stretch across her face.

  I poked her. "Yes, actually, I do mind."

  "Why?" Her eyes popped open and she raised her eyebrows. "I thought you didn't care."

  "I don't, but I'm not watching you mentally slobbering all over him. It's gross." Before she could tease me any further, I said, "What's up with your bathroom?"

  She shook her head. "I swear, never again. If I so much as hint about another renovation, you slap me until I smarten up."

  "With pleasure." I pulled away before she could pinch me. "What did they do this time?"

  "Wrong tiles on the floor."

  "But how, with all your notes? They were so clear."

  She shrugged. "Steve put in the wall tiles instead of the floor ones, and I assume Darryl stood there, drooling, and watched him do it."

  "Are they tearing them out?"

  "Oh, no," she said in her contractor-mocking tone, a mix of dopey and drunk, "that's too much work and too hard on the subfloor. You don't want that damaged. No, we'll just lay the new ones over top." Returning to her own voice, she added, "At this rate the floor'll be two feet from the ceiling."

  I shook my head. "Anything going right?"

  She considered. "The house is still standing."

  I gave a grunt of laughter. "Well, that's something. Is it all on the blog?"

  She nodded. "And they'll be ripping out the toilet soon. They promise to replace it the next day, so can I stay with you for the, oh, three years it'll probably take them?"

  "If it's not more than three years, sure."

  "Let's hope," she said, rolling her eyes.

  The arena's lights dimmed and the crowd's cheering rose, and I sent my best wishes out to Forrest. I was nervous for him, but this time we both believed he was ready, mentally and physically, to play.

  After confirming I didn't mind the guys using the massage room when we weren't there, he'd bought a new couch and video games to replace the stuff he'd destroyed. The delighted players had been immediately friendlier to me, which I hadn't understood until the goalie, Jeff, told me they assumed the purchases and their renewed access to the room had been my idea. Once I'd made it clear it had been all Forrest the guys had extended their friendliness to him, and Forrest's stress lessened as they began to accept him.

  We'd kept our usual morning massage schedule all week so he could see and be seen by the team, then he went home to rest and I called every last art-related number in the phone book but one, determined to find a way to kick-start my career.

  Nothing but rejection after rejection. My sole remotely positive interaction had been with the Toronto Art School's receptionist, who'd commiserated with me and then explained she'd wanted an art career herself but hadn't been able to make it happen, so she'd taken the receptionist job "to at least be close to artists".

  I hadn't called Forrest's mother's gallery. She might see me if he asked, but I didn't want to use him to get to her. Besides, he needed me focused on him, not a new career, and what if he did ask and she turned me down?

  We'd hung out every night of his break, at my place and his, watching the Hogs' live games on TV and more of his past games too. I'd learned so much about hockey, and we were so relaxed with each other now. I couldn't risk ruining it.

  Wednesday, his first day skating, had been rough, with his body protesting the sudden increase in activity, and he'd been frustrated. Thursday had been better, Friday better still, and in the pre-game warm-up he'd looked almost like the guy I'd seen in those old games.

  Which didn't stop my stomach doing a terrified jig as the starting players were announced. Forrest wasn't a starter for this game, but when he stepped onto the ice the crowd booed him anyhow. I clenched my fists and sent, 'Don't worry, everything's different' vibes to him.

  It was different. He'd done the afternoon skate he'd skipped last time, he was full of energy instead of exhausted, and he'd found seats for me, and Jen, only five rows up from the ice so I could come see him more easily. I'd also kept his MP3 player all day to make sure he didn't misplace it again, handing it back after his pre-game massage, which had also gone well. Yes, everything was different.

  The game began, and I looked back and forth between the play on the ice and Forrest on the bench. He seemed all right, but I wished I could talk to him.

  He brought one hand behind his head, apparently adjusting his helmet, then made a fist, thumb up. I screamed, "Woo!", and he flashed an 'OK' sign before putting his hand down.

  Jen eyed me. "Did you just cheer? At a hockey game?"

  "Aren't I supposed to?"

  "Yeah, when something happens. Something more than a thumbs-up, that is. Have we got the hots for this guy?"

  "We do not."

  "Then why are we blushing?"

  I raised my chin. "It's hot in here."

  She tugged at my jacket, zipped up to my neck. "Really."

  We laughed, then she nudged me. "He's going out."

  My heart raced as I remembered his disastrous last game. He must have been remembering too, because his first strides were slow and tentative. Then he shifted gears like a powerful sports car and took off down the ice.

  Unfortunately, he didn't do much. Nothing wrong, but not much right either, just skating around and joining in the plays without starting any himself. He did stay out for a full minute, though, before coming off for a rest, which I hoped meant his leg felt good. From the bench, he gave me another thumbs-up and I cheered again.

  He'd been out for half a minute on his second shift when the puck came to him near the other team's goal. He smacked it at the net without even a fr
action of a second's thought, and the goalie stopped it easily. The crowd groaned, and a rowdy group of guys across the rink called, "Williams," stretching each syllable out to at least two seconds.

  A flash of happiness lit me up at the idea of the crowd supporting him, but Jen tensed beside me. I looked at her, surprised.

  "You won't like this," she said as the original guys, and scattered other fans, called Forrest's name again. Before I could ask why, they called a third time, people all around the arena joining in, then yelled in unison, "You suck!"

  My mouth fell open and I looked around for someone to tell off, rage flooding me.

  "Told you," Jen said, her eyes sympathetic. "He should have taken time to set that shot up."

  "But the defense had the passing lanes cut off. He did try to roof it but the puck was on edge."

  Jen stared at me. "Who are you and what have you done with Tess? Do you even know what all that means?"

  Despite my anger, I had to grin at her shock. "Sure. He couldn't pass to anyone because the defense was in the way, and he tried to put the puck to the top of the net but it was on its side instead of flat so he couldn't. It's obvious. Ask me to explain icing, or the off-side rule. Go on, I dare you."

  She shook her head. "Just you knowing the terms impresses me. Forrest's a good teacher, I'll give him that." A sly smile curved her mouth. "Or maybe he's more motivating than I am."

  "He bought chocolate. And only let me have it when I could explain something."

  "Smart man."

  I nodded, refocusing on Forrest. He hadn't reacted to the crowd's taunt, but how could it not have bothered him?

  He finished his shift, then left the players' bench and disappeared into the dressing room tunnel. My heart picked up speed. "I'm going to check on him," I said, and headed off before Jen could answer.

  The security guard let me through and I walked down the empty tunnel hoping I'd done the right thing. If Forrest just needed the bathroom or something, he might not appreciate my arrival.