Page 17 of Flashback for the Forward

Coach caught me flexing my fingers. “Astor, take a seat and let the trainers check for possible fractures.”

I waved him off, shoving my hands back into my gloves. “I’m fine.”

Playing banged up was nothing out of the ordinary for hockey players. And I’d be damned if I sat on the sidelines, being babied by the medical team, when the game was on the line.

The power play couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. We were down by one, with three minutes to go. We would have pulled Christian out of the net for an extra attacker soon anyway, but with Tennessee down to four players and an offensive zone puck drop coming our way, we did it early in hopes of capitalizing on a two-man advantage.

We lined up for the face-off with our best six guys on the ice. I stood opposite the Rockers’ center, the ref holding the puck over the dot in the middle of the circle to the right of our opponent’s goal. With my stick blade pressed hard to the ice, I eagerly anticipated the moment when he would drop it.

The hard rubber disc clattered to the frozen surface at our feet, and I was a split-second faster to react, sliding it back to my defensemen.

By the time I spun around, Crew was already taking a wrist shot, which hit the netminder’s blocker and was deflected toward the boards. I hustled my ass to get there before one of the Rockers players, but they won the race to the puck. Instead of taking the easy chip out across the blue line that would force my teammates and me to exit the zone before re-entering, they paused to line up a hard shot to clear it all the way down the ice.

That minuscule delay allowed me to get my stick in the way, and a battle against the boards ensued. But it was short-lived because a crack sounded right before the piece of equipment in my hand snapped like a twig. The slash I took must’ve caught my stick and caused a hairline fracture that weakened it.

“Dammit,” I cursed, forced to immediately drop the half of my stick still held in my hands. Holding on to it would have sent me to the penalty box, thus negating our current advantage and making our attempt to tie this game up much harder.

I skated to the bench, which was closer to the defensive zone in the third period. Thankfully, our equipment manager, Quinn, was ready and waiting. He stood on the bench, which gave him enough height to extend my fresh stick over my teammates’ heads.

Grabbing it without stopping, I curled through the neutral zone as Crew gathered the puck from behind our net and passed it up to Levi, who was waiting at the offensive blue line.

I kept one eye on my right winger while he dangled around defenders—the guy had sick hands—as I hustled to the net, giving him an option on the back door if he could get the goalie to move out of position.

Sure enough, Beckman bit on what he believed to be a shot from Levi. Instead, my teammate slid the puck over the ice to me, and with a flick of my wrist, it popped the back of the net.

Punching the air, I let out a cheer as the five additional Surf players on the ice rushed me to celebrate. There were head taps and hugs all around, but there was one more person who’d played an instrumental part in making this goal possible, and he deserved recognition too.

Before we skated to the bench for the customary fist bumps, I asked the referee for the puck. Usually, this was done when a goal signified a milestone for a player, but I didn’t think anyone would give me shit for making an exception and awarding it to a member of our staff.

With the puck in my possession, I made a beeline for the bench, a giant smile splitting my face as I pointed at Quinn. Everyone within arm’s reach was jostling him, just as excited for him as I was.

“First apple for my man, Quinn,” I shouted over the hoots and hollers coming from every member of the Surf. Apple was hockey lingo for an assist. When I tossed the puck in his direction, he caught it effortlessly. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“All right. All right.” Davenport cut our celebration short. “Congrats to Quinn, but we still have a hockey game to win.”

Hell yeah, we did.

Flying back from the East Coast was always weird. We took off at 11 PM local time, only to land in San Diego around 1 AM. It fucked with your internal clock something awful if you slept on the flight because then you’d be up all night when you got home. So I always tried to stay awake, which wasn’t easy after playing a physically intense game.

I was on my third cup of coffee when Crew plopped down on the seat beside me.

Removing my headphones, I turned to him. “What’s up?”

He eyed me critically, and my brows drew down, wondering what the hell he was searching for.

Finally, my brother spoke. “You’ve been off lately.”

“Off?” I questioned.

“Yeah, almost distant.” He heaved a sigh. “Is it because I gave you a hard time about Kennedy?”

My jaw locked at his mention of my ex-wife. I really wasn’t in the mood to have another argument with him over her.

“Because if so, I’m sorry. You were right; it was none of my business. I just—” Running a hand through dark hair that matched mine, he continued, “I know I’m the younger brother, even if it’s by all of two minutes, but I can’t help but want to protect you.”

“While I appreciate the apology, it has nothing to do with Kennedy.”

Crew’s head cocked to the side. “Then what’s going on with you?”