Page 84 of Flashback for the Forward

No amount of time would shift my position on the matter.

“Becoming a teacher allowed me to spend time with kids, making an impact on their lives, while not having any of my own. And I’m happy with the choices I’ve made.”

“Good. That’s all I want—for you to be happy.”

A smile crept onto my lips. Cole’s commitment to supporting my needs and wishes warmed me to the depths of my soul. I’d never find another man like him, and I didn’t want to try.

Extending his ceramic mug, he toasted, “Cheers to the freedom of a childfree life.”

I clinked my mug against his. “I’ll drink to that.”

We drank, then Cole rounded the island to pull me into his embrace.

There was no question that he was all I’d ever need.

Chapter 25

Cole

The Portland Fog were getting away with murder tonight, and I didn’t like it one bit. Their brand of dangerous play had no place in professional hockey. No one taking the ice for a fucking game should have to worry that they might not be able to skate away on their own power.

When the refs refused to call blatant boarding and slew footing, our opponents grew bolder as their fear of being penalized diminished.

I had a very bad feeling that this game was going to end with someone headed to the hospital—more than likely, that someone being me or one of my teammates.

With a grunt, I heaved myself over the boards on a shift change during the second period. Keeping my head on a swivel, I barely managed to dodge a hit from the Fog’s biggest goon, feeling a rush of air against the back of my neck from the near-miss.

My already accelerated heart kicked into triple gear.

Fuck, that was close. Too close.

Levi got stripped skating through the neutral zone, and the Fog dumped the puck toward our net.

Crew hustled after it, peeking over his shoulder to keep an eye on the forward, Marakov, chasing him from behind. He got there first, slinging it around the boards to Dylan. Since Crew had relinquished possession of the puck, it became illegal to hit him, but that didn’t stop the six-four forward from leaping into the air to nail my brother in the side of his head with an elbow.

My twin crumpled immediately, and I forgot all about the game as I rushed toward him, dropping to my knees at his side. My heart sank to my stomach when I found him unconscious, and I waved frantically toward the bench, calling for the medical staff.

Mindful not to move him after he’d suffered a head injury, I kept my hands to myself as I spoke to his eerily still form. “Crew, buddy. I need you to wake up.”

All the air left my lungs in a rush when his lashes fluttered, then lifted.

He groaned, his words coming out slightly slurred. “Mom, it’s Saturday. No school today.”

Jesus, not only had that jackass knocked him out, but he’d knocked him back at least a decade.

“Not Mom, bud,” I replied as a trainer flanked me on either side, ready to assess his condition.

Crew’s brow furrowed in concentration as he looked at me, and after what felt like an eternity, recognition slowly filtered into his blue eyes. “Cole.”

“That’s right.”

“Where—?” He swallowed so roughly his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Where am I?”

“We’ll take over from here.” I was shoved out of the way by the team’s physician as he pulled out a tiny flashlight and began to gauge my brother’s pupil reaction.

Rising to my feet, I hovered nearby, several teammates coming to join me as we watched the medical staff run through a concussion assessment right there on the ice.

Eventually, they got Crew into a sitting position, but his eyes were glassy, and he swayed precariously—both telltale signs of the brain making brutal contact with the skull.