Page 23 of Forbidden Forward

He licks the fork clean and places it back on the plate. “Something like that. I think she read more into it than I meant for her to.”

I swipe the plate from him and huff. “That tends to happen when you spend a week banging a woman twenty-four-seven.” As I’m mid-pivot toward the sink, he scrunches his nose like that’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever heard. “Just telling you like it is, bro. Women are wired a little differently. If you guys weren’t slaves to the head in your pants, you might actually rely on the head on your shoulders, which is more judicious and therefore more intentional.”

Even though my back’s to him, I can practically see the protests forming on his face—or confusion, because really, what did I just say? But he surprises me. “So you’ll go with me?”

My head drops back with the drama of a diva. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

“Wow!” he barks. “That was easier than I thought.”

I’m not about to admit that the thought of seeing a certain gray-eyed sailor factors into my quick capitulation.

Donny talked me into attending both home games. Okay, he didn’t have to twist my arm because, once again, I’m doing my best to be a good sister. He says he likes having family in the stands like he used to as a kid, which I take as total BS, but I don’t call him on it. And speaking of BS, my voluntarily attending these games has absolutely nothing to do with catching a glimpse of Donny’s least favorite teammate—the guy in the jersey with the number six stitched on his back.

This is game two, and I’m hanging with the players’ wives, girlfriends, kids, and assorted family members in one of the luxury suites. Being related to a player has its perks, and this is one I don’t mind taking advantage of. Had I lived closer, I would have done it long ago.

Despite what I tell myself, my eyes spend a lot of time following number six. The same thing happened last game, but I have my reasons. I do it only so I can dissect his game. He doesn’t get many shifts, but he’s effective with the ice time the coach gives him. In the face-off department, he wins about sixty percent of the time, which is better than anyone else on the team. But he’s also a giant pain in the ass—for the other team. I can’t hear what he says to them, but his mouth is constantly running. The look on his face is irritating enough that I’m tempted to punch him at times.

I understand why Donny can’t stand him. Doesn’t mean I agree a hundred percent, but I get it.

Chase is a total cheap shot with his stick and elbow work, and he’s sneaky too. He saves his dirtiest moves for when the refs aren’t looking. He’s also cocky as hell. His swagger broadcasts that he doesn’t give a damn about anyone or anything, yet a small voice reminds me there’s a different side that cares about kids with disabilities. And that version of Colby is confident, not arrogant. Two opposite men share the same body and move seamlessly between their dark and light sides. How do both personalities square with one another?

“Stupid a-hole!” Terra Blue chirps next to me.

My eyes sweep the ice. “You mean the D-man on the other team?”

“No! I’m talking about Chase. He didn’t need to spear that guy,” she huffs. “He’s going to get himself thrown in the box—which is exactly where he belongs—but he’ll put us down a man and they’ll score on the power play. He’s going to lose this game for us.”

I might not like number six’s game, but an odd need to defend him rises up inside of me.

I don’t bother pointing out to Terra that she’s writing the end before the story’s over, or that the Surge are down two goals with only five minutes left to play. Colby’s not responsible for that. He wasn’t even on the ice when the bad guys scored. This one’s on the goalie and the winger who keeps losing his man. Still, I understand how easy it is to pin your frustrations on the club’s instigator instead of the high-minute players who aren’t getting the job done.

A different perspective occurs to me. “Maybe he’s being strategic.”

Terra brows draw together. “How?”

“He’s trying to get their guy thrown in the box,” I explain. “If he pulls it off, their best player sits in the sin bin, where he can’t score any more goals.”

Terra’s mouth drops open. “Are we talking about the same player?” I hesitate before I nod, and she scoffs. “That’s a stretch. You’re giving him way too much credit, girl. Chase isn’t smart enough to understand what the word ‘strategic’ means.”

I like Terra. She’s smart and one of the kindest people on the planet, but her words make me bristle. She lays the blame on him the same way my brother does because neither can see beyond the agitator role he plays so well. Clarity strikes, and I realize that’s exactly what it is—a role.

Why am I defending him?

A new question bobs in my brain. If he can switch that easily between two different personalities, could he ever be trusted? Royal was a chameleon, blending from charmer to narcissistic betrayer with ease, and I promise myself daily I won’t be fooled again. Not that I’m planning on a relationship of any kind with Colby Chase. Nope, no way.

Once more, I wrestle down the memory of that kiss.

“Does he have a girlfriend?” The words—infused with fake innocent curiosity—escape me before I can corral them.

She shakes her head. “Not that I know of. Can you imagine dating someone who’s that impressed with himself?”

Dodging, I ask, “What does Cam think of him?” There’s a stoppage in play, and the music blares, so I have to shout the question. This catches the attention of a few other WAGs.

One leans forward. “Who are we talking about?”

“Colby Chase.”

“Oh, Tony loves that guy!” the WAG gushes. Tony is her man, I gather.