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

by Heather Wardell

  I reached our room and knocked on the halfway open door, then pushed it all the way open. Forrest sat on the massage table, head hanging.

  "Hey," I said tentatively.

  "Did you hear them yelling?"

  I pulled in a deep breath and let it out. No point lying. "Yeah."

  "They're right." He lifted his head. His eyes were matter-of-fact, but sadness lurked behind the calmness. "I freaked out. I should have planned it better."

  I pulled up the stool and sat facing him. "Actually, I don't think so."

  He raised his eyebrows. "No? Why not?"

  "Now you've taken a shot in a Hogs game. Sure, it would have been nice if you'd scored, but it's a start."

  He nodded slowly. "That was my first shot, wasn't it?"

  "And not a bad one," I said. "How's the leg?"

  "Fine." He wriggled his fingers, still encased in his gloves. "Doesn't even feel tired."

  He repeated the wriggling, and I fought back a smile. Subtlety, thy name is not Forrest. "Good stuff. Did you want to take those off for a minute?"

  He smiled. "If you don't mind."

  "Not at all." I pulled his gloves off and took his hand in mine. I'd given him a hand and foot massage at his apartment one night; the feet he didn't like so much but I'd created a monster on the hand massage front.

  I gave each hand a brief going-over. "Better?"

  "Much," he said, slipping back into his gloves. "But I want a full one later."

  I rolled my eyes in mock annoyance. "We'll see."

  He laughed and I patted him on the head, his helmet hard and cool against my skin. "Take another shot and I'll owe you two full hand massages."

  "Deal."

  I stood, turned my back, and gave him a thumbs-up.

  "I'm glad you saw that," he said. "I felt kind of stupid."

  "Keep doing it. I like knowing you're okay."

  "Will do."

  I faced him. "Anything else?"

  He shook his head. "You've done it all. Thank you."

  I smiled, touched by the sincerity in his voice. "You are so welcome. Ready?"

  "Go ahead. I'll be right behind you."

  I nodded and we high-fived each other on my way out.

  "How's he doing?" Jen said as I sat down.

  "Fine. Gave him a hand rub and he's good to go."

  Jen's mouth dropped almost to her knees.

  "What?"

  "Say that again."

  "I gave him a hand rub," I said, bewildered. "Massaged both hands."

  She grinned. "I heard 'job' instead of 'rub'."

  I laughed. "And then I came marching up and announced it?"

  "I was surprised, I admit."

  I shook my head. "You're a pervert."

  "Moi?" She flashed me an innocent grin. "Here he is. Gee, Tess, he sure looks relaxed. Are you sure you didn't--"

  My elbow in her ribs cut off her words but not her giggles.

  "Grow up," I said, laughing and watching Forrest returning to the bench. He did look relaxed, and I hoped it would work in his favor. He was scanning the crowd in the first rows, ignoring the few boos his arrival had generated.

  Not sure he was looking for me, but also not sure who else he could be trying to find, I stuck my hand straight up in the air.

  His face lit up and he raised his hand in return before taking his seat.

  I expected Jen to tease me but she didn't say a word. Surprised, I turned toward her to see her watching me, her eyes soft. She put her arms around me and squeezed me tight, then let go. "Watch the game, would you?"

  "I was trying to, until somebody hugged me," I said, but she shushed me. What had gotten her all emotional?

  For the next few minutes we sat in silence, watching the puck flying around the ice and the players throwing themselves after it. I shot frequent glances at Forrest in case he sent me any signals, but he was studying the game.

  The next time players returned to the bench, he vaulted over the edge onto the ice. From that first movement, everything looked right. His strides were longer and stronger, his head was higher, and he went after the puck like it was all he'd ever wanted out of life. Not quite the old Forrest, but close.

  The puck was in our end until Magnus got it to Corey, who began skating toward the other goal. Forrest, a bit ahead, was wide open but Corey ignored him, instead trying some complicated maneuver that succeeded only in returning the puck to the other team. Magnus stole it again, and this time took it down the ice himself.

  He passed to Forrest, who passed right back then swerved to the side. The crowd groaned at his apparently taking himself out of the play, but I'd seen him move just like that in his old games. Hope made my body tingle and pound. Come on, Forrest, come on.

  A man behind us bellowed, "Shoot!" but Magnus instead passed to Forrest. The other team's defense swarmed him, but Forrest eluded them, taking his time, then snapped the puck hard at the goal.

  At the goal, past the goalie's outstretched hand, and in.

  The crowd erupted, twenty thousand people's applause ringing like thunder, and I screamed wordlessly, needing to vent the excitement before I exploded. All those people cheering for him. How did that sound to him? I'd never felt anything like it.

  The other players on the ice threw themselves on Forrest, hugging him and slapping his back and bumping their helmets against his. With one exception. Corey. He turned and made his way to the bench, fiddling with his glove as if something were wrong. The only thing wrong, I figured, was that Magnus had passed to Forrest instead of Corey.

  The crowd's cheering continued as Forrest returned to the bench and exchanged high-fives with the team staff and the other ecstatic players, again except Corey, who'd returned to center ice. After a backslapping hug from Mike, Forrest looked in my direction. I waved frantically and shrieked, "Good job!" and he punched the air, grinning, before turning away to hug Magnus again.

  First goal of the game, and in the end, the only goal of the game.

  Chapter Eight

  I waited in the massage room after the game for Forrest, like always, but this time I heard him calling my name, other voices joining in after his first shout. Confused, I stuck my head into the hall to see Mike at the open door to the dressing room.

  "He won't let us do this without you," he said, rolling his eyes but smiling. As promised, I'd reported to him every day of Forrest's rest, and we'd reached first an uneasy peace and then something approaching friendship.

  "Do what?"

  He waved me forward, and I entered the dressing room for the first time, fighting to hide my revulsion as I crossed the threshold and the smell slapped me across the nose. New sweat and old sweat, seasoned with mildew, wafted from the hockey equipment stuffed into each player's doorless locker. I'd once forgotten a wet towel in my car's trunk for a month and the mildew smell had been overpowering, but it would have taken a million sweat-soaked towels to reach this level of stench.

  The players, apparently oblivious to the odor, sat and stood around the room, mostly shirtless and some wearing only towels around their waists. So much well-toned male flesh at once would have been Jen's personal heaven, and I didn't mind it myself. If only I didn't have to breathe.

  Forrest stood in the middle of the room in a black Hogs t-shirt and shorts, his hair tousled from his helmet and wet with sweat, his eyes and face glowing. He was unexpectedly sexy, and I cursed Jen for making me think of him that way.

  He grinned at me then turned to the coach I knew only as Jones, who said, "All right, guys, and lady, let's get to it. As you may have noticed, somebody scored his first goal with the Hogs tonight."

  The guys burst into applause and I did too, happiness bubbling in me. My eyes flicked to Corey, clapping with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, and he saw me notice and managed to put a little more energy into it.

  "Now, we like to make sure guys get the puck from their first goal, and frankly, given how tough a road it's been for Williams to get here, I'm even more pleased to
do that this time."

  Applause again, but the players didn't all seem to appreciate Jones' remarks. I remembered Mike saying the players felt Forrest was being rewarded for being hurt, but it had been tough, from Marika and his broken ankle to his latest injury, and they shouldn't begrudge him a little recognition.

  "Magnus, the puck, please."

  Magnus said, "I gave it to Corey to bring in, Coach," just a hint of his Swedish heritage present in his voice.

  All eyes went to Corey, who said, "I put it on the ledge by the showers," and went to fetch it.

  Returning empty-handed.

  "I don't know where it went." He eyed Magnus, then Forrest, then me. "Someone must have taken it," he said, eyes still fixed on me.

  His accusation brought angry words to my lips, but at the last second I realized he'd be thrilled, so I forced away my retort and gave him a confused look instead. "Who would do that?"

  He held my gaze for a moment then turned away, and Magnus ran his eyes over the other players. "Guys, where is it?"

  If anyone knew, he kept it to himself.

  Magnus and Jones exchanged a glance, and Jones said, "Gentlemen, if you took it as a joke, the joke's over. Cough it up. It's got the date and my initials on it, so we'll know it when we find it."

  The silence in the room outweighed even the stench until Forrest cleared his throat. "No big deal. The important thing is we won the game."

  The guys clapped and cheered again, looking relieved he wasn't making a fuss.

  "Helluva goal, man." A player whose name I hadn't learned slapped Forrest awkwardly on the shoulder. "When you headed off sideways I thought something was wrong. How'd you know to do that?"

  Forrest explained what he'd seen in the way the opponents were moving, and I listened with half my focus, devoting the rest to studying the attentive men and wondering who had stolen Forrest's puck. And why.

  *****

  I worked Forrest's palm with my thumb. "That sucks."

  "I'll survive." He pushed his freshly washed hair back with his free hand. "I almost wish I had hurt my hands punching that wall. Then you'd have to do this all the time."

  "I do it all the time anyhow, because you whine otherwise." We laughed, and I added, "The puck thing really doesn't bother you?"

  "It does," he admitted. "But there's nothing I can do. Besides, it's not the first thing someone has-- it's just a puck, I've got lots."

  I dropped his hand into his lap. "What did you start to say?"

  "Nothing." He reached out to me again.

  "Not until you tell me."

  "It'd be easier to talk if I weren't so tense." He pushed his hand toward me in little jerks, daring me to grab it.

  I did, but warned, "I won't touch your other hand unless you tell me."

  I finished then folded my arms and stood waiting, ignoring his extended other arm.

  "Okay, fine," he said when I wouldn't relent. "It's not the first thing someone's done, that's all."

  I took his hand and set to work, frowning. "Who?"

  He shrugged. "Someone on the team."

  "What else has he done?"

  Another shrug. "Hiding my shampoo, moving my towel so I have to hunt for it, replacing my..." His neck reddened. "Replacing my jock strap with a kid's one. Dumb stuff."

  "And the MP3 player?"

  "Could be. I wondered about that."

  "But this is different. The other stuff's annoying, but you lost your first Hogs puck."

  He nodded, and the twinge of sadness on his face solidified my decision. Before I could change my mind, I set down his hand and opened my bag. "I kind of made you something. If you don't like it, it's okay, but I want to give it to you."

  I'd finished the miniature the night before, and loved it. Forrest had just taken a shot on goal, surrounded by opponents and teammates with featureless faces, while the fans, all bearing his face, stared down clapping tiny clay hands. Making all those hands had nearly killed me, but the effect made it worthwhile.

  The glossy ice was dusted with crystal flecks of snow from the skate blades, and in the goal, as if Forrest had shot it there, I'd put the little heart-shaped rock I'd found on my path. I didn't know why, but it seemed to belong there.

  I hadn't been positive I'd show him the piece, but I'd brought it along so I'd have the option. His missing puck had made me decide I wanted to give it to him, not just show him, even though I'd never given one away before.

  I slid the miniature from its box into his palm, where it looked even smaller than usual against the size and strength of his hand.

  He raised it to eye level, tilting and turning it to see it from all angles. "You made this. For me."

  "Only if you want it. If you don't like it I can totally take it back. It's nothing, really, just something I like to do sometimes. I hadn't planned what I'd do with it. Don't worry about it, I'll take it."

  "Tess."

  I stopped babbling, with an effort.

  "It's amazing."

  A warm glow ignited in my chest, spreading through my body. "Really?"

  He nodded. "It's so tiny I'm scared to touch it. How'd you even see to do it?"

  "Magnifying glass."

  He set the piece down on the desk, carefully transferring it from his hand to the scarred wood, and I said, "It's tougher than it looks. I've never had one break."

  "How many have you made?"

  I thought back. "Fifteen? Twenty? I started making them when I was sixteen after Jen and I saw an exhibition of miniature doll houses. I quit for a while in high school and college, but now I make one whenever something cool happens in my life, plus whenever I feel like it."

  A smile began to grow on his face, but it died halfway to maturity. "This isn't because... it's not for my mother, is it?"

  "No, definitely not. I started it the day we met, and I didn't know she was your mother until last week. I didn't say anything then because I didn't want you thinking--"

  "Did you want me to show it to her?"

  "Forrest, I swear I didn't--"

  "Because I will. I think she'll love it. Do you want to sell them?"

  "Kind of." I frowned, surprised at myself. Kind of?"

  "Tough to break in. Mom's stories make that clear. Have you tried?"

  I sighed. "You can't get into a gallery without experience, and you can't get experience--"

  "--without a gallery," he finished. "But it's all who you know." He paused, then said, "I will show her, if you want me to."

  My reluctance to let him confused me. Access to Jayne Smyth, direct access, and I was balking? Of course I wanted him to show her. Why wouldn't I? "If you don't mind, that'd be great. Unless you think she won't like it. She probably won't like it."

  Forrest raised his eyebrows. "That doesn't sound like you. And I think she will. Now, I believe we have a little unfinished business?" He held out his half-massaged hand to me and wiggled his fingers.

  I laughed. "I'm supposed to be working on your leg, you know."

  "You're apparently multi-talented," he said, looking back at the miniature. "So take care of my hands too."

  I rolled my eyes but complied. After a minute or so, I couldn't restrain myself. "You really like it?"

  My timid tone surprised me, and he frowned. "It's incredible, Tess. How can you not see how great it is?"

  I had seen it, until the idea of his mother seeing the piece and hating it became all I could think about. I shrugged, and he said, "It more than makes up for the puck. So thank you."

  "Who do you think took it?"

  "We don't know for sure someone did," he began, but then shook his head. "I don't know. Someone did, you're right."

  "And did all the other stuff too. Have you done anything about it?"

  "Like what? Complain to Jones? That'll make it worse."

  "Tell Magnus?"

  "Won't help. A little teasing's part of the deal when you join a new team. And with me not playing, it's no surprise someone wants to give me a rough time. If I
react, it'll get worse."

  I finished with his hand and moved to work on his leg as he lay down on the table. "Wayne, what do you think?"

  Forrest pushed up onto his elbows. "I think Wayne has left the building."

  "Like Elvis?"

  He nodded. "His work here is done. I'll take over."

  "Got it," I said, glad he was comfortable enough talking to me to not need Wayne any more. "So, Forrest, what do you think? If you ignore the teasing guy, he'll go away?"

  "I guess that's the theory," he said. "I have to admit, though, I wish I knew who it was."

  "Corey."

  "No doubt in your mind, huh?"

  I shook my head. "The guy's a jerk. And a... a runt."

  "Tess, he's six foot one."

  "Doesn't matter, he's a runt on the inside. He's all cocky to hide something, I know it."

  "Do you know the story about him?"

  "Nope."

  "When Corey was trying to make the Olympic team two years ago, it was down to him or another forward for the last spot. The night before the tryout, the other guy fell when he stepped onto the ice. Turned out his blades had been mysteriously coated with clear hockey tape."

  His emphasis on 'mysteriously' sent a shudder down my spine, but I was confused. "What does tape do?"

  "With the skate blades covered, there's no traction. Guys do it sometimes as a prank, but they use black or colored tape so the guy will see it before he goes out. Well, this time it was the clear kind that we use to hold our shin pads in place, so nobody saw it. When the player hit the ice he tore a ligament in his knee and was out for months, and Corey was off to the Olympics."

  "You think he sabotaged him?"

  He shrugged. "Nobody knows for sure. They couldn't prove Corey did it, and the other guy wasn't popular so there were other players who might have wanted to see him hurt. Still, it's suspicious."

  Yes, it was. "And I don't think he likes you much."

  "Oh, but he was so sympathetic about the puck."

  My mouth dropped open, and Forrest laughed. "What, you don't think he meant it?"

  Corey had brought up the missing puck at least five times, oozing fake sympathy and refusing to let the conversation move past it, and naturally he'd called Forrest 'Gump' every time. I'd wanted to tell him off for it, but how could you chastise someone for 'being nice'?