Chapter 19 Not Even a Thumbs Up
Nineteen
Not Even a Thumbs Up
Beck
It’s a frigid Thursday night when I walk into a public ice rink in nearby Fort Collins. The building smells like old Zamboni exhaust and teenage desperation, which seems about right for my current state of mind.
I shouldn’t be here. I wasn’t invited. But Forest hasn’t answered my texts in two days, and when I saw the Stickhandlers’ Instagram post about tonight’s game—just a few miles from my house—my feet made the decision for me.
The first thing I notice is, of course, Forest. He’s cycling through the offensive zone, his stick handling smooth and controlled as he draws two defenders toward him.
Even on skates, he carries that quiet intensity that makes my stomach do stupid things.
The way he bosses the puck around reminds me of the way he is in bed.
Deliberate. Confident. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, even when I’m falling apart beneath his hands.
Not that I’ve done that lately. The truth is that Forest is keeping his distance in every practical way. Like tonight, for example. He’s this close to my damn neighborhood, and he couldn’t just reply to my texts?
But nope. Not even a goddamn thumbs-up.
So here I am, pacing the sidelines of this rink like a stalker.
The scoreboard says HOME: 1 VISITORS: 3, so I hope the Stickhandlers are the visitors in this scenario.
There are maybe two dozen other spectators, but if I had to guess, half are the partners of the players on the ice, and the other half are waiting for their own game after this one.
Lots of room in the bleachers, but I still don’t take a seat. I stand near the plexi watching my favorite human outwit a big ox of a man who’s trying to steal the puck.
Forest dekes the guy and flips the puck to Scully, who scores.
“YEAH!” I shout as the Stickhandlers celebrate.
And then it happens. Forest looks up at the sound of my voice. Our eyes meet through the glass, and I watch his expression shift. His eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his features before settling into something warmer. Something that looks almost like relief.
Then he smiles. Not his usual careful smirk or the polite bartender smile he gives customers. This is real—soft around the edges, reaching his eyes, transforming his whole face. It’s the smile I only see in bed, when his guard is completely down.
He taps his stick once against the glass where I’m standing, before skating back to center ice for the face-off.
That simple gesture unties the knot in my chest. He’s not mad that I’m here. He doesn’t think I’m being clingy or weird. If anything, he looks... happy to see me.
The rest of the game flies by. Forest plays like he’s got something to prove, making crisp passes and solid defensive plays. The Stickhandlers score again, then again. By the time the final buzzer sounds, they’ve won 6-1, and I’m hoarse from cheering.
The teams shake hands at center ice, and I watch Forest exchange the usual post-game pleasantries. But then, instead of heading straight to the bench with his teammates, he skates over to where I’m standing.
“Hey,” he says through the glass, pulling off his helmet. His hair is sweaty and sticking up in all directions, and there’s a flush of exertion across his cheekbones.
“Hey, yourself.” I lean closer to the plexi. “Good game.”
“You came.” There’s no irritation in his voice. If anything, he sounds almost shy.
“Saw it on social. I was bored. Plus, it’s like down the road from my place.”
“Ooh, Forest!” Scully’s voice carries across the ice as he skates by. “Got yourself a fan!” He lets out a wolf whistle that makes my face burn and Forest roll his eyes.
Forest points toward the parking lot. “Give me twenty minutes to shower, and meet me outside?”
I try not to look as excited as I feel. “What if you came over? My dumbass roommate is out for the night.” He and Martinez went to an overnight gaming tournament in Colorado Springs.
Forest looks intrigued. “Just down the road, you say?”
“I’ll text you the address.”
Then I make myself turn away from the plexi and head for the exit. He knows how I feel.
Either he shows or he doesn’t.