Chapter 29 It Explains a Lot
Twenty-Nine
It Explains a Lot
Forest
It’s a quiet ride home. I can’t believe I ruined my birthday. I’d been having fun, damn it. I don’t regret talking it through with Beck, though. I trust him.
We’re nearing my street when he breaks our silence. “Thank you for telling me, Forest. I’m sure you didn’t want to.”
Ain’t that the truth. “This is in the vault, okay? Even Scully doesn’t know the whole story. Nobody does, except for Ruby.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “I guess I understand now. Why she’s wary of me.”
“Yeah. Honestly, it explains a whole lot, right? Like when I had such a shitty reaction to you hitting on me.”
He reaches over and places a hand briefly on my knee. “Glad to know I’m not just ugly.”
I snort. “You are the opposite of ugly. Which is probably why you’re the only guy I’ve been with in almost a year.”
He squeezes my leg before returning his hand to the wheel. “I thought it was my sexy conversation style.”
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments. You know I like the whole package. I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t in a good place to date anyone. This past year was all rage and financial instability.”
“Yeah, I get that now. But…” He frowns.
“But?”
“A year is a long time to be so hard on yourself,” he says quietly.
“Not really.” I snort. “It’ll take me longer than that to rebuild. And even when I make back all that money, I’ll still be pissed off at myself.”
“You could be,” Beck says, turning onto my street. “Or you could apply goalie rules.”
“I…what?”
He rolls slowly up to my house and pulls into the driveway.
Then he kills the engine and turns to study me.
“Goalie rules,” Beck says, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“Like, the worst game of my life was in college. Against Michigan. I let in seven goals. Seven. On twenty-three shots. That’s a save percentage that most twelve-year-olds can beat. ”
He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see the memory still stings.
“The fourth goal went right through my five-hole—a weak shot from the point that I should have stopped with my eyes closed. The fifth one bounced off my glove and trickled over the line. The sixth was a rebound I kicked right to their center. By the seventh, the crowd was booing every time I touched the puck.”
“Jesus, Beck.”
“Coach pulled me halfway through the second period. I’d never been pulled that early in my life.
When I got to the bench, my teammates wouldn’t even look at me.
I sat there watching our backup try to salvage what was left of the game, and I just..
. I wanted to disappear. Like, actually cease to exist.”
He stares out the windshield at my front door, lost in the memory.
“That night I called my high school coach, whining like a ten-year-old. Told him I was thinking about quitting. That maybe I just wasn’t good enough. He cut me off after a few minutes of bitching and said the thing I needed to hear.”
“Which was?”
He turns to me with those clear eyes, and they are deep pools of empathy.
“He said, James, the only save that matters is the next one. That’s goalie rules—you can’t carry the last goal with you into the next play.
You forgive yourself, reset, and focus forward.
’ I started the next game three days later.
Thirty-seven saves, shutout victory. But none of that would have happened if I was still beating myself up about Michigan. ”
I knew Beck was a stud, but he’s making a logical error, here. “My life isn’t a game. I don’t get eighty chances in a season to get it right. And that asshole still has tens of thousands of my dollars.”
“No, I disagree.” He reaches over and touches my hand.
“Every day is a fresh start, no matter what your bank balance says. The point of goalie rules isn’t that you have to forget the shitty things that happened.
The point is that if you don’t forgive yourself, the asshole who violated you keeps winning.
You gave him enough of your happiness already, don’t you think? ”
“Shit.” I lift a shaking hand to cover my eyes, which are suddenly hot.
“Hey, hey,” he says, leaning across the console and pulling me into his arms. “It’s okay, man. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Just let that shit out. Let it go.”
I make a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. And I cling to Beck like I’m drowning in the ocean, and he’s a life preserver.
Beck just holds me. I can feel his steady heartbeat against my chest.
Getting a grip, I try to even out my breathing, but he doesn’t release me. We just stay here a while as I take gulps of the night air and let the warmth of him seep into my cold heart.
Just when it might get embarrassing, he tips his head a fraction and kisses my neck. Then he does it again.
It feels so good that I have to squeeze my eyes shut against another flood of emotion.
I coast a hand between the unzipped halves of his jacket and curve my hand around his waist. The crisp cotton of his shirt is smooth against my palm.
His hot mouth on my neck is a balm to my soul, and I let out a groan that makes sure he knows it.
Then all I have to do is turn my head a few degrees to find his mouth with my own.
Before long we’re steaming up his Jeep. I thought I’d killed the mood for sure, but apparently not. His kiss is deep and his hands are magic.
I want to stay here forever. It seems like goalie rules apply to sex, too, because whenever we’re alone together I seem to lose track of my past failings and focus on only heat and urgency. And then Beck’s whispered plea. “Why don’t we head inside.”