Chapter 9
SABLE
Savannah assured me about ten times that jeans, a sweatshirt, a leather jacket, and boots would be perfect to wear to hockey.
"Maybe take a hoodie," she added. "It can get cold in there. And a beanie."
The only beanie I had was pale pink, made of soft wool. I dumped it into my bag and placed it near the door. For the hundredth time, I checked my hair and makeup. Was I wearing too much? Too little? Just enough?
Now I wanted porridge.
I perched on the edge of the couch and waited for Forrest.
He might have been standing outside, waiting for the exact moment we agreed to meet, because the knock came on the door, right on time.
"Who is it?" I called out, in case it was Woody.
"It's me, Forrest," he called back.
"Are you sure it's really Forrest?" I asked. "You could be Woody just saying you're Forrest."
He chuckled. "It's really Forrest. Why don't you have a peephole?"
"I don't know." I slid the chain back, drew the bolts aside and eased the door open. "You look like Forrest," I said. "You might be Woody wearing Forrest's face."
He grinned and grabbed at his stubbled chin, pulling it as if it might slide off, revealing his true identity. Thankfully, it didn't move.
"See? It is me. You should get a peephole installed in the door."
"I'll add that to my list," I said.
"Along with a state-of-the-art security system," he added, glancing around. "Anyone could break in here."
"Including you?" I asked.
His eyebrow twitched. "Especially me."
"Why would you break into a woman's apartment?" I asked.
His gaze slid up and down my body. "I wouldn't usually, but for you I might make an exception."
That should have been disturbing, but it was actually hot. Not because I thought he'd actually break in. No, there was something about him. Something dark and intense. Protective at the same time. Like he'd break fingers if anyone tried to hurt me.
Like he'd literally say 'touch her and die.'
"Does Woody have broken fingers?" I asked without thinking.
Forrest looked confused.
"Never mind." I needed to stop letting my mouth speak before my brain was engaged.
"Not at all," he said. "Tell me why you asked."
My face hot, I said, "You seem like maybe you'd, I don't know, take steps to stop him from trying to kill me again."
"Ah." He nodded slowly. "I'll put that on the list of things I might do to him if he tries."
"I feel like I shouldn't ask how long that list is." I grabbed my bag and phone and followed him out the door.
"Longer than you might think," he said, leading me over to the elevator. "My tolerance for violence towards women is low."
"Mine too," I said softly.
I hadn't been able to help myself, but I wanted to help other women. And anyone who was treated the way I was.
The night Wolfgang died, I wished I could be as brave as the people who killed him. I got the impression it wasn't their first time. How did you get into doing something like that anyway? Serial killing. It wasn't something you could Google…
Okay, it probably was, but you might get a strange answer from AI.
He regarded me like he was going to say something, but then nodded and pressed the button to take us down to the ground floor.
"You look beautiful tonight," he said, leaning against the side of the elevator car, his gaze on me.
"You don't look so bad yourself," I said.
He looked good in dark jeans, a dark sweatshirt, and a jacket. I wondered if he also had a beanie. It probably wasn't pale pink like mine. He'd look cute like that, though.
"I do all right," he said. "I spoke to Leif. He's excited to meet you."
"Oh. I'm excited to meet him too," I said, hoping like hell I wouldn't put my foot in my mouth. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
Only for the last twenty-five years though.
"Don't worry, you'll do fine," Forrest assured me. "He'll be distracted by the game anyway."
"Right, doesn't his brother play center?" I asked.
Mikko Larsen was something of a legend in the city. Drafted to the NHL at nineteen. Top goalscorer. All of that. I didn't know anything about hockey, but I knew who he was.
"That's him," Forrest said. "He's very intense, very driven."
"Like you," I said, offering a smile.
"He makes me look like a pussycat." He laughed. "Sometimes I wonder if one of them is adopted. They're very different from each other. What about you, do you have any siblings?"
I glanced down at the carpeted floor. "No. It was just me."
Savannah was more like a sister to me than any member of my family. I'd trust her with my life. My parents? I wouldn't even trust them with my cactus. If I had a cactus.
I looked back up. "And you? Do you have any?"
"Two younger brothers and two younger sisters," he said. "And a younger stepsister."
"Sounds like your family was busy," I said.
"We were, but it was good. There was always someone to talk to. There was also always someone to take the last of everything. You had to be quick around my family."
He smiled slightly.
"That sounds nice."
I had two or three of everything, but no one to share anything with, including my thoughts. No one except my journal. Something I'd stopped doing when I got married. It wasn't safe to write down those thoughts. If Wolfgang had found them…
Yeah, it wasn't worth it.
I should take up journaling again now he was safely gone.
It was a nice outlet for my anxiety. A good way to work through anything.
Not to mention I could go back and read old ones and look at how embarrassing past me was.
Only slightly more embarrassing than present me.
Okay, that yardstick was pretty low at the best of times, but I was working on it.
The elevator dinged and we stepped out, over to a car waiting right outside the front of the building.
"I took the liberty of organizing a driver."
He opened the back door and gestured for me to climb in. Closing it behind me, he went around to the other side.
"I would have been all right with taking the subway," I said.
"It'll be crowded tonight. This will get us there more comfortably. If you want to take the subway home or walk, we can do that."
"That sounds nice," I said.
Too many crowds were overwhelming, but the excitement of a group of people after a concert was contagious. I assumed hockey fans were the same, especially when their team won.
"If you'd prefer to do that now…" He placed his hand on the handle, ready to open the door again and get out.
"No, no, it's fine," I said quickly. "You're right, it will be more difficult to get in if we go with everyone else. This is fine. Nice. Cozy."
I nestled down against the seat and fastened my seatbelt.
Forrest nodded to the driver, who peeled away from the curb, heading down the road toward the hockey arena. It didn't take long, ten minutes at the most.
The crowds grew thicker the closer we got, both in cars and on foot. Fans walked in groups, wearing their team jerseys or hoodies, waving signs and laughing.
Through the glass window I could hear chants of, "Let's go, Rooks! Let's go, Rooks! Let's go, Rooks!"
I couldn't help smiling along with them. If they weren't careful, I'd be chanting along with them too. I guessed I was a Rooks fan now. I didn't even know who they were playing, but I wanted them to win.
"Hockey fans are very passionate," Forrest remarked.
I glanced over at him and grinned. "I feel like every sports fan is.
It doesn't matter what sport, people get excited.
" Same with fans of music. This could have been the hour or so before a big concert.
Although, I don't know if I've ever seen or heard fans chanting, ‘Let's go, Ed Sheeran!’ at the top of their voices.
"They do," he agreed.
"Is hockey the only sport you watch?" I asked.
He didn't strike me as the ‘sit in front of the TV all day on a Sunday afternoon watching sports hour after hour’ kind of guy.
"I watch a bit of football here and there," he said. "And a bit of baseball. Don't tell anyone, but I also like to watch a bit of figure skating." He said the last in a loud whisper, like he wasn't really hiding it.
"Who doesn't?" I asked. He wasn't going to get any judgement from me. "They're so graceful and beautiful." I placed a hand to my chest and smiled.
"They are, and very skilled," he said. "I used to skate when I was a kid, but I was never that good."
"Now I'm picturing you zooming around the ice dressed in a leotard." Which would leave nothing to the imagination. My eyes immediately dropped to his groin, before snapping back to his face.
He noticed, but didn't look like he minded.
"If I tried lifting you over my head, someone would get hurt," he said with a chuckle.
"I don't believe that," I said. "I bet you could hold someone up over your head all day long." Or hold them over his body all night long, even after they were slick with sweat.
I hadn't missed the way his biceps strained even under his jacket. He was clearly fit.
"Maybe for an hour or two," he conceded. "Any more than that and my arms would get tired." He mimed holding someone up, his arms wobbling as if he was about to drop them.
I laughed.
"I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit," I told him.
"Maybe not. We could always try it after the game," he said jokingly.
"I don't know. We wouldn't want to show the players up, would we?" I said.
He pointed a finger at me. "Good point. We wouldn't want to do that. Some of these boys have healthy egos, Mikko in particular. I wouldn't want them to feel bad about their puny muscles."
He gave me a lopsided smile. Clearly he didn't think they had puny muscles at all. They wouldn't be professional athletes if they did, right?
"This is as close as I can get you," the driver called out.
Forrest nodded. "Good enough."
He got out of the car and hurried around to open my door for me.
"You know I can do that, right?" I whispered.
"I know," he whispered back, "but I want to do it for you. Just this once, at least." He winked and held out his hand to help me out of the car.
I slid my palm against his and let his fingers curl around mine. I didn't even flinch or want to pull away. I realized I hadn't any time we touched. I was comfortable with him, if a little aroused at his proximity.
I climbed out carefully. Right here, in front of him and all the people walking past, would be a bad place to face plant.
I managed to exit the car without embarrassing myself and closed the door behind me.
"This way." He showed a pass to the security guard on the door and led me over to an elevator. "This leads up to the private boxes," he said.
I watched the crowds moving toward the seating area and nodded. Part of me wouldn't have minded mingling with them, but I had a feeling this game was going to get loud. Not to mention, there was a lot of people. Thousands. All talking, laughing, pressed together, sharing air…
A private box was a good idea for my first time. First time seeing a hockey game that is, not the other kind of first time.
The noise in here had me rattled.
"If it's too much…" Forrest started to say.
"It's fine," I said quickly. "Nothing I can't handle."
He waited until we were inside the elevator and the door was closed before he asked, "You don't like crowds?"
"Not really," I said, raising my elbows to remind myself there was space around me. "I get overwhelmed. Then I start to freak out and want to hide in a corner." Maybe I shouldn't be so honest, but he asked, and I wanted him to know what might happen. I hoped like hell it wouldn't.
I tapped my fingertips against the heel of my hand, a tick I had when I was getting anxious. It helped me to focus and calm my mind.
"I don't like crowds too much either," he admitted. "Because I want to have you to myself." He brushed hair off my cheek that escaped from my ponytail.
"Maybe I should be the one asking you if this is too much," I said, smiling back at him.
I swear his touch left a streak of fire across my skin. Knowing my luck, I was about to spontaneously combust.
I waited for a moment, but it didn't happen.
Yet.
"It's fine," he said. "I get to introduce you to ice hockey and Leif. Besides, the nachos here are next level."
"You had me at nachos," I said.
He leaned in and whispered in my ear, "You had me before that."