Page 35 of Forecasting the Forward

“They won’t say anything to you. You could come in cutoff jean shorts and a bikini top, and they wouldn’t care. You’re a big deal. I’m a nobody,” she says bitterly.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward me. “You aren’t a nobody. And I’m not a big deal. Yeah, I whip a puck around with a stick. So what? I’m not better than anyone just because I happen to play hockey well.”

Becca gives me a hesitant smile as she nods. “Okay.”

“Let’s get you back to your parents’ house,” I say, placing my hand on the small of her back, ready to walk her down to my car. “Unless you want to skip the whole thing. We can head to the airport right now if you want, darlin’. I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Oh, I’m not staying there. Not only because they’d never let me, but I don’t want to. They’d probably go through my stuff and purposely antagonize me every minute of the day,” she says with an exaggerated shudder. “I’m staying here, too. Right next door, actually.”

“Seriously?” She nods. “Right next door? That’s convenient.”

“Convenient?” she asks with a breathy laugh. I’m seeing a little bit of sparkle come back to her eyes, and I let out a small exhale of relief. Becca is strong and resilient. Sure, she’s got an expression sometimes that tells me she’s dealt with some rough times. But a fully broken Becca is new to me, and I wanted to promise her I’d burn down the world for her to make her smile again.

I’m honestly wondering what I wouldn’t do to make her smile.

“What time is dinner?” I ask, changing the topic. I feel like Becca is an injured bird, always a flight risk. If I tell her anything that I’m thinking — including how I’m probably going to have to get myself off tonight knowing she’s asleep one wall away — I’ll have her running for the hills again.

“Seven o’clock on the dot. We aren’t allowed to be late. Punctuality is a strength,” Becca says, standing tall with her chin high in the air. I feel my lips tug up with a smirk.

“Punctuality.”

“Yes. The Stephens motto is four pillars: punctuality, oppression, discrimination, and psychological warfare,” she says, deadpan.

I can’t help the loud bark of laughter that bursts from my lips as Becca fights the urge to giggle. “Do we drink at dinner?”

“Oh, yes. There’s no way any of us are making it through this monstrosity without more alcohol.”

“I’ll stay sober. I’ll protect you, Spitfire.”

She gives me a beautiful smile. “I know you will, Jacob. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For offering to go with me, or go to the airport. It’s … refreshing to have someone support me,” she tells me shyly, her eyes trained on the floor by my feet.

“Hey,” I say quietly, gently lifting her chin between my thumb and forefinger. Waiting until her eyes meet mine, I continue. “Whatever you need, Becca. I’m here for you.”

Becca’s handtrembles in mine as we walk up the brick walkway. She’s changed into a modest pale pink dress, and has half her hair pulled back, allowing pearl earrings to appear. She applied a light layer of makeup — I assume to cover the bruises I am absolutely going to talk to her motherfucking brother about — and nervousness emanates from her body. She didn’t speak onthe short drive to her parents’ home, instead choosing to wring her hands in her lap, and chew on her bottom lip.

“Pick an odd word,” I blurt out. “A weather word.”

“Cyclogenesis.”

“What the hell is tha — you know what? Never mind. You can explain it later. Use cyclogenesis in conversation, or just say the word to me, Spitfire, and we’ll leave immediately. I don’t care who we piss off. You want outta there, at any point, and I’ll get you out. Alright?” Reaching the door, I knock, then turn to Becca. “I got you, darlin’.”

“Okay,” she whispers. Someone answers the door stiffly, gesturing for us to walk into the home. Letting Becca lead the way, I follow her down a hallway and into a very large and stately dining room. Two obnoxiously large chandeliers hang over an ornate, dark wood table. I quickly count the chairs. Eighteen. Who the hell has a table for eighteen in their home? Insanity.

This entire room is horrid. The walls appear to be covered in fabric. Baroque style, featuring burnt orange, denim blue, and canary yellow. I have no doubt if I complemented Becca’s mother on the walls, she’d undoubtedly boast about the cost of the materials. Even across the room, I can tell she’s a woman who only responds to money.

“Would you like me to play your mother’s game and flaunt my money? Or I can disregard her. Act like she’s nothing better than the dog poop on my shoe. Or I can be a pompous asshole. Really, this can go a lot of ways, Spitfire. You tell me what you’d like me to do.”

Becca’s eyes whip to me, and panic is evident. “You don’t want to be just you?”

My heart breaks wide open for this woman. So downtrodden, she thinks I don’t want to be me with her. “No, baby. I’m definitely me. But I can flaunt my money. Talk about my NHL contract. Or I can treat your mother like trash, which honestly,is my first choice. I can also go to the good ole boys club over there,” I tell her, pointing nonchalantly toward the group of men surrounding a small man who I assume is Becca’s brother, “and begin talking about stocks, bonds, and any other ridiculous talking point I can come up with. They’re all gonna know my name, and that I’m with you, by the end of the evening, though.”

“My fake boyfriend, you mean,” she whispers.

I gently take her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “How about you stop using the word fake? Let a man dream.”

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