Page 48 of Forecasting the Forward

“What?”

“You’re welcome to it. Yeah, this is a sport, but it’s also my job. I don’t do it perfectly, but I’m paid a hell of a lot of money to be the best. Two years ago I had a shitty season. Too many penalties, well below my average for both shots on goal and points. So if you’d like to discuss that, have at it.”

The man stares aghast at Jacob. “I really didn’t expect you to be so open to taking criticism.”

Jacob shrugs. “You’re talking about my job. You start to come after me as a person? How I treat people? Then we’ll have a problem.”

The man nods gruffly before reaching for his belongings. Jacob catches my eyes and gives me a soft smile. “You okay, Spitfire?”

“You really don’t care if someone gets mad about your hockey stats?”

“No. I know I have value. I wouldn’t be playing where I am, or be the captain, if I didn’t. I devote my life to hockey, and I’m damn good at it. Yeah, I have off games. Or, like I mentioned, an off year. But I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished in my career so far. Most of the people who come at me spouting off nonsense are fans from rival teams, and they’re just trying to get in my head. I’ve learned to just ignore the chirping.”

“When you had an off year, did you lose your focus? Or your confidence?” I ask. The ding letting us know we can remove our seatbelts interrupts our conversation, but as soon as we’ve gathered our things and exited onto the jetway, Jacob continues.

“I did briefly. I wondered if I should think about retirement. A buddy of mine recently retired from the Wolves, and he was at the top of his game. The difference was this: he didn’t find it fun anymore. He didn’t look forward to practice. He hated leaving his girl. He wanted to put down roots, not spend half the year gallivanting around North America. I still love hockey. I get off on the smell of the ice every fucking time I step onto it. I feed off the roar of the crowd, whether they’re rooting for or against me. It’s in my soul.”

“What’s the normal age of retirement?” I wonder aloud.

“There’s no set number. Many guys get forced out due to injury or poor performance. I know I’m nearing the end of my career. I have two more years on my contract, and I’m not gonna take anything else. I want to retire here. I’ve spent the majority of my career with the Wolves, and I hope to end it here, too.”

I find myself letting out a loud exhale of relief, and Jacob looks at me with amusement. “Worried about me moving, darlin’?”

I attempt a nonplussed look, but fail miserably. “I don’t like spontaneity. I’m very Type-A. I know things are … new with us, but you suddenly telling me you’re moving wouldn’t sit well with me.”

Jacob grabs my hand, pulling me off to the side, near an empty gate. “Why?”

I shrug. “I’d like to be prepared for it. That’s all. If the end is coming, I don’t want the bottom to drop out unexpectedly. I’ll need to prepare. Put my game face on.”

Jacob’s eyes search mine, flitting between them as he squeezes my hand. “You wouldn’t want to go with me?”

“What?” I ask, stupefied. What the hell does that mean?

“Let’s just say I got traded next week. Nothing I could control. It can happen, Becca, but I’m fairly confident it won’t happen to me. But if it happened, that’s it? We’re done?”

“I’m not even sure what we are, Jacob,” I answer with an irritated tone. “A faux spouse does not a husband make.”

He steps closer to me, so close our noses almost touch, and pushes one hand into my hair. Holding my head, he latches into my waves to tilt me back, waiting until my eyes meet his. “Let’s get something straight here, Spitfire. Nothing about this is fake to me. Nothing. You are my wife. Not a pretend one. Or a momentary one. You are it. You can deny all you want, but this is happening. We’ve got the marriage license and these rings to prove it. In case that wasn’t specific enough for you, let me say it this way. If I get traded, I want you with me. End of story.”

Jacob leans down to press a harsh kiss against my lips before turning to march toward baggage claim. Stunned into silence, I follow.

This woman getsme all twisted up. I probably freaked her the fuck out. Honestly, it’s better than what I could have said. I could have told her what I was really thinking. Feeling. Wanting.

Yeah, you’re my wife. But I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you, and I have been since I first felt your lips on mine, and I can’t fucking wait to get you into my bed so I can show you properly how much I need you.

If she’s freaked by me telling her our impromptu marriage isn’t fake to me, she’ll probably hyperventilate if I tell her I’m in love with her. I’m just gonna lock those thoughts up in the Jax vault for now.

“Do we need to rent a car?” Becca asks quietly as we wait for our baggage.

“No, the team sent a car service,” I murmur, pulling my beanie further down onto my head. I sure am glad I didn’t wear my favorite cowboy hat on this trip, because I’d really stand out then. A couple of people have noticed me. I’d rather word not get out that I’m at the airport, instead of with the team, and the game has already started. Honestly, I’m surprised the douchefrom the plane didn’t comment on it, since he obviously knew I was a hockey player. I’m in a suit, knowing we’d most likely head straight from the airport to the arena, but I know I’m recognizable. Because of the circumstances, Becca is wearing a dress, and she explained that her family always expected it. I’m not complaining, as she looks absolutely captivating. My wife is a knockout.

I feel Becca’s hand tentatively sliding into mine. “Do you want to go outside? I can get the bags.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Jacob,” she says softly, waiting until she gets my eyes. “I know you’re uncomfortable. You helped me so much this week. Let me return the favor.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” I finally grit out, bending so I can rest my forehead against hers. “Someone might harass you. Your brother —”

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