Page 55 of Forecasting the Forward

Becca rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say I hate sports. Just that I don’t pay attention to them.”

“Gonna have to change that. Maybe not all sports. Just pay attention to hockey.”

“Okay,” she says with a breathy giggle. Her green eyes sparkle, and I’m relieved to see some joy in her expression. I hope with every passing hour, and the further we get away from her toxic family, Becca will feel confident and happy again.

A couple of hours later,I pull a very nervous Becca onto the team bus. She’s gripping my hand so tightly the blood is pooling in my fingers, but I don’t shake off the connection. I like that she’s depending on me, and that she trusts me enough to take care of her.

“Uh-oh, Jax brought his ball-and-chain with him this time!” One of the rookies shouts, a huge grin on his face, but before I can react, Levi pops the guy on the back of his head.

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” Levi snaps. “You better watch how you talk, Rookie.”

“Does that mean we can bring bunnies?” asks another rookie.

Oh, hell no. “She’s not a bunny, she’s my wife. Say another nasty thing about her, asshole, and I guarantee you’ll be eating your breakfast through a straw.”

“Jacob,” Becca whispers. “It’s okay.”

Turning to her, I stare down into her gorgeous green eyes, which look like pools of water in a mountain reservoir. “No, it’s not okay. I won’t stand by and let them talk about you this way.”

“Alright, alright,” Coach says from behind us. “Gentlemen, this is Jax’s wife. No, we don’t normally allow anyone on the bus that isn’t part of the team, but this is a unique circumstance. Don’t think you can just turn up and get anyone on board. Now I’m fucking tired, so let’s get this show on the road.”

I motion for Becca to scoot into an available row, then sit beside her, extending my left arm along the back of her seat. It’s a power move, designed to inform everyone that Becca is mine, and no one better fuck with her.

“Still can’t believe you got married,” Grant grumbles from the row behind us. Turning my head slightly, I cock an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “Who the hell am I supposed to drag out with me now?”

“Dude, I rarely went out with you before I got married. It’ll be the exact same thing,” I point out. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been Grant’s wingman in the last year, and half of those instances had us home before midnight because even he got bored.

“But now I can’t call you,” he grumbles, and Becca turns around to stare at him.

“I have no problem with you guys continuing to hang out. Honestly. I have an early bedtime anyway,” she says.

“An early bedtime?” Grant says with a chuckle, but I don’t miss the bitterness that oozes along with his words. “Do your mommy and daddy come tuck you in, too?”

“I’m the chief meteorologist for channel twelve in Denver. I get up around three in the morning, because our broadcasts start at five.”

Grant stares at her, dumbfounded. “You’re a weather girl?”

Becca sighs. “No, I’m a meteorologist. I have a couple degrees to prove it.”

“What’s the difference?” he asks.

“I’m trained to read weather models, make forecasts, and provide information to the public to keep them safe. A person who is not a certified meteorologist is usually just reporting a forecast someone else has made,” she explains.

“Who makes the forecasts I get on my weather apps? Because those suckers are never correct,” Levi pipes up from behind Grant.

“Weather apps just compile information from the different weather models. It’s all computerized, so there’s no human connection. Weather models don’t have the ability to factor in other variables, such as how mountains can impact the weather. The Palmer Divide, between Denver and Colorado Springs? It’ll create vastly different weather between the two locations. Meteorologists understand how to take topography and factor it into a forecast.”

The bus is eerily quiet as we begin the short drive to the downtown hotel, while everyone listens to Becca as she animatedly describes different weather scenarios we experience in Denver. I watch, completely captivated, as she glows with happiness. It’s clear Becca is doing what she loves, and it shows. I’m incredibly proud of my wife.

Wife.

That word does something to me, and as if she knows, her soft hand tentatively finds mine. As her hand closes around mine, her fingers graze the fabric of my trousers, and her words falter as she realizes what she’s feeling.

I assume she’ll move her hand away, or squeeze my hand tightly to avoid touching my cock. I grunt quietly when Becca doubles down, dragging two fingernails along my length. She does it again, and I swallow a moan.

How fucking far is this hotel?

I cannot come in my pants. I cannot come like a fucking teenage boy just because I got a brief touch from Becca.

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