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CHAPTER THREE

carter

I sigh, pulling my hood completely over my head.

The cops at the desk promised me there would be no photographers.

Turns out, these particular boys in blue are fans of mine.

Who knew? Love it when that happens. Still, I refuse to trust that paps won’t be lurking around and waiting for the perfect shot of Carter Forkerro, the fucking criminal.

Thankfully, my saviour parked his pretty little Range Rover right in front of the doors.

He didn’t get out of the car or come into the station to wait for me, and I’m grateful for that.

It’s probably for the same reason why I’m still yanking my hood over my head, despite there being nobody around.

We want to go unnoticed. We were never here.

Even though no amount of money or murder could prevent this story from hitting the news.

I practically dive into his vehicle, immediately letting out a groan as I bury my head in my hands.

Jail sucks. It smells like piss and it’s cold. Don’t go there. Stay in school, kids. Don’t drink alcohol and don’t punch people .

Declan says nothing as the lights in the vehicle dim, but he doesn’t drive either.

I peer over at him through my hands.

He’s uncharacteristically expressionless. Saltzy-level blank. His hat is pulled low on his head, but those hazel eyes burn holes into the side of my face anyway, then they dart down to my knuckles.

My very bruised, very bloodied knuckles.

“Coach is fucking pissed.”

Of course he is.

“Boston called me the second they put you in that squad car. You’re lucky that Penny loves you. After the fourth call, she made me pick it up. She’s probably finishing off the job that I was very much enjoying as we speak, since I’ve been waiting out here all night for them to release you.”

I sigh, leaning back in my seat. I pissed off my coach and cock-blocked my best buddy in the same swing. That’s got to be a world record.

“Are they pressing charges?” he asks.

“Probably.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep,” I mutter. I’m not surprised. It’s not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. It’s just the way it goes for me.

“What the hell happened?” he asks, but thankfully, he finally puts the vehicle into drive.

“Some loser was giving a girl a hard time for spilling a drink on his shirt. I intercepted, and was actually trying to diffuse the situation, but then he smacked her ass.” Declan flinches. “So, all logic went out the window. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” he murmurs.

I leave out the part where the girl was the one he brought home that one night, a couple of years ago. The redhead he didn’t sleep with. The one he left in his bed because he was all messed up about Sweets. That doesn’t seem important right now.

“You’re going to say I was in the wrong?”

Declan shakes his head curtly. “No, but you’re not just some guy, Fork. People are going to try to provoke you to get this exact reaction. Is it worth risking your career?”

On one hand, yes. You touch a woman like that?

You deserve it, and I don’t mind dishing out the punishments and dealing with the repercussions.

But I do love my job. I don't want to lose it. I’ve been told to rein in my temper more times in my life than I’ve been greeted hello, but I don’t know how to stop it when that other part of me takes over.

“I don’t like assholes who think they can touch women like that.”

That’s the truth. I was raised to respect women—by my mom, more specifically.

I was raised knowing that women run this fucking world, and society has somehow convinced us it’s the other way around.

Hilarious, really. Only men would be stupid enough to believe we’d survive a day without them.

The women know how it would go. Ask any who have had to find a bottle of ketchup in the fridge because their partner has looked ten times and can’t see it right in front of their face.

Men are stupid. Prideful as all hell, clearly, but insecure as fuck over the fact that this planet would not stand a chance without the female population.

Nobody treats women like shit in front of me and walks away smiling. If I had it my way, the sentences I hand out to these men would be much, much worse.

And legal, preferably.

“Me neither, but that wasn’t my question.”

“Well, your question was dumb. ”

Declan’s lips pull upward at that. Those little holes in his face poke out through his stubble.

“There were four hundred ways that you could have given that guy a taste of his own medicine without beating his face in, Fork.”

None that would sink in as quickly or as deeply, though. None that would feel quite as good, either. He knows that, even if the golden boy only swings in the most dire of situations.

“It happened. Can’t turn back time.”

He lets out one of those long, deep breaths through his nose that tells me I’m testing his patience. Professional talent of mine, to be honest.

“I don’t want to skate with anyone else, buddy. Don’t make me.”

Something gross and painful slams right into my chest with those words. They hit their mark, which he knew they would, because he’s Lowesy and he’s my right-hand man. I’d rather die than skate with anyone else, too.

I run my hand over my jaw, glancing over at him again.

He doesn’t look at me, and I’m mighty grateful for that.

I think if he did, this uncomfortable feeling would get a little worse than I’d like it to, and I’m already trying to push away the shitty feeling that comes with getting thrown in the slammer.

We have it good in Pittsburgh. We’ve worked our asses off, apart and together.

We’ve created one of the strongest teams in the league side by side, and our brotherhood is one of the most important relationships I have in my life.

Besides my sister, Ariana, Lowesy is my top priority.

Always has been. He’s the guy I’d call in any emergency and he’d be calling me just the same.

Case in point, him picking me up from the clink.

I don’t want to leave him, either. I have no intention of doing so.

Skating for any other team seems like a nightmare I never want to live through.

I’ve never skated on another professional team.

It’s been Pittsburgh for me since day one.

I was drafted, pulled that jersey over my head, and never took it off.

What would be worse?

Not skating at all.

Putting my fist through someone’s face runs the risk of never skating in the big leagues again.

If I keep this up, I’ll be lacing up just to play in a beer league on Thursday nights with a bunch of washed up dudes who will judge me for pissing away the shot I was given. The shot they probably dreamed of.

“You think that’ll happen?” I find the courage to ask.

Declan’s jaw ticks again, which means yes—he thinks there’s a chance it might.

“I think Coach will fight for you to try and prevent it, but I’m pretty sure you’re on thin ice either way.”

Coach, who I keep embarrassing. Coach, who came onto this team just a few short years ago and understood me instantly.

This isn’t my first public scuffle. It was just my worst public scuffle.

There were fights that ended much, much worse that I got away with.

Not my proudest moments, but I should have learned to rein it in by now.

I’ve been told time and time again that I have to.

I haven’t learned a thing.

It’s a conundrum, being rewarded so heavily for being this version of myself each and every night on the ice, but being chastised for it when that part of me appears outside of the arena.

People antagonize me to try and provoke the temper that’s always lying there, waiting for its moment to explode.

It’s not a new thing, but I should know how to control it by now.

The fuse that makes me a very rich man is the same fuse that threatens to destroy my career .

It’s hard to make sense of. It’s hard to find a balance.

“How pissed is Saltzy?”

Declan cringes, which means I’m in shit.

This sucks, because he’s never going to let me meet his dad now.

I’m obsessed with Cap’s old man, Gene Saltzman.

He was a legend when I was growing up. Contrary to his son, who plays a clean and quiet game, Gene was a dirty, brutal enforcer on the ice.

He was ruthless and smart, and though a controversial player, he was my guy growing up.

If Cap’s mad, he’s not going to introduce me to him. He promised that next time his dad was in town, he’d finally let me shake that man’s hand. It’s been years of him making me that promise, but I feel like this is actually the time that it’s going to happen.

“He’ll be over it by Monday.”

“Great.”

Sounds promising. Saltzy doesn’t show many emotions on a good day, even less on a bad one.

Do you know how awful it is to know someone is mad at you, but they don’t express it?

Saltzy is the king of the silent treatment.

Quiet. Calculated. In his head. He might make one or two comments, but that’s all I’ll get.

It’ll be up to me to get over that and feel satisfied that he’s over it as well.

“Morning skate should be a joy.”

“Great.”

“How’s the hand?”

Sore. I refuse to admit I might have broken a knuckle. I’ll have it looked at before I ever voice that aloud. I’m praying it’s just swollen, that I can tape it and play through it. I’ve definitely had worse damage and still suited up.

“Great.”

“Did that guy get a swing in or something?” Declan asks, shooting me a look. “Did he wipe half of your vocabulary out of your head?”

I glance at him, flashing a charming smile that has him rolling his eyes.

“Come on. Nobody lands a hit on this face and lives to tell the tale.”