Hot Damn (Hot as Puck #3)

7. Cami

Cami

T he second Beckett Higgison enters the suite my whole body goes tense. In spite of the success of last night’s interview, he still emanates hostility whenever he looks my way.

I don’t know what I did that would cause his dislike—and let’s be real, it’s more disdain than dislike—and for some reason my natural instinct to duck and run isn’t there.

I’ve thought about it for the last hour. The presence of Noah Hubert and Mikel Vinter hasn’t helped temper Beckett’s distrust.

And that’s it in a nutshell. He doesn’t trust me.

I can’t blame him. He barely knows me and our first introduction was at the press conference where Draper attempted to tear him down. Even with my treatment of our casual interview yesterday, Beckett shouldn’t blindly trust me.

I respect that.

Even if I want to do everything in my power to change his mind about me.

The aversion I have toward athletes isn’t throwing up the usual red flags or walls. And where I’d normally keep my distance, especially from the ones who are contracted to represent Rogue sportswear and now the Rogues, I find myself wanting to get closer to Beckett.

I don’t understand the draw. He’s good looking, I can admit that, and he seems like a nice guy, hell, the man has protected his daughter from the spotlight for seventeen years. Maybe that’s it.

Maybe, the fact he’s done his best to shield Whitney, to keep her from being the center of scandal, is what has me wanting to get closer.

Whitney is the other reason I want to get to know this man. His daughter is intelligent, brave, not above standing up for her mistakes even if the one she made isn’t really one.

I like her. And if I like her, then it would stand to reason that I would like her father.

If only her father would give me more than heated glares.

He’s been nothing but polite to me, but the two men he walked in here with have received smiles, conversation, laughter. Neither Noah or Mikel seem to notice the barely veiled indifference Beckett sends my way and I’m glad for that, because while I’m upset by his behavior toward me, I’m thrilled with the way he’s brought both men out of their shells.

Especially Mikel. The big blond man struggles to speak English, and obviously feels out of his depth with the way he fidgets in his chair, and without Beckett I doubt I would have gotten more than a few words out of him.

Noah was easy enough. He’s like a new puppy. Excited to talk about this amazing experience he’s been given. Even before he revealed he’d grown up in a small town with only his grandparents to support him, I’d have said he was sheltered. I hope playing in the NHL doesn’t tarnish his boy-next-door persona.

After I film both ten-minute conversations we play them back and I make small adjustments but like Beckett’s last night, neither needs more than a little sound tweak and the addition of the intro and end credits. I’m more than pleased with what I’ve got and both men are happy as they head out the door.

With the click of the lock, the suite seems to be sucked bare of all the fun of the last sixty minutes. Beckett is an indomitable life-force, his presence filling the space with heavy tension. It doesn’ t quite feel menacing and even though I want to leave, I stand in place and wait for him to acknowledge me.

He gave me a chin lift on arrival but I had to introduced myself to Noah and Mikel. The hi I sent Beckett’s way was ignored in favor of conversing with his teammates.

I can’t decide if I should break the tension between us or let him suffer.

“Coach said you wanted to talk to me.”

His words pull my gaze off my laptop screen. “I. Yes.” I lick my lips, swallow in spite of my tight throat. “I wanted to check in with you and Whitney. See if you were both okay after last night.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you want to check on us.”

His question confuses me. “Because you were both sent into a situation you weren’t prepared for?”

“And? What’s it to you how we are?”

Jesus. This guy isn’t giving me any slack. I push to my feet. “Well. First, I was genuinely concerned for you both and wondered if I could offer help with anything. Second, I hate that one man can blacken my chosen career with his behavior and I want to assure you we’re not all the same. And third, I was involved in the situation and it’s the right thing to do to follow up with you, check you’re both doing okay.”

“We’re fine. Is that all? I’ve got stuff to do before Whit gets home from school.”

“No. It’s not all.” I take a step closer. “I want to warn you that it’s likely other reporters are going to want to know about Whitney’s mom.”

“Other reporters or you ?” he sneers.

“I’m not interested in her mom, but I can guarantee others won’t feel the same way, Draper in particular. Especially when neither of you mentioned her last night. I’d like to add more interviews to?—”

“No! ”

“Whoa.” I put up a hand. “Let me explain a little before you bite my head off.”

Beckett crosses his arms making his biceps bulge bigger. “Fine. Explain. Not that my answer will be any different.”

I’m not a violent person but the urge to shove him into a chair and make him listen steals through me like the cold of the arena sinking in. To the bone.

Matching his cross-armed stance I say, “Look. I get you don’t like me. I even get you have reasons in spite of them not really being my fault. But , I think you need to prepare yourself for more questions and I’d hoped I could help you divert them, possibly avoid them altogether.”

“The only thing you’ve helped do is put my daughter’s face all over the internet and TV.” His words are a growl through clenched teeth.

“Yes, I’ll grant you that, but I did it without hiding outside your house or in front of her school, without harassing her at a local restaurant or in her own driveway.” I suck in a breath and try to curb my anger. The whole time I speak, my voice rises in volume, and like my stance on violence, I’m generally not a yeller.

“Okay. I see that maybe you were trying to help us.”

“Trying! I did help you, you idiot!” Tossing up my hands I spin around. “You know what, screw it. I rescind my offer to help more.”

“What’s in it for you?”

His question has me turning back around, a frown pulling at my brow and mouth. “In it for me? Nothing. What could I possibly gain from helping you other than being nice?”

“Ah, I see, you’re a do-gooder. I don’t need one of those. Got my gut full of them when I was a teenager.”

His words remind me of something else I wanted to warn him about. “You were sixteen when Whitney was born.”

Beckett takes a half step back, his fists now clenching at his sides. “ And?”

“I think that will be a big topic the press will want to dig into as well as her mother.”

“Fuck!” He slams his hands on his head and looks at the ceiling.

“I get that you don’t like me or trust me, but you have to believe me when I say I would never do anything to hurt you or your daughter,” I try to soothe his frustration and anger. “And if you can’t take my word for it, think about Oakley, Natalie, Blake, and Walker. None of them would let anyone close to this team or its employees if they thought they were up to no good.”

His head lowers, his eyes meeting mine as he drops his arms. “I’ll agree with you on that.”

I want to say thank you but it feels weird to voice it. “I promise. I would never do anything to hurt Whitney. Or you. Or m—this team.”

I don’t know why I cut myself off, why I don’t want him to know I’m part owner of the team. I assumed he knew, that everyone on the team knows, but the more I interact with them, I realize that piece of information has slipped through the cracks.

And I want Beckett to like me for me, not because I’m his boss.

Shit!

Since when do I want this man to like me?

I don’t need to be his friend, I don’t even need to like him. I’m a silent partner in the team, I have nothing to do with the day-to-day running of the Rogues and honestly, every member of the team from ice to front of house could hate me and it wouldn’t matter.

Except it does.

I want Beckett Higgison to like me.

I have no clue why. He’s a professional athlete, something I’ve always avoided because of my past. The man my mother passed off as my father for the first six years of my life played in the NFL and was a grade A asshole. Violent and mean, he did everything he could to make my life miserable .

The only consolation I have is he didn’t treat Andrea differently. She was subjected to his callous cruelty as much as I was.

But Beckett? I can’t even imagine him hurting an adult, never mind a child— his child.

And I have to remember that his hostility comes from his love of Whitney, of his need to be sure she’s protected, taken care of. In some ways, he reminds me of Dad.

Even now, at thirty-three, I still find myself the recipient of my father’s protection. The conversation about my biological mother last night is just the most recent example of my dad taking care of me.

I can’t blame Beckett for being the way he is. Having Whitney so young had to have been hard and not just the fact he was a kid raising a kid part. People must have been horrible to him when they found out he was a single dad.

I can only imagine the fear he must have endured every day, fear of someone taking his daughter away…

“I’m sorry.” The apology is out before I can stop it.

“For what?”

“For everything you’ve dealt with while raising a remarkable young woman. She’s a testament to you, to your parenting, and you should be proud of what you’ve done.”

His head cocks to the side and he studies me for a long moment before he straightens and says, “Thank you. And thank you for checking on us and warning me we might face more intrusive questions from others.”

“My offer stands. If you want me to help you navigate those possible questions, I’m here.”

“At this point, I’ll say thanks but no thanks.”

“I’m a phone call away if you change your mind. Ask either of your coaches or Oakley or Natalie for my number but I’ll be around a lot doing these interviews.” I want him to know he has full access to me. Short of handing over my number now—which I doubt he’d take—this is the best I can do.

“Sure. Thanks. I gotta—” He tips his head at the door .

“Of course. Thank you for your help with Noah and Mikel.”

His mouth lifts on one side in a slanted smile. “It was pointed out to me, it was the thing to do as captain of the team.”

“It is.” I nod. “But I doubt you needed to have it pointed out to you.”

“Oh, I did. I’ve never even been assistant captain of a team. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.” He shrugs. “Well, other than yelling at the guys to move it, shoot it, or block it, when we play…”

This small glimpse into Beckett’s insecurities surprises me. Maybe we can move past his hostility toward my profession and forge some kind of friendship. “I’m sure you’ll be great once you get the hang of it.”

“We’ll see.” He stares at me a moment longer before he seems to remember he doesn’t like me and frowns. “Bye.”

The word is quickly followed by his exit. The speed with which he leaves is enough to cause a breeze when he closes the door behind him.

Beckett Higgison is an enigma.

Or maybe it’s the emotions I feel around him that are.

Or the fact I could have—should have—told him I own the team.