1. Prologue #2
My stomach drops as I stare down at my drink.
Maybe she's right.
But I'm part of the Madden family, a long line of wealth and prestige that means we never let emotion get in the way of doing what needs to be done.
Before I can construct a response, Finn MacAllister climbs onto the small stage, hijacks the microphone, and taps it three times.
"Right, listen up, you gorgeous animals! A new team needs traditions!"
"A new team needs discipline," Coach Pearson calls from somewhere near the taco table. "Get the hell off the stage."
Finn ignores him completely. "So let's hear your ideas on how we should celebrate tonight!"
"We could steal a police horse," Sawyer offers from a corner booth.
A chorus of groans rumbles from the team. "That's Portland's thing, dipshit."
Corbin Cole raises his hand tentatively, the rookie's voice cracking as he speaks. "What if... we, um, had a team mascot that was just like… a regular seagull? We could train it to steal fries from visiting fans?"
There's a murmur of contemplation, then Beck vaults onto a table like he was launched from a cannon.
"I've got it!" he announces, taking a long pull of yet another beer. "How about tonight, we all create the first official Beachside Bears victory skinny-dip!"
Josie and I both groan, but the team erupts in cheers.
Without so much as a discussion, shirts start flying and shoes are being kicked off under tables. Corbin nearly decapitates a waitress trying to remove his jeans while still wearing his sneakers, apologizing to her eleven times while mid-hop.
"Oh my God," I groan, shielding my eyes. "This is not happening."
I peek through my fingers to see Josie laughing as Mack reaches behind the bar, grabbing a baseball bat he's apparently named Sheila. He's holding her aloft like a fucking sword.
"Anyone who leaves underwear in my bar, they'll answer to me!" Mack growls, squeezing his fists around the handle. "Out! OUUUUT!"
Beck strips his shirt off, and—
"Okay. Wow."
Josie nudges me with her elbow, cutting me a look. "Didn't see that in your statistics, did you?"
She's right.
Beck Morrison is cut like a goddamn Roman gladiator. The lights pour over a torso that has no business being that hot as he plants both feet on the table and leads a chant so loud my ears rattle from the noise, but the meaning is clear: follow me.
And they do. Maybe that's the thing my spreadsheets failed to capture.
They follow him.
"Um…" Josie's eyes follow the line of hockey players marching out of the bar in various states of undress. "Have you seen how much Beck's had to drink?"
"No. But he appears to be still capable of moving his own limbs."
And those limbs? Yum.
Beck jumps down from the table and points at the moonlit Pacific Ocean.
"Last one in gets traded!"
The bar detonates with laughter.
"And that absolutely includes you, Declan!" Beck calls over his shoulder.
"Absolutely not," Declan announces, arms crossed. "I am the captain of the franchise. I am not running naked into the ocean."
Mason grabs one of his arms. "You're wearing underwear."
Finn takes the other. "For now."
"Mason. Mason. I will trade you both, I swear to—"
It takes another two more players to drag Declan away, but soon, they're physically dragging him across the deck.
"Oh my God, I am not missing this," Josie sings, skipping over while filming the whole thing.
I remain standing in the corner of the bar, watching the entire Beachside Bears roster stampede down the sand, colliding with the ocean in a wall of splashing bodies, raucous profanity, and soft moonlight.
The remaining crowd pours onto the deck to watch with their drinks raised and their phones out.
This is my chance. I should leave.
Colin is now trapped with two sponsors nearby, sweating through his awful Hawaiian shirt. He's had every chance to come and talk to me, but he still hasn't.
So screw it. I'm leaving.
I step to skip out the door, but the moment I do, Beck's gaze lifts from the water. His brows pull together, and he starts making his way towards me, sloshing through the waves and treading up the beach until he's dripping in front of me.
From behind me, Mack throws a towel over my shoulder without warning.
I would normally turn to thank him, but Beck Morrison is currently strutting toward me like he owns the entire beach.
"Going somewhere already?" he calls out, pulling his jeans back on.
Do not look at his boxer briefs, Darcy. Whatever you do, do not look at his boxer briefs.
"No." I hold the towel out, trying to evert my eyes.
He takes it without looking away from me.
He's barefoot, shirtless, and water is tracking down his shoulders and over the ridged lines of his chest. One drop breaks loose and slides down the center of his chest, over each of his abs, disappearing beneath his waistband.
I have never been jealous of water before, but goddamn, I hate that droplet.
"You want the towel back?" His eyes flick down, clocking exactly where mine just were. "Or should I stay wet for you a little longer?"
"I was assessing your risk of hypothermia."
"Sure you were. You always start assessments at the waistband?" He drags the towel through his hair, then plants one elbow on the bar. Still shirtless. "So, Spreadsheet Lady. How many decimal points did you have to move to get me kicked off the team?"
I cut him a hard look. "I didn't move anything. Manipulating the data would defeat the purpose of collecting it."
"Oh, good." He nods slowly. "So the numbers just woke up one morning and decided to ruin my life."
My insides squirm, but I take a deep breath to soothe the tension.
"I don't have the authority to trade you, Beck. I simply submitted a recommendation. Ownership, management, and coaching staff will make the final decision."
"Right. So you just loaded the gun." His grin sharpens. "And now someone else gets the blame when they decide to pull the trigger... not you?"
I don't dare flinch. "I did my job."
He moves a fraction closer, his forearm settling on the bar beside mine.
"Alright. Then answer me one thing, Ms. Madden." The torment finally drains out of his voice, leaving something quieter underneath. "Do you actually believe I'm the weakest player on this roster?"
"Beck, we don't have to talk about this—"
He moves closer again.
"Yes. We do."
I know I'm not leaving this bar without answering him honestly, so I take a deep breath, and lay the facts out.
"Your performance metrics make you the most logical trade asset among the three of you. Declan provides leadership and defensive stability. Mason is consistent across both ends of the ice. You carry a high salary, you draw penalties, and you've failed to convert enough of your key opportunities."
I glance across at him, hoping that when I look into his eyes, it will distract me from his body.
It doesn't.
Because Beck Morrison's eyes are even sexier than his abs.
"I know what Declan is," he says. "I know what Mason is. Everyone's been explaining it to me my whole life."
"So then what are you?" I ask.
That irritating grin returns as he leans back and releases a heavy sigh. He looks out at his teammates drying off on the sand and shakes his head like even he doesn't know the answer to my question.
"I'm… available."
"You're—" I frown, trying to make sense of that. "Wait. What?"
His gaze drops to my mouth. "I'm available."
His eyes stay on my lips a second too long, and I feel it like a thumb dragged across them.
My whole body clenches around absolutely nothing.
Oh no.
This is a problem. This is a significant problem.
I'm getting turned on by the man I'm supposed to be kicking out the exit door.
"Well… You keep looking at me like you're trying to work me out." He rolls his shoulders with a cocky shrug. "So, why don't you find out for yourself?"
I roll my eyes. "You're drunk."
He leans in, and I have to fight the genuinely appalling instinct to do the same thing.
I have spent years around professional athletes without feeling anything I couldn't control. I have dismissed many good-looking men over the years. Men with clean reputations and no flaming shots on their permanent record.
Beck Morrison should be the easiest man in this bar to walk away from.
Instead, my fingers tighten around my phone because I suddenly want to drag them across his bare chest.
"See. You don't hate me," he says quietly.
I step back before I do something catastrophically unprofessional. Before I let the player whose career sits inside my report turn me into the kind of woman who makes life-altering decisions with her tongue in somebody else’s mouth.
I can survive being hated.
I cannot survive being careless.
“No, I don’t hate you,” I say. “But I also don’t do hockey players.”
Beck's eyes flash, infinitely more amused. He leans in one final time, and murmurs against the shell of my ear:
"Well, thanks to you, sweetheart... soon that won't be a problem."
He pushes off the bar and walks away, towel slung around his neck, disappearing into his adoring, chanting, half-naked team like a man who didn't just hit on the woman trying to destroy him.
I stand there, pulse hammering, phone still open to the report that could end his Beachside career.
And I genuinely cannot decide which is more dangerous.
Being wrong about Beck Morrison.
Or wanting him.