3. Chapter 2
Beck
"And so, my recommendation stands," Darcy says, cool as the ice below us. "Beck Morrison is the highest priced variable with the lowest return."
I lean back in my chair and take a breath, possibly just to remind everyone that despite the fact that they've been discussing me like I'm not here for the past thirty minutes, I actually do still exist.
Coach Pearson's office is the kind of room where careers get made or unmade with a single sentence.
I know which one I'm currently bracing for.
Colin Holden's already sweating at one end of the conference table, his collar wilting like he's been here for hours when I know damn well he rolled in fifteen minutes ago.
Me, Declan, and Mason are along the other side, crammed in here like the world's most hostile family photo. Josie is by the window, her arms crossed, still trying to ride the high of her sold-out arena despite the celebration not going exactly as planned.
Darcy sits at the far end beside Coach Pearson himself, her tablet open, posture immaculate. She's wearing a Bears blazer and a cream-colored blouse, but it's the tiny skirt and patterned stockings that are somehow more devastating than any bikini I've ever seen in Beachside.
"Across every category," Darcy continues. "Beck's production doesn't align with his salary. Penalties drawn versus converted opportunities. Defensive zone transitions. The model—"
"The model doesn't account for what the three of us do together," Declan cuts in, leaning forward. "Split the brothers and the brand collapses. That's not a spreadsheet problem, that's a franchise problem."
A wave of tension rips right across the room.
Honestly, I envy the Zamboni circling the ice below us right now.
It has no parents. No trade deadline. No devastating woman sitting across the table, looking like she could ruin a man’s career and then attend a charity luncheon without wrinkling.
What's her deal anyway?
Darcy Madden doesn't look like a woman who should be sitting in a hockey arena, reeling off numbers she's clearly been studying too closely.
She looks like royalty. A duchess. A queen of some cold, tiny country where everyone's terrified of her and the national anthem is just a fancy symphony orchestra.
I watch her with renewed interest as she taps her tablet.
“Declan, the model isn’t personal. Coach will back me up on these numbers. Beck draws more penalties than anyone, his defensive contribution remains inconsistent, and—" Darcy takes a long breath, still dodging my eyes. "—his contract gives us the greatest flexibility in the Trade Period.”
The woman currently standing in front of me, threatening to ruin everything I've ever dreamed of, doesn’t even look at me.
Her gaze flicks past my face and returns to the screen with such clean indifference I want to reach across the desk and knock that tablet out of her hands just so she knows I'm here.
Or maybe I could just kiss her until she loses that perfect posture.
Shit. That thought is concerning.
I should hate this woman.
Right?
She wants to ruin my life. My dream. Everything I spent years pretending I wouldn’t kill for because I didn’t think I’d ever have it.
Now that I do? Now that I’m finally here?
The woman who won't even recognize I'm sitting in the room wants to rip it all out from under me.
For twenty-four years, I’ve thought about this.
Living with my brothers, playing hockey every day, walking off the sand straight into a bar where your tab doesn’t exist because money isn't an issue. We drink late, crash even later, then wake up in time to realize we’ve got it so good we’d be idiots not to know it.
But hey, why not smash it to pieces. Just take me and carve me out of something I thought I finally fucking belonged to.
It’s always me though, isn’t it?
Not Declan. Not Mason. Me. The Morrison that doesn’t matter.
The one they can live without.
The one who barely made it into this picture to begin with.
"Listen, Ms. Madden." Declan leans forward, captain voice engaged. "You trade Beck, you're not just moving a player. The Morrison brothers are the brand. Three of us, one roster. That's the whole story this franchise is built on."
"He's right." Josie straightens. "We just had the first sell-out in franchise history.
The jerseys, the socials, the street party…
everything we created is the three of them.
You want to break up the main attraction right when the town finally cares?
That's not the strategy we've been working towards these past few weeks. "
My eyes drift from the argument to watch the women. Darcy's knuckles are white where she grips her tablet. Josie’s bright, warm posture has gone stiff, her shoulders practically screaming betrayal.
It’s like watching a friendship bracelet being pulled apart bead by bead.
"You're not trading my brother." Declan's tone deepens. "I signed a contract that insisted we're all here together."
"Your brother," Darcy says, "is a nine-million-dollar penalty magnet."
I lean back and start counting ceiling tiles.
"He just won us the biggest game in franchise history!" Josie's chair scrapes. "You want to trade the guy who set up the winning goal? The town will riot, Darcy."
"The town will survive. The franchise might not, if we keep paying for highlight reels instead of results."
"Wow." Declan laughs, looking sideways at me like I'm actually involved in this conversation. "You hear that, Beck? You're a highlight reel."
"Apparently I'm just furniture now."
I may as well have not spoken, though, because the argument continues on without me. Outside the glass, the ocean sparkles like even it has more of a say in my own damn life than I do.
"Some of us make decisions with our heads," Darcy says, her chin lifting, "instead of turning roster meetings into family therapy."
"Don't." Declan's on his feet now. "Don't you dare make this—"
"It's always about family with you people! That's exactly the problem!"
Mason's mug hits the table with a crack. Even he looks pissed. "Family?! You want to talk about family?!"
"Okay. Okay!" Colin surges up, palms out, sweating clean through his golf polo. "That's enough. Everyone, just listen."
Colin drags a hand down his flushed face, looking at all of us like we're a wave he can't outrun.
"Nobody's trading anybody today, alright?
But let's not kid ourselves." He points at the window, at the gleaming rink below.
"One sold-out game doesn't make the pressure from the league disappear.
They're still breathing down my neck. Attendance is up, buzz is up, sure.
But the hierarchy wants results. Fans. Points. Sustainability."
I watch Darcy’s face as Colin talks. For the first time all morning, she looks less like royalty and more like a woman who has just bet her own name on a losing hand.
Interesting.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting here watching my brothers argue my worth, my coach study his coffee, and a woman who can't even look at me decide whether I get to keep my life.
Story of my existence, right?
Everyone in a room, deciding what Beck can handle, what Beck's worth, where Beck goes next.
"So here's where I've landed." Colin exhales through his nose and straightens up. "I'm not trading a Morrison off one performance model. I don't care how many ways you ran it, Darcy. This town would burn the arena down and I'd have to explain that to the league."
Darcy's fingers tighten around her pen. It's the first crack in the marble I've seen all morning, and something ugly and warm blooms in my chest at the sight of it.
"So here's what we're doing instead," Colin continues.
"I'm ordering a Full-Value Audit. The trade deadline ends in seven weeks, so we have time to assess the complete package before making any decisions.
We look at Beck's on-ice performances, his leadership, team chemistry.
Hell, we'll check the community influence and commercial value he offers.
" He points at Darcy. "And since you made the recommendation, I want you running it. Personally."
Darcy stares at Colin. "You want me to spend seven weeks evaluating him."
"Every measurable inch," Colin says, then winces. "Whoops. Sorry, that came out wrong. Every measurable inch of his professional output. Not his… well… you know."
Darcy’s nostrils flare.
God, she’s hot when she’s frustrated.
My brain does the math instantly, and the math is crazy. Seven weeks of Darcy Madden watching my every move. Seven weeks of those dark eyes on me at practice, at games, at community events.
Seven weeks isn't an audit.
It's seven weeks to convince her, that maybe for the first time in my life, someone might see me as a man worth believing in.
"Fine. I'll do it," Darcy says, turning to me with that devastating smile, "Beck, for the next seven weeks, I'll need complete access to your professional schedule. Mornings, workouts, media. Everything."
I lean back and give her the grin that's gotten me out of trouble since I was old enough to know how to sweet-talk a woman just to hide how I'm really feeling inside.
"Most women buy me dinner before demanding complete access."
Mason closes his eyes like he's praying for a meteor to slam into the arena.
"Meeting's over," Colin announces, already halfway out the door, probably sensing a good wave somewhere. "Oh, and Beck?"
I stumble over my seat as I push up off the table. "Yeah, Boss?"
"We'd like you to attend some sessions with Dr. Poppy Sinclair in the meantime," Colin says. "This… adjustment… could take its toll, and we want to make sure you have the appropriate support if you need it."
My brows furrow. "You want me to go to therapy?"
"Consider it more… wellness support," Colin corrects, already backpedaling. "A well-being plan to help you through this transition phase."
"Non-negotiable," Coach says, pushing past me. "Think of it as… team support."
I think of it as everyone in this room deciding I can't handle my own goddamn life without professional supervision. But whatever.