6. Chapter 5
Darcy
Igrip the wheel of my black convertible, cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, as the ocean stretches endlessly to my left, waves crashing against the golden cliffs.
I put the roof down before I left, because the sun is gorgeous today, the wind is fresh, and this kind of afternoon demands the need for speed.
Maybe just as much as it demanded the deliciously strong Goldie's iced-coffee currently sweating against its biodegradable cup in my center console.
I take a sip, then press my foot harder on the gas, watching Beachside shrink in the rearview mirror.
I’m pretending I’m just a woman on a drive.
In reality, I’m driving toward my mother’s fancy-as-shit gala in Beverly Hills. I’ll spend the next five hours smiling at people who compare careers like designer handbags, because the Madden Foundation gala is the one night a year my mother treats as a religious holiday.
Nobody carrying her surname is permitted to miss it.
Yes, tonight I won't be the Performance Analyst trying to save the failing Beachside Bears roster. I won't be the woman whose job depends on making the correct calls no one else has the stomach for.
And I absolutely will not be the woman who recommended trading Beck Morrison, only to then let the man himself press her against her own desk days later, then go home to enjoy the benefits of a detachable showerhead and excellent water pressure.
God.
I haven't been able to stop replaying yesterday.
I still can't work out if he was serious about coming tonight or not, I've been too busy thinking about the way he crowded me until I felt every inch of that hard body pinning mine right where he wanted me.
Seriously… is he coming tonight?! Should I have worn my lace panties?
Shit.
I need to stop.
The man doesn't belong in my world, but that certainly didn't stop my body from flooding at every whispered command he said yesterday.
“Look at me, Darcy.”
I just obeyed him like I wanted to.
I shake my head.
No.
This is stupid. Beck Morrison is loud, impulsive and altogether too much.
I don’t want that. I don’t need that.
My parents have been married for decades and still move through every ballroom like a private company staffed by two frighteningly efficient employees. Dad has Mom’s champagne waiting before she asks. Mom fixes his cuff links without interrupting her sentence.
They don’t argue in public, forget birthdays or appear anywhere with spinach in their teeth.
That is the Madden version of love.
And I have no intention of attempting it with a man who thinks swallowing a flaming shot counts as conflict resolution.
Especially not when his contract is sitting inside my report, ready to tear in half.
I can either assess Beck Morrison like I've been hired to do, or climb him like an extremely muscular tree. Trying to do both feels like the kind of professional mistake that ends with lawyers and a mandatory seminar that will drag my family name through the mud.
So no. I’m Darcy Madden.
I do not fall for hockey players.
I date men who make sense. Men my parents can understand without needing a minute alone afterward to discuss whether I’ve made a sensible choice.
Glancing at my reflection in the rearview mirror, at least I can say I look the part. I always do.
Cream gown, pearl earrings, perfectly composed. My gaze drops to the pale-gold Parisian clutch resting in the passenger seat. My father gave it to me when I land the Bears job, along with a card containing two words.
Well earned.
In my family, that is practically a royal parade.
And yet, beneath all this polished perfection, the memory of Beck’s voice still thrums through my body.
Look at me, Darcy.
My phone chimes through the car’s Bluetooth. The jarring ringtone shatters the sound of the engine, making me jump as I look at the caller.
Colin Holden, the dashboard screen reads.
Because of course it’s Colin.
The man who missed this morning's scheduled meeting with no explanation, no apology, no acknowledgment that seventeen people rearranged their morning for a meeting he apparently forgot existed.
Not that I'd suffered.
The players all had a recovery day off, which meant I'd spent six blissfully uninterrupted hours doing actual work as well as clearing four weeks of unread emails.
I press the button on the wheel to answer, already bracing for whatever fresh hurricane he’s blown.
"You missed the meeting, Colin."
"Good afternoon to you too." He sounds entirely unbothered, waves audible in the background. "I had a… thing."
"A surfing thing?"
"A wellness thing. It was very nice, actually. Do you know the place—"
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What do you need, Colin?"
“Oh, nothing urgent!" he drawls, as though he’s about to drop something nuclear. "Actually! Have you seen the early attendance forecast for this weekend’s game? We might be heading for another sellout! GO BEARS!”
“That’s great,” I reply tightly.
"I mean," he continues, tone picking up, "I have to give it to Ms. Whitfield… what she’s doing with the Morrison brothers’ content? brILLIANT. Engagement numbers are through the roof. I don’t know how she does it.
Well, actually, I do. It’s those faces. Those abominations of God walking around in human bodies, am I right? ”
He laughs wildly and I manage a fake smile my mother would be proud of. “Yes, Josie’s doing great.”
And she is. She’s killing it. She deserves this validation.
But it doesn’t make it any less painful. The fact that I'm being reduced to the numbers girl while someone else gets to be the person people actually like.
“Anyway,” Colin says, his voice shifting. “That’s not why I’m calling. I heard you’re attending the Madden Foundation gala tonight.”
My stomach drops. “How did you—”
“Darcy, your mother is a lovely woman. We had a great chat this morning.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel. “You called my mother?”
“I called about buying a table for the Bears. It’s good community visibility, good press, and frankly, it’s an excellent chance to see how the players handle themselves outside an arena.
” He pauses. “I told your mother I’d happily return the favour with a VIP box for a future game, although she didn't seem too enthused.”
Of course she didn't.
My mother loves charity, but she absolutely does not love hockey.
“Colin—”
“And also, Beck will be there.” His tone goes smooth again.
“You should probably know, I got an email this morning. Another team is interested in lodging a formal offer. Your recommendation is clearly beginning to move. But as we discussed, before we make a decision, I want you assessing the whole picture. Tonight, you can get a good look at his connection with the community.”
“You want me to assess him at my mother's annual charity gala?”
“I want you to assess whether Beck Morrison is a player we should trade, or a player this city might want to keep.”
“And if he gets drunk and climbs a chandelier?”
Colin laughs. “Then document it thoroughly. Enjoy your evening, Darcy.”
He hangs up, leaving me alone with the ocean but almost immediately, my phone buzzes through the Bluetooth again, this time with a video call igniting the screen in the center of the dash which reads: Beck Morrison.
Of course.
Nothing screams high-profile gala prep like virtual harassment from a man who probably doesn’t own cufflinks that match.
I press the green button with one hand while deftly steering with the other. Beck’s face fills the screen immediately, and—
"Oh, no. What are you doing?" I groan.
He’s in a tuxedo shirt that isn’t fully buttoned, his bowtie hanging loose around his neck, his chest infuriatingly visible.
It is absolutely not pressed.
"Darce!" Beck greets, like we're on a FaceTime call to plan a weekend brunch instead of him catching me mid-commute. "Guess where I'm going?"
"Let me guess," I say, aiming for my usual crisp professionalism and landing somewhere closer to breathless. "Somewhere that requires you to be fully dressed for once?"
I can practically hear the smirk in his voice as I steer around the bend.
"Aw, disappointed? I could take the rest off if it's distracting you."
Heat floods my cheeks. "It's not—I'm driving, Beck. Some of us have places to be that don't involve... whatever this is."
"This," he says, gesturing to his general state of undress with zero shame, "is me getting ready for the Madden Foundation Gala. You know, the one where I'll be representing the Bears in a proper tuxedo like a respectable member of society."
“You mean the table Colin bought without warning me about it?”
“Ah.” His grin turns downright wicked. “So you know.”
“I know my boss has apparently formed a friendship with my mother.”
“He also told us this is part of my community-presence assessment.” Beck adjusts his bow tie.
“Which is great news for you, Spreadsheet. Tonight I’m going to be charming, generous, and almost certainly photographed doing both.
Besides, you told your mother you had a date. I’d hate to make you a liar.”
Behind him, the back seat of Declan’s blacked-out Range Rover reveals it’s packed like a clown car. Mason sits by the window, already fully dressed and composed, sunglasses perched on his face like he’s an actor arriving at the Oscars, doing a stellar job of pretending he’s not listening.
"Anyway, I thought I better just give you a heads up," he adds. "Diego caught me trying to sneak out the door."
I blink. "Is that so?"
"Yup. The old hallway trap. He took one look at my tux and said ‘Great idea! This family needs to leave the house before we all become sad men watching television.’ Then he packed Declan a pocket square and kicked us out of the mansion."
“Sad men watching television?” I arch a brow.
"Yeah. Ever since Declan found out about the divorce, he's been watching Liar Liar on repeat. Probably for inspiration, or something."
Beck cackles triumphantly, but I see Declan reach over and try to whack him.
"Beck," Declan's voice cuts in, devastatingly flat. "Swear to God, I'm going to throw you out of this moving vehicle if you don't shut up."