17. Chapter 16
Beck
The Beachside Bears have one of the smallest budgets in the league, but apparently, that's no reason to fly commercial.
I hold the rail of the private jet, ducking my head as I step through the door. It's chaos already, with dozens of enormous hockey players trying to duck, fold, and manoeuvre themselves into normal human size.
The Bears team logo is stitched into the headrests as I walk the aisle, and a flight attendant hands me a warm towel like I've just been through something traumatic instead of a forty-minute drive from the Beachside arena.
I find my seat and look around. The cabin is ridiculous.
Wide leather seats in ocean blue, arranged in clusters of three with polished tables between them.
There's a delicious spread near the front galley that looks like Margot raided a five-star brunch service and crammed it onto the plane, with trays of smoked salmon with cream cheese rosettes, a tower of still-warm croissants glistening with butter, and fresh fruit fanned out in perfect color rainbows.
Corbin stands in front of the food with his mouth hanging open, clutching a mini quiche, studying it with way too much focus.
"Is this real brie?" He holds up a wedge. "This is real brie. On a plane."
Sawyer peers down at the quiche from beside him. He plucks the brie directly from Corbin's hand, and takes a bite.
"Yep. It was real brie," Sawyer says, chewing. "Past tense."
"Dude!"
"You hesitated." Sawyer shrugs and drops into a window seat three rows back, stretching his legs across the aisle. He pulls out a pair of headphones and disappears from the conversation entirely.
Corbin looks at me, devastated.
"Gotta be quicker than that, rookie," I tell him, grabbing a croissant. "As the youngest sibling of three actual pigs, I recommend you learn to guard your snacks with your life. Especially the chocolate."
I settle into my seat and pull my tablet out of my bag. I'm on the window, left side, with my two brothers flanking me like prison guards.
Declan immediately checks that I've buckled my seatbelt.
Jesus Christ.
Poppy was right. I need boundaries.
I sink deeper into the leather seat, taking one last look at Beachside through the window as I try to focus. Poppy's voice keeps circling through my head like a song I can't shake. Whatever happens next, you still get to decide what you do with it.
Right. Stay focused.
Go to Vegas. Play good fucking hockey. Keep my eyes on the ice.
I've spent half the week buried in game footage anyway, studying Vegas until I practically know their defensive rotations better than they do. My tablet's already loaded with clips for the flight, because apparently this is who I am now.
Beck Morrison: prepared professional athlete.
Except Darcy is sitting six rows ahead of me in a window seat, legs crossed, reading something on her tablet with her sexy hair tucked behind one ear.
She's wearing a tight Bears polo top that's unbuttoned loosely around her neck, and her nails tap against the screen at a rhythm that shouldn't be as hypnotic as it is.
Problem is, I've had those nails digging into my back all week.
And apparently my dick has an excellent memory, because it twitches enthusiastically at the reminder.
She hasn't looked back once. In fact, she hasn't looked at me at all since we got on the transfer bus.
She was talking animatedly on the phone the whole drive, and I'm pretty sure it was her parents she was talking to, because there was a lot of 'Yes, I know' and 'Mom, I am perfectly capable of dressing myself for dinner. '
I get it.
We're traveling with the team, she's here as my analyst, and apparently riding six rows back so I can whisper filthy things into her ear isn't included in the official Beachside Bears travel policy.
Fine. Professional Darcy today.
I can behave.
I tear off a piece of croissant and chew it hard.
"You know who you remind me of right now?" Mason asks, watching me watch her.
"If you say Dad, I'm opening the emergency exit and throwing you out."
"No. Mom."
That gets my attention.
I spin in my seat to look at him. "What? I am nothing like Mom."
"Oh really? Remember when she'd clean the entire kitchen whenever she and Dad were fighting?" Mason says. "We'd wake up and everything was in a different spot. Used to drive Zoey nuts. Every cupboard. Every drawer. Nothing where it was the night before."
"Shit. He's right you know." Declan looks at me, brows pulling together like he's just seeing it. "That is you right now."
"I'm literally sitting here eating a croissant."
"Yeah, after you've trained twice a day all week," Declan says. "And now you're studying on the jet instead of seeing how many tiny bottles of tequila fit into one cup."
Great. This is just great.
Two minutes into the flight, and they're on my case already.
Classic Morrison family travel energy.
"Where is the tequila, anyway? If you two are gonna start, I might just need some."
Mason nudges my knee with his. “Dude, we're just saying... stop overthinking everything. You've been studying plays all week, you're practically living at the rink. I've barely seen you at the mansion.”
That's because I've been balls deep in the woman trying to send me away from you assholes.
“Exactly,” Declan says. “Just get out there tomorrow and play. Trust yourself. Don't force anything.”
I roll my eyes and stare between them. “You two hear yourselves, right?”
Mason frowns. “What?”
“You're telling me to stop listening to everyone else and trust myself. Except you're doing it by giving me specific instructions on how to do it.” I watch their faces fall. "That's the same fucking thing, morons!"
Declan opens his mouth as Mason looks at him. They both shrug like the mugs they are. “He's got us there.”
“Thank you.” I raise my croissant toward them. “Personal growth. Already crushing therapy.”
Declan grunts and folds his arms over his chest. “Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want tomorrow.”
"Thank you," I announce dramatically. “Now that's the supportive parenting I'm used to.”
After a quick flight that ended with Corbin scurrying to the lavatory with spew leaking between his fingertips, pretty soon, we're rolling down the Vegas strip in a limo with tinted windows and the air conditioning set to arctic.
We arrived at the airport with three limos waiting on the tarmac for the team. Of course, Josie had the three Morrison brothers in the lead car because that woman's marketing never misses.
The Strip unfolds through the glass, bright flashing towers bleeding color into a sky so blue it looks fake.
Enormous LED billboards cycle through ads for shows and fights and buffets that promise to ruin your life, and endless rows of palm trees line the boulevard, their fronds barely moving in the dry desert heat.
"Is that a pirate ship?" Corbin's face is pressed against the window of the limo.
"Dude, we said if you ride with us, you need to be chill."
"Right. Sorry." Corbin sinks back into the seat, glancing at Declan's gruff demeanor, trying to mimic it and failing badly.
Soon, The Bellagio appears at the end of the curve like a mirage, the rising towers, the famous fountains still and glassy in the afternoon sun, waiting for their moment of magic later tonight.
Our limo eases to a stop at the doors, and hotel staff in crisp black uniforms descend before the doors even open. Our luggage is handled as the doors are held open.
When I step out, I glance at the limo behind us just in time.
Darcy steps out of the limo, smoothing both hands down her clothes like this is just another weekday for her. My eyes follow the movement automatically, catching the generous curve of her hips, and that delicious ass I've spent most of this week becoming intimately acquainted with.
Jesus.
I'm the only goddamn man standing here who knows exactly what that ass looks like without the expensive fabric covering it now. Exactly how soft it feels beneath my hands, how badly she likes it when I spank her while fucking her from behind.
I drag my attention north before all the blood leaves my brain.
I forget sometimes that all of this, the limos, the five-star hotels, the army of staff appearing to make life easier before you've even realized you need something, isn't particularly impressive to Darcy.
This is normal for her.
This is her world.
Maybe that's why she looks so good in it. It's natural.
A woman with a clipboard guides us through a private entrance that bypasses the casino floor entirely, and soon, I'm standing beside my brothers, staring up at soaring ceilings that are dripping with a glass flower sculpture so massive it looks like a botanical garden exploded.
Rose has somehow commandeered the private check-in desk by the time we reach it, standing beside one of the hotel staff with a neat stack of gold-embossed envelopes arranged in front of her.
"Morrison," she calls, holding one up.
All three of us step forward.
Rose stares at us. "God, that's annoying."
"And productive," Mason says, winking. "I know how you like to squeeze every... last... drop out of your time."
Rose's cheeks blush and she fumbles with the stack of envelopes. "Beck."
I reach for the envelope, but before I can take it, Mason plucks it neatly from her fingers and passes it to me.
"There you go."
I stare at him. "Really?"
But Mason is already reaching for the next envelope like nothing happened.
I flip mine open. Suite 2604.
Mason holds up his. "2602."
Declan doesn't even show his. He just slides it into his back pocket with the energy of a man who already knew we'd all be side-by-side and wouldn't have it any other way.
"Fantastic," I mutter. "The band's back together. Can we get bunk beds too, or did that cost extra?"
"Quit your bitching," Declan says. "You've got one of the best suites on the whole team. Just be happy."
I snap a look at him. "Oh, sorry, Dec. Was that you telling me what to do again?"