24. Epilogue
Epilogue
Darcy
Two weeks later, I'm sitting in Colin Holden's office watching my boyfriend.
Yes.
Beck Morrison is now officially my boyfriend.
And for a girl raised in a world of ballet classes, French lessons and gala dinners…
It feels unusually… settling.
Colin is standing behind his desk in a full neon-green wetsuit that's peeled down to the waist. There's a surfboard leaning against the filing cabinet in the corner, and he's bouncing on his toes like a man whose parole hearing is going well.
"Right there. And there." He taps the paper, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Initial there. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic."
Beck signs with a flick of his wrist, smiling the entire time.
"Is that it?" Beck spins the pen between his fingers. "Feels like turning down millions of dollars should involve more fireworks or a laser light show. A ceremony, maybe."
"That's it." Colin snatches the paper and shoves it into a folder.
"Alright! Trade discussions are officially dead.
Vegas has been informed you want to stay here, and the league has been informed.
" He exhales the way a man does when a franchise-destroying headline evaporates.
"Beck Morrison remains a Beachside Bear. "
A warm rush floods my body.
He chose us. He chose here.
Beck catches me looking and smiles like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"One last thing." Colin moves to gather his surfboard. "You've got a final session with Dr. Sinclair this afternoon. Closes out the evaluation file and ticks all the boxes we need if we're ever audited."
Beck's head drops back. "Are you kidding? There's paperwork for personal growth?"
"Welcome to professional sports. There's paperwork for everything, son." Colin pauses at the door, and points at me. "Darcy, you should go with him. That should round out the file nicely."
Beck's eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. Darcy gets assessed now?”
“That's not what he said.”
“Doc's gonna love you.” He stands, grinning as he offers me his hand. “Just don't tell her what happens when I take my belt off and tell you to behave.”
“Oh my God. Beck!”
“See?” He looks at Colin, and winks. “She's already defensive. This could take hours.”
I slap my hand into his. "Go. Now."
"Look at us... Couples therapy already." He laces our fingers together. "This relationship is moving fast, baby."
Poppy Sinclair's office is, and I say this as a Madden who has toured every five-star hotel in the Western hemisphere, the most relaxing room I've ever entered.
The balcony doors are cracked open, ocean air drifting through white curtains. Poppy ushers us in, and immediately, Beck sprawls into one of the armchairs that have become renowned in this building for making grown-ass hockey players cry in them.
"Doc. Good to see you. Colin suggested I bring a witness today. Hope that's okay."
Poppy's eyebrows lift. “A witness?”
“Yeah. My girlfriend.”
“I'm your analyst when we're working, Beck,” I correct. "And Poppy, Colin has asked that I be here to round out the file. I hope that's okay."
Poppy laughs softly. “Well, considering Corbin Cole somehow forgot he had an appointment yesterday and spent forty minutes hiding in the locker room, I'm delighted somebody willingly arrived.”
Beck perks up. “Rookie skipped therapy?”
“That's confidential, Beck.”
“You literally just told me,” he frowns.
Poppy pauses, takes three long breaths, and blinks like the reset has been completed.
"Welcome Darcy. It's nice to have you here." Poppy smiles and settles in across from us, notepad balanced on her knee. "So. Beck, how are you doing with everything? Your father. The family."
Beck takes a breath, looking out the window with that smile still glued on his face.
It's been there for two weeks now, and every time I look at it, my heart sings.
We've spent exactly zero nights apart, and Beck even jogs with me every morning now. He negotiated this arrangement, and much to my surprise, his single non-negotiable term wasn't that I wear his favorite 'sexy leggings', but that we stop at Goldie's after.
I've told him I'm pretty sure he's just hoping to catch Kai in black leather holding that flogger again, and he's never once denied it.
My apartment has slowly started filling with his things. A toothbrush, a Bears hoodie I've officially claimed, and a truly offensive number of vintage band tees.
Beck cooks exactly one meal a week, but I'm growing suspicious that he's actually ordering Rico's tacos and claiming them as his own.
I don't mind though.
I fall asleep on his chest every night, watching movies I picked and he actually enjoys despite whining the whole time that 'even Declan picks better movies than you!'
And the sex. God, the sex.
Every night, Beck Morrison has my toes curling. Sometimes twice.
He's opened my mind to a world of things I never would have considered trying before. It's fun, exciting, and not once, has he ever tried to suck my toes.
But it's the quiet moments that get me.
The way he sings softly when he makes my morning coffee.
The way he watches when I laugh a little too hard and it comes out like a snort.
Or the way I've stopped checking my work three times before sending it, because somewhere along the line, a man who can't sit still taught me how to let go and start living my life.
I'm embarrassingly in love with Beck Morrison.
And the data that says I shouldn't can, as Beck would say, get fucked.
"Talked to Dad again on Sunday. For a whole twenty minutes, nobody yelled, nobody cried, and he only made one weird comment about Mom.
" Beck shrugs, gripping the chair. "The family's still a mess.
Zoey's threatening to fly down and 'sort everyone out,' which historically means she's going to bring us a truck load of baked goods. But overall, we're good. I'm good."
"What about your brothers?" Poppy asks.
"Mason's been acting weird lately, but Mason weird is like a regular-person who's just mildly distracted. So who knows what's going on with him."
"Weird how?"
"I dunno. Just smiling at his phone all the time. Going out at strange hours. I don't ask questions I don't want the answers to." He stretches his legs out. "But me? I'm good, Doc. Genuinely."
Poppy makes a note. "And how does it feel making your own decisions now?"
Beck sighs from the depths of his soul. "Honestly? It's exhausting."
Poppy's pen stops moving. "Excuse me?"
"I have to make all my own decisions now. Nobody warned me there'd be this many! Yesterday Mason asked what I wanted for breakfast and just... accepted my answer. Didn't even tell me if it was nutritionally appropriate."
"You had waffles," I say, choosing this moment to enter into the conversation.
"Exactly. I'm a professional athlete! Where was the guidance?"
Poppy's mouth twitches beneath a smile. Then, without warning, that terrifyingly calm gaze swings to me.
"And Darcy. How are you handling being wrong?"
Beck immediately starts laughing. A full belly laugh that has him nearly falling out of his chair.
"Careful, Doc. That's still a trigger word."
"Excuse me. I'm handling it," I say, with dignity.
And here's the strange part. I actually am.
My report was wrong. I was wrong, and I admitted it.
And the world didn't end.
Despite the fact I made the wrong call about the trade, Colin still runs my numbers past me before every roster meeting.
Coach has still asked for my opinion after the last two games.
Even my mother survived last weeks Beverly Hills dinner-party event without a single ill word muttered about the Madden family.
Just like Beck promised, the earth has remained spinning.
"I spent my whole life thinking one mistake would collapse everything," I say. "Turns out the building stays up. It's… nice. It takes the pressure off so I can enjoy the smaller things in life."
"Excuse me? Smaller things?" Beck points both thumbs at himself. "There is nothing wrong with the size of my—"
"Okay!" Poppy shoots up and quickly writes something down that I'd pay real money to read. "Moving on now."
But as she goes to open her mouth, there's a knock at the door. Poppy frowns, which is how I know it's unusual to be interrupted like this.
"Oh. I'm terribly sorry. That's not standard," Poppy says. "Excuse me."
She opens the door to the enormous Sawyer Stone, the Bears goalie, who is standing in the hallway with his eyes bulging.
"Doc. Sorry to interrupt. But Coach needs you. It's… a player thing. It's—" Sawyer glances at us, then back at her, and lowers his voice. "There's a situation that might need your expertise."
Poppy reads whatever is on his face and nods, reaching for the cardigan on the back of her chair. She shrugs it on and looks across her desk.
"I'll only be a few minutes," she tells us. "Help yourselves to the chocolates."
For about ten seconds, we sit in silence in the world's most comfortable chairs, the warm ocean breeze drifting through the curtains.
Then I feel Beck's eyes on the side of my face.
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to suggest we have sex. I know your sex face, Beck Morrison."
I know it without even looking. I'm the woman who's just spent weeks watching Beck Morrison's expressions, and this one was filed in the report as incoming terrible idea.
"I was simply noticing," he says, voice dropping into a deep husky tone that makes my nipples pay attention, "that this is the most private room in the entire arena. Soundproofed, probably. For confidentiality."
"Beck Morrison, absolutely not."
"Are you sure? There's a balcony…"
"This is her place of work."
"You're right."
"And there are probably cameras."
"Definitely no cameras in a therapist's office, Spreadsheet."
He leans back in the chair, hands sliding behind his head like he hasn't a care in the world. The fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders, and I watch the whole thing unfold like a slow-motion replay.
His arm muscles flex as his chest stretches.
Did he just tense his biceps? I swear he's tensing his biceps right now.