Chapter 19
Finley
“Queenie?” Beckett calls, knocking on my door a second time.
I glance at the clock. Shit. I’m so late.
Usually, I’ve already been at his place for twenty minutes by now, eating the meals he insists his chef makes for me and chatting about our day.
Or the upcoming game. Or practicing for the next challenge—which is really just trying to learn everything about each other.
Except, not tonight.
Because tonight, after a long conversation where my dad reminded me of the very fine line I walk every day, I made the mistake of opening the comments section of one of the Challenge videos.
It’s of Beckett giving me pointers as I crossed the obstacle course, and it looks like we’re in perfect sync.
Of course, someone had to make a benign comment about how great a couple we’d make.
The responses have been brutal. Disparaging.
Unsurprisingly, way more judgmental of me than him.
Though in this situation, I would be the one in the wrong.
Yay me, for finally being in a position where I can abuse my power.
I use the knuckles of my pointer fingers to wipe under my eyes as I make my way to the door.
“Hey.” I clear my throat, hoping he won’t notice the hitch in my voice.
“Hey, I brought dinner over here since you were taking forever,” Beckett says, focused on the two plates of food in his hands.
I step back to let him in. “Thanks.”
“You’re wel—wait. Fin, have you been crying?”
After wiping my eyes again, as if it will hide the truth, I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
Beckett sets the plates on my table before walking toward me. He dips his head slightly, so his eyes are directly in line with mine. His thumbs gently stroke beneath my eyes, swiping more tears from my face. “You’re not fine. Tell me what happened.”
My breath hitches. Oh my goodness. He is inches from me. He’s touching my face. Suddenly, I don’t care about the comments. It’s taking every ounce of my concentration not to look at his lips. Because I know if I do, I won’t be held responsible for what happens next.
And that would be terrible. Horrible. The worst. Beckett Kane’s lips pressed to mine would be catastrophic.
“I made the mistake of reading some comments online,” I say instead.
Beckett exhales a sigh of relief. “Internet trolls. I’m sorry, Finley. Though I’m happy it’s not like you’re dying or they fired you or something.”
I let out a snotty chuckle. “Why would they be firing me in this fake scenario of yours?”
“I take it back.” He dodges as I try to punch his arm. “You had a hair in your eye. It was nothing!”
“Rude, Beckett. Really fucking rude.” But he has me smiling again, which, judging by the pleased look on his face, is what he was going for.
“Come on.” He pulls out a seat at the table before dropping into it. “Let’s eat before this chicken and asparagus gets cold. There is literally nothing worse than cold asparagus.”
We eat in silence for a few moments before Beckett asks around a mouthful of chicken breast, “What comment got to you?”
I shrug. I don’t need to get into this. I shouldn’t have been looking. I learned long ago that reading comments, hell, going on social media, is a recipe for disaster. I just… wanted to see the videos of us.
“I almost got in a fistfight with an eighty-five-year-old grandmother once—not that I knew that about her at the time,” Beckett offers.
“What?” I ask, my attention still on my food.
“It was my first year in the league, and she called me a limp dick on every video of me the team posted. Supposedly, I was hitting too soft for her liking.”
A laugh escapes me. “How did you find out who it was?”
“She showed up at a game. Had a sign telling the coach to ‘bench the limp dick.’”
I sputter; the drink I was taking shooting up my nose instead of following its normal path. “No.”
“Yes,” he admits solemnly.
“What happened?”
“Honestly, nothing. I noticed it, and it threw me off my game a bit, but then I realized I’d been all bent out of sorts about what a stranger thought.”
Our pinkies touch on the table, and a jolt of electricity passes through them. A reaction I’m beginning to realize happens anytime we come in contact.
I smile. “I need you to know I will, without a doubt, bench you if she shows up with one of those signs to one of our games.”
He looks at me, his eyes wide. “Don’t let Mildred know she has that kind of power over you. She’ll fly to every one of our games.”
I snicker, the earlier hurt and anxiety from the comments melting away after a few minutes with Beckett. “Oh my God, you know her name,” I say on a gasp.
I didn’t realize how much I needed a friend in my life.
Beckett watches me laugh while finishing up the food on his plate. Finally, when I’m back under control, he grabs my plate and takes it to the sink. He quickly rinses both and puts them in the dishwasher. We’re normally at his place, but he stops by mine every now and then.
“Are we watching the Thunderbirds for tomorrow, or rehashing the Riveters game last night?” Beckett asks as he sits on my couch.
“Prepping for tomorrow. I think we spent enough time with the team rehashing how we managed to drop the game to Detroit.” I pull up the Thunderbirds’ highlight reel, courtesy of Dr. Pearce.
Beckett scoffs, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “Sure. Like you’re not going to watch it again once I leave.”
I lean back, shifting until the cushions are in the right place. He’s not wrong—and I both hate and love how well he knows me. How willing he is to simply accept me.
I also hate that, after the day I had, all I want is to cuddle into him and let him hold me.
I can almost feel the heat of his body seeping into mine.
The slow caress of his fingertips as he absentmindedly strokes up and down my arm.
A gentle forehead kiss that magically absorbs all my stress and puts an immediate stop to my overthinking.
And if he happened to miss my forehead and kissed my lips instead… I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Those thoughts are not allowed.
“Ready to tell me what comment got under your skin today?” Beckett asks, his gaze still locked on the television. I know it’s how he gives people space, and I appreciate that it takes off the pressure of having to look him in the eye as I admit what I was doing.
“I wanted to see some of the videos the team has been posting from the Challenge, so I was on socials.”
Beckett’s face darkens, his jaw clenching. “Wanted to see how good a team you and Callan were last event?”
I shrug. “I just wanted to see the funny ones. I had a shitty day at work, and I was looking for something to entertain me. To distract me from the fact that we might not make the playoffs. That my job will certainly be on the line, or if it isn’t, it’s literally only because I’m a woman.
Which is its own level of drama.” I sigh.
“It was just one of those days, and I was looking for an escape.”
Beckett lightly rubs my shoulder with the hand along the top of the couch.
“Fin, we’re making the playoffs. You’re a great coach.
We’re a good team. And even if we don’t, they’re not going to fire you—and not because you’re a woman.
Because you’re good. The team loves you.
I think Larsen would organize a full team walkout if they let you go, and that’s saying nothing of the veterans who are remarkably loyal to you. ”
It’s easy for him to say. He had to give up a lot of other things to get to where he is; he had to push himself harder than anyone else around him to make it to the pros.
He had to want it more than almost anyone.
I had to do that while also carrying the weight of knowing I was paving the way for women everywhere.
I didn’t have to be the best; I had to be perfect. And as head coach, it’s impossible to be perfect. I’m destined to fail.
“I know,” I say in response to Beckett’s comments. There’s no use arguing.
I tuck my feet under me, forcing my back a little straighter. “So, what does your ideal vacation look like?” I ask, distracting him with our game.
The side-eye directed my way at the topic change would put even the sassiest of middle school girls to shame, but he lets me have it, anyway. “A month in a cabin. Cool mornings. Lots of hiking. Peace. What about you?”
“I’d join you in the cabin. But I want to spend my days doing those fancy puzzles.
You know the ones from really nice wood instead of whatever normal ones are.
And instead of being cut into normal shapes, they’re like ice-skaters that you’re trying to fit together.
My grandma sent them to me for Christmas, and I always loved spending hours just zoned in on completing it. ”
He tilts his head. “I guess I wasn’t a big enough nerd to get the fancy puzzles.”
I lightly shove him. “Rude.”
Getting serious again, Beckett leans forward, clasping his hands together as he places his elbows on his knees. “Why did the comments get to you this time, Queenie?”
I want to tell him. I do. But the problem is, it’s not just about what they were saying; it’s the fact that they were right. And I don’t know how to give him that truth without giving up too much of myself. Though, if there is anyone I’d be willing to give that much of myself to, it’s Beckett.
“It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me.” I swear there’s a note of sadness in his voice. Like he’s upset that I’m not willing to share my burdens with him.
“It’s embarrassing, is all,” I admit before taking a deep breath. “They were talking about us—together.”
I pause, waiting for some reaction, but Beckett just nods.
“And, I guess, I realized that maybe what we have is… inappropriate.”
I have his full attention now, his dark brown eyes piercing into mine. It feels like too much. “What do you mean?” he asks.
I shrug. If I knew what I meant, I wouldn’t have this problem. I’d be making a change. “I guess, it’s just—do you remember when we met?”
“In the hallway?” he asks.
The hollow feeling in my chest isn’t fair to him. There was no way those ten, maybe twenty, minutes he spent with me when I was sixteen meant anything to him. Even if it was everything to me. Even if it started as a crush that lasted way past an acceptable amount of time.
“We actually met when I was sixteen.”
His eyes go wide. “What?”
“You were in my high school’s rink practicing when you were home for Christmas break. I was working on my slap shot.”
“That was you!” Beckett exclaims. “I never put that together. I mean, I don’t think you even took your helmet off. Though I suppose I should’ve put two and two together. I knew your dad lived around there, and how many girls are at the rink by themselves the day after Christmas?”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. You helped me. Gave me a few pointers.”
He’s into the story now. “Yeah. I remember that. I was impressed.”
“Right,” I say with a small eye roll. “I’m sure.”
“I was. But what does that have to do with the comments about us now? Did someone put it together that our paths crossed when we were kids?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. But I’m a little worried they will.” I glance at the TV, unable to hold his eye contact any longer. “I may have had a crush on you after you helped me. I mean, I got a starting spot because of your help—and well, it was not a well-kept secret.”
Beckett’s face is a mask of cocky pleasure when I finally force myself to meet his gaze. “You liked me?”
“Oh, please. You were”—I wave my hand to encompass his whole body—“all of this, and I was sixteen.”
He reaches out, grabbing my hand and pulling it toward the center of his chest. The sound that comes from me is most definitely a grunt of surprise—not a sound of pleasure.
“All of this, huh?” he teases, a cocky grin on his face. “Sixteen-year-old you had such great taste.”
Such great taste. Unfortunately, thirty-one-year-old me has similar taste, and that’s the fucking problem.
Instead of telling him that, though, I roll my eyes and pull my hand back.
“I’m worried someone from high school will start saying shit.
Tell people how I had a crush on you when I was younger.
It was a standing joke on my teams in high school and college that you were the only person I’d give up my no-dating rule for. ”
“No-dating rule, huh?” Beckett asks before turning serious. “A high school crush is nothing, Fin. I know it seems like a big deal, but even if they did say something, no one would care.”
I wish I agreed. But this wasn’t just your standard starry-eyed teen who then forgot all about the boy when they left home. I was slightly obsessed with the man. And I’m his coach now. And that crush might be coming back with a vengeance.
Fuck, who am I kidding? It’s all the way back.
“People would care. You’re my player, Beckett. I’m your coach. We’re… We probably shouldn’t even be hanging out as much as we are now.”
Beckett’s eyes meet mine, and there’s pain there, even as he asks, “Do you want to stop?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Then fuck what people think. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
Maybe he’s not. But he’s never liked me as anything more than his coach. Maybe a friend. A friend he occasionally wants to kiss when it’s late at night and he’s on an adrenaline high from his game. I’m the one who has gone and made it inappropriate. It’s my feelings that aren’t okay.
I fucking told White not to trade for Kane.
I told him. If he’d just gone off my damn list, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
I’d be—alone. Watching film by myself as I eat yet another steak and bagged salad for my dinner.
And my job would be… well, still on the line because Beckett has been instrumental in turning our season around. But I wouldn’t be conflicted.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t be considering throwing my career down the garbage disposal just to feel his lips pressed against mine.
“I know,” I say finally. “But I’m not sure where that line is, so how do we know when we’ve crossed it?”