Chapter 12 Beck
BECK
The SUV reeked like a chain-smoking wet dog, but I didn't care. I'd smell like a Rapidian's fish hut if it meant Clara stayed safe and warm in my arms all night.
My fingers tapped to the rhythm of Jingle Bell Rock on the steering wheel as I drove the freshly plowed road back into town, making sure that Clara's truck stayed in my rearview mirror.
The timeline was tight, but if I got the clause drafted, the whole project could be greenlit in three days.
For the first time, my mind drifted to the project after the signing.
The construction would take years, and while I typically worked off-site, maybe the Chance Rapids build would need a hands-on man. That could be me.
When I was young, I equated being a Rapidian with being a failure. For the first time in fifteen years, the idea of success didn't involve a penthouse and a Rolex collection. It involved a slightly neurotic dog and a woman who could keep up with me on the ice.
Huge snow drifts hung off the eaves of the Snowy Peaks Inn’s gingerbread trim.
"Hi, Beckett," Evie said with a smile as I walked into the lobby. The bell on her elf hat jingled as she tapped away on the computer. Behind her, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the gilded mirror. My eyes were rimmed in red, my cheeks windburnt, and I knew that I smelled like a dumpster.
"Hi, Evie.” It came out more like a croak. My throat was raw from the woodsmoke.
Her eyes tracked up and down my rumpled appearance. "Did you have a good night?"
It was code for: you look hungover as hell. A drunk running the new development wasn't a good look, and I couldn't risk a rumor. "I wish I was hungover. I got stranded by the storm and had to spend the night in a fish hut." I dramatically rubbed my lower back.
"Oh, no. I'm glad you found a safe place to wait it out. We're getting all sorts of cancellations from people who are stranded in Windswan."
A couple exited the dining room and the sound of laughter and plates clinking filled the lobby. "You wouldn't know it. That's the busiest I've seen the dining room since I've been here."
Evie smiled. "We've got the Quorkie Swamp Monster on special today."
I raised my brows. "Is it better than the Boxing Quackers I had on Tuesday?" The Inn's cook Eugene created bizarre breakfast dishes with even crazier names. The Boxing Quackers was a two-duck-egg scramble drizzled in truffle oil.
"It's our bestseller."
My stomach growled. "Anything is better than the old jerky and whiskey I stole from the hut."
Evie waved her hand toward the dining room. “Get in there before it sells out. You’ll need your strength for your first game tonight.”
“My first game? I guess bad news travels fast.”
“Not that fast.” Evie laughed. “My husband is the goalie. He said you’re pretty decent.”
Decent. It was a compliment. My lips turned up. “You’re married to Nick Tinsel?”
“The one and only. He’s excited to have you on the roster. Now, go get a Quorkie and some rest. You’ve got some big skates to fill.”
I got to the stairs, then Evie called out.
“Oh, and Beckett. No pressure, but the town’s biggest hockey fan will be there tonight.”
Resting my hand on the bannister, a wave of exhaustion hit me. “Who is that?”
“GJ. My grandmother.”
“Ah, the elusive Innkeeper. I’ll bring my A-game, Evie.”
She grinned and turned her attention to a guest. I dragged my sorry ass upstairs and directly into the shower.
The hot water and my mint soap brought me back to life.
I was tired, but in the best way possible.
As the water streamed over my head and down my back, I rested my hand on the tile wall.
Over the last twenty-four hours, I’d battled at least eight raging hard-ons, and this morning’s case of morning wood had left my dick throbbing even harder than my lower back.
I needed food and some sleep, but even more, I needed Clara.
Gripping my shaft, I first replayed the moment her body slammed into mine.
Then I remembered the squeal she’d let out when I’d yanked her through my legs and into the air.
The last time we’d fucked, we were young and inexperienced.
I wondered if she’d still make the same sweet moans that she did fifteen years ago.
With my dick gripped in my fist, it only took a few pumps before my body shuddered and exhaustion fully set in. But I couldn’t sleep yet. My to-do list was long: devour a Swamp Monster, draft a clause, and play in my inaugural game with the Beardog Growlers.
After lunch, I bundled up and walked to Charlotte’s real estate office. She’d agreed to help me draft the new clause. I could’ve done it myself, but part of me wanted to ensure that Charlotte was fully on board with the new plan. She did have Logan’s ear, after all.
The twenty-foot Christmas tree glowed with warm white lights and practically brushed the vaulted ceilings of the renovated heritage building.
When I was a kid, the building that housed Charlotte’s brokerage had been an auto parts shop.
Today, there was no sign of its past life in its exposed brick and sleek glass bannisters.
Trendy Edison bulbs burned in the modern chandelier that hung from the ceiling.
“Up here!” Charlotte waved from the loft that overlooked the lobby. Upstairs, Charlotte sat behind her desk. She spun her laptop around as I took a seat across from her.
“Okay, Shepherd. I’ve done the impossible. I think I’ve crafted a clause that will make everyone happy.”
I leaned in, scanning the legal jargon. It was aggressive. The highlights were subsidized rates not to exceed twenty percent of market value and priority booking windows for non-profit youth organizations.
“I’m impressed. Mouser, the King's lawyer will probably take credit for it, though.” I chuckled.
“Let him.” She removed her reading glasses. “But Beck, we’ve got a problem.”
“What is it?”
She folded her hands. “Even with this clause, people are sentimental. They don’t want a new arena. They want their arena. If the vote goes south tomorrow, this deal dies. Then, if your boss pulls out, the town gets nothing. No new rink. No economic development.”
I rubbed my temples. “Charlotte. It’s just a building.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Maybe to you. It also sits on prime real estate. If anything, that land should be allocated to affordable housing, not more vacation homes owned by out-of-towners. Do you want to know what I think?”
Nodding, I wasn’t sure I did.
“This arena project is a ruse. Your boss wants the land, and the way this deal is structured, he’s getting it for a deal. Or rather, a steal.”
All this time I’d thought William’s priority was the NHPL expansion. “What do you suggest? I feel like we’re backed into a corner here.”
Her smile told me she already had a plan.
“There’s the old mill site. It’s zoned industrial, but it’s been closed for a decade. It’s also prime real estate on the river. This is the parcel you should’ve been targeting from the beginning.”
I nodded. “It would be nice to see that eyesore redeveloped.”
She pulled up a satellite image and turned the screen toward me. “The only problem is it’s a brownfield site. Cleanup won’t be cheap.”
“William has a budget for cleanup,” I said. “If the purchase price is right.”
“You’re going rogue.” Charlotte chuckled as she jotted a note on a piece of paper. “I’ll speak to the owner and see what I can put together.”
“It could be a hard sell.” I rubbed my chin. “But at the end of the day, if it’s a better deal, it’s just business, right?”
“Just business.” She winked. “And, Beck?”
“Yeah?”
“My commission is five percent.”
I groaned. “You’re going to get me fired.”
“Maybe.” She handed me the file folder. “But at least you won’t get run out of town.”
I shook her hand. “You drive a hard bargain, Charlotte Brush.”
“I’m only Mrs. Brush at the rink.” She pointed to her letterhead: Charlotte O'Hare, Broker of Record. "I keep O'Hare for business. It reminds people I'm not just Logan's wife."
“Are you going to your husband’s game tonight?”
“Me and the entire town.”
By six o’clock, my nerves had officially set in. I was jittering worse than when I’d dressed for Game 7 in the Stanley Cup Finals. How could that be?
My body ached from shoveling, the throb in my lower back reminded me I wasn’t twenty-two anymore.
“Look who finally dragged his ass in,” Wick called as I stepped into the dressing room.
“I had to get my beauty sleep.”
“Bullshit.” Nick Tinsel grinned. “Evie said you rolled in at noon today, stinking like a drunk raccoon.”
“Yeah, well, your mom likes raccoons.” A mom joke, it was risky.
The room went quiet for a millisecond, then exploded.
Logan crossed the room and handed me a jersey. It was orange, the logo featured a dog holding a beer mug leaning over a garbage can. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous they didn’t get snowed in with a pretty girl.”
How did he know? “I’m not confirming anything.” I grabbed the sweater and took a seat next to Evan.
“Busted.” One of guys I hadn’t met yet waved at me. Behind him hung a reflective jacket with a snowplow logo.
“Alright,” Logan cut in. “Settle down. Diefenbunker is not here tonight, so that’s still a rumor. But there are a few Triple-A kids on their roster. They’re going to try and wear us down. Keep your shifts short. We’ll beat them with experience.”
His eyes landed on me. “Shepherd, you’re my right winger. Wick, you’re on the left. Don’t play hero. Just put the puck in the net.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The roar of the crowd echoed in the small arena. Every wooden bleacher was crammed full. People stood shoulder to shoulder behind the top row. I knew Clara was there. I could feel it.
It took a few seconds to spot her. She was in the third row up, sitting with Megan and an old lady with white hair. When I caught her eye, her laugh turned to a bashful smile, and she gave me a tiny nod.
Adrenaline pumped in though my veins, chasing away my exhaustion.
The game was a grinder. Old-timers hockey is slow, but tonight the barn was filled with skilled players, sprinkled a handful of youthful ones.
The old guys were scrappier than the younger players and handed out elbows and body checks like candy canes at the Christmas parade.
The Windswan team was good, but not as good as us.
With a minute left in the game and the score tied 2-2, Wick handed out a cross-check that landed him in the penalty box.
We were one man down. The crowd was on their feet.
Clara stood on the bench, her hands clasped in front of her face.
A woman who looked to be in her late eighties, wearing Tinsel’s jersey, held up a sign that read: GOALIE’S GRANDMA IS WATCHING.
It had to be the infamous GJ from Snowy Peaks.
The puck dropped and I charged up the right side. Hands beat the plexiglass as I passed by. “Brush!” I shouted and tapped my stick on the ice.
Logan dangled the puck, faked a slap-shot, then passed to me. I was ready and fired a clapper into the five-hole.
The place exploded.
My edges dug into chewed-up ice, my legs screaming as I slammed into my new teammates to celebrate. We won the game, and after we shook hands with our rivals, I looked up at the stands.
Clara was skipping down the stairs. She made her way to the player’s bench and leaned over the metal bar that ran behind it.
“Hey,” I panted, pulling off my helmet.
“Show-off.” Her eyes sparkled. “You almost took out the goalie’s nuts.”
She was adorable. “Bruised balls are a goalie life hazard.” If only she knew what impact she’d had on mine.
She pointed to the door. “Meet me in the hallway.”
“Okay.” I followed the guys off the ice and waited for her to make her way through the crowded lobby.
“Beck.” She fisted my jersey. “You played good.”
“Just good?”
“Fine. You played great.” She bit her lip, then in front of the entire town of Chance Rapids, stood on her toes and kissed me.
“Is that what it takes to get a kiss from a pretty girl?” Wick elbowed me as he passed by.
Clara smiled. “A bunch of people are going to Charie’s bar, the Beardog.”
“Who’s Charlie?” I asked.
“Charlie’s number four, your defenseman.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, that Charlie.” I was an idiot. “Do you want to go?”
“Yes. I would,” she said. She rose onto her toes, and I thought she was going to kiss me again, but her lips brushed past my cheek. “Then I want to show you my cabin.”
My hockey pants hid the thickening of my cock and my heart hammered more blood through my veins. “I’m fucking in.”
This time she didn’t have to stand on her toes, I leaned down and kissed her. Her Burt’s Bees ChapStick tasted like coconut.
A whistle cut through the arena.
“Get a room, Shepherd! Or a fish hut!” The snowplow driver, who was creatively nicknamed Mr. Plow, yelled.
I rested my forehead against hers.
“I’ll save you a seat,” she whispered.
Squeezing her hand, I felt like a teenager again. “I’ll be there. I promise.”