9. Chapter 8
Beck
Dr. Poppy Sinclair's office doesn't look like what I thought a therapist's office would be.
There's no leather couch, no framed diploma on the wall, and there's no box of tissues positioned at crying distance.
Instead, there's a chair so comfortable I'm nearly falling asleep, looking out a window with an actual ocean view that might well match the one I woke up with at the mansion this morning.
Poppy's still typing on her laptop, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, calm as a monk.
Which leaves me alone with my thoughts while I examine the bowl of expensive dark chocolates on her desk.
And my thoughts, ladies and gentlemen, are exclusively about Darcy Madden's mouth.
Goddamn.
That kiss in the kitchen has been replaying on a loop ever since we left the gala last night. The way she grabbed my shirt. The little sound she made against my lips. The goddamn taste of her.
Fuck.
Kissing Darcy Madden might genuinely be the best thing I've ever done, and I once scored a between-the-legs goal on national television.
Christ. Is it weird that I'm more turned on by the woman trying to end my career than I have been by any other woman in my life? Is that what the experts would call an unhealthy obsession?
Should I be disclosing this crush to my therapist?
I scrub a hand through my hair.
Shit.
I have a therapist now. An actual therapist.
When did my life become… this?
Six months ago my biggest problem was rolling out of my massive bed in my equally massive mansion and stumbling down to convince Mason to make my favorite breakfast.
Now I'm sitting in a chair that's hugging me, waiting for a tiny therapist woman to dissect my brain, while the woman trying to trade me lives rent-free inside it.
Okay. Coach might have a point. I DO need help.
Poppy closes her laptop and slides her glasses off, setting them down before looking at me with the calmest eyes I've ever seen on a human being.
My body goes all weird and shaky as she gets up from her desk. I swallow hard as she crosses the room and settles into the armchair opposite me. Dr. Sinclair's maybe five-three, and she moves like someone who has never once been in a hurry.
"Alright," she breathes, smiling. "Beck. Thanks for coming."
"I mean, it was mandatory, but you're welcome."
"Mandatory attendance still counts as attendance." She folds her hands in her lap. "Can I get you anything? Water? Chocolate?"
Poppy glances towards those little squares of temptation wrapped in shiny gold foil on her desk.
To be fair, they look like they belong in a billionaire's safe, not a therapist's office.
Fancy as hell, probably filled with imported caramel or some secret truth serum designed to spill my guts.
One bite and I'd probably confess every childhood insecurity, like the time Declan beat me at Monopoly and I cried because I thought it meant I’d be poor forever.
"Is the chocolate a trap?"
Poppy raises a brow. "How would chocolate be a trap, Beck?"
"I don't know. I take a piece, and suddenly I owe you my childhood trauma. Classic bait and switch tactic, right?"
A patient smile crosses her face. "It's just chocolate, Beck."
I fold my arms and sink back in the chair. "That's exactly what a chocolate trap would say."
Poppy doesn't laugh, but she doesn't frown either. She just... waits.
It's unsettling.
I'm used to people reacting to me. Laughing, groaning, throwing hockey gloves at my head to get me to shut up. But Poppy Sinclair reacts to me the way the ocean reacts to a pebble being lobbed into its endless depths.
"So how does this work?" I ask, spreading my arms across the chair. "Do I lie down while you hypnotize me? Or is this the part where you swing a pocket watch and make me cluck like a chicken? Because, full disclosure, I can already cluck on command."
Again, Poppy is calm as hell.
"We just talk." That tiny smile appears again.
What's with this woman?
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Huh." I drum my fingers on the armrest. "Talking. Alright… lucky for you, talking is my specialty. This is going to be the easiest hour of your career, doc. You should've brought a book."
"Noted." She tilts her head and grabs a notepad from the table sitting between us. "So how are you feeling today?"
That's her opening question? Shit. This is going to be a breeze.
"Great, actually." And I'm not even lying. "My sister, Zoey, flies in from Chilmore today. She's staying the whole weekend. Josie set the whole thing up. Big sibling reunion, beach house, Diego working his magic in the kitchen. The works."
"You're close with your sister?"
"Oh yeah. Zoey basically raised us. She's the only person alive who can look at me mid-sentence and know exactly which parts are bullshit." I grin. "It's a terrifying superpower."
"So you're excited to see her."
"I guess," I shrug, rolling my shoulders. "I mean, she's going to insult my hair within ninety seconds of landing, but I've missed that kind of love."
Poppy nods slowly, scratching at her notepad with a Bears branded pen. "And what about the rest of the family? They'll all be there this weekend?"
"The Beachside branch, yeah. Declan, Mason, me. The full Morrison circus, minus the ringmaster and the—" I stop to recalibrate. "Minus the parents."
"Minus the parents," she repeats, gently, watching me carefully. "Why aren't they coming, Beck?"
"Well, they're kind of tied up at the moment," I say. "Divorcing. Splitting up the lifetime collection of stuff they didn’t even notice they owned until now. You know, the usual parental bullshit."
Poppy’s expression doesn’t move. Her eyebrows stay right where they are, unimpressed. Seriously, this is like trying to charm a goddamn Buddha statue.
"And how do you feel about that?" she asks softly, lowering her pen.
"How do I feel?" I laugh, sharp and humorless. "I feel like Dad's shopping for a convertible while my mom is buying enough Chardonnay to keep her therapist employed through Christmas. You know how it goes."
The pen’s back in her hand now, tapping against the notepad like she’s waiting for the bullshit to run out.
The worst part? Sitting in this room, in this chair with her looking at me with all the patience in the world, it might.
Fuck me.
All I wanted to do when I woke up this morning, was work out a plan how I was going to find a way to kiss Darcy Madden again. Maybe plan an accidental hallway collision. Or a casual “Hey, come help me with my stats—oh, crap, now we’re kissing again” maneuver.
But nope. I’m here.
Under verbal assault from Dr. Peaceful, who within minutes of our first session, somehow has me unpacking childhood trauma.
Not exactly the post-kiss glow I was aiming for.
"So Beck," Poppy continues. "Your parents divorce… how is that making you feel?"
I wave a hand. "You've read the file, right? Colin sent you a file? I feel like there's a file."
"I'd rather hear it from you."
"That's very flattering, but the file's probably funnier."
She just waits. God, the waiting. It's fucking killing me.
"Okay, quick version." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "My dad had an affair. Declan knew the whole time but never said a word. I found out about all of it on a livestream, surrounded by strangers eating churros. The end. Roll credits."
I go to push out of my chair, hating this isn't as easy as I'd hoped and absolutely ready for one of Diego's double-strength margarita's awaiting for me at the mansion.
But Poppy just continues the assault. "That's a lot to find out at once."
"Yeah, well. I'm a fast learner."
That's it. Nice, simple response. Make this short and sharp.
"And your father — have you spoken to him since?"
"He called." I shrug. "Left a voicemail. Something about wanting me to hear his side."
"Have you listened to it?"
"Yeah."
"Have you called him back?"
The question lingers for a moment.
And here's the thing — I have a joke ready. I always have a joke ready. Maybe one about screening calls, or how my voicemail box is already full of Finn's trash talk.
The joke is loaded. Right there.
But despite wanting to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible…
It doesn't come out.
Instead, I look at the chocolate bowl on her desk, then out the window at the water, and my body sinks into the chair with a heavy sigh.
"I dunno, doc." I stare at the ocean. "I guess I haven't called him back, because maybe, for the first time in my life... I don't know what to say."
The office is deadly silent.
I've spent twenty-four years never running out of words. It's the one thing I've got. You put me in a locker room, on a stage, on live TV…
Hell, do what Charles Madden did last night and throw me in front of a hundred people at a charity auction with a microphone in my hand and I will fill every second of it.
But the second my own father calls, wanting nothing but the chance to hear him out, and I've got nothing.
Poppy studies me for another second, then says ever so softly, "You said something interesting when you first sat down."
"I've said several interesting things. You're going to need to narrow it down."
"You said you feel great."
I blink across at her. "Yeah. Well, I do."
"But your parents are divorcing. You've just discovered your father had an affair and your brother lied to you." She pauses. "But you know what I saw? You walked in here smiling."
Well.
Fuck.
I shift deeper into the chair. "Maybe I'm naturally resilient."
"Maybe."
"Excellent. Therapy complete."
I go to escape again, but this tiny woman has a goddamn stranglehold on me.
"Or maybe something else has your attention."
I collapse back in the chair.
Something else.
Do I tell my brand-new therapist I kissed the team analyst last night?
Do I tell her I've spent every night since Darcy Madden threatened to trade my ass halfway across the country with my hand wrapped around my dick because apparently nothing gets Beck Morrison going like professional rejection and a woman who looks at him like he's a particularly irritating roster error?
Probably not.