12. Chapter 11
Beck
The next few days between the pool incident and game night pass in a blur of practice, ice baths, and one team dinner at Breakers where Mack threatened Finn with the baseball bat for attempting to start a conga line during the dinner rush.
I've spent every second of it doing two things: preparing for the biggest game of my career, and thinking about Darcy Madden's hand down my swim trunks.
Christ.
I've jerked off so many times I'm fairly sure my dick is about to fall off.
But weirdly, that's not even the part I keep going back to.
It's Darcy laughing in the pool. Her dark hair soaked, that perfect composure completely shot to hell. The way she was clinging to my shoulders while she splashed me in the face and called me an asshole.
In that tiny moment that I had her all to myself, she wasn't the analyst trying to decide whether I belong on this team. She wasn't even the perfect Darcy Madden with perfect clothes and the perfect fucking posture.
She was just Darce.
And fuck me, I liked her like that. Maybe more than I should.
But now it's Saturday night, and I'm sitting in my stall in the locker room, half-dressed in my gear, raring to go.
The Bear Cave is breathing above us. Twelve thousand people have sold out the arena again. This will be the third sell-out in a row, which means Josie is somewhere upstairs doing a smug little dance that she absolutely deserves.
The bass from the arena speakers thumps through the concrete like a heartbeat, and even down here, the whole building feels alive.
God, I love game nights.
I pull out my phone and open my calendar app, because even though I'm about to kick some ass on the ice, I am nothing if not a romantic who follows through on my promises.
TO: Darcy Madden
EVENT: FIRST PROPER DATE WITH A MAN
Time: Tonight. Immediately post-game. No exceptions.
Location: Classified.
Description: Attendance is mandatory. This event has been color-coded RED, which I'm told means non-negotiable. Dress code: whatever makes you feel like breaking rules. Refreshments provided. RSVP by doing nothing, because you're coming either way, Spreadsheet.
I hit send to Darcy's work email and grin at my phone like an idiot.
Three seconds later, a notification ignites my phone: Darcy Madden has accepted your invitation.
Then a follow-up email vibrates in my hand.
You color-coded a date? I don't think I've ever been more attracted to someone. Good luck tonight. Go win your game.
I'm still grinning when Declan thuds onto the bench beside me, fully suited up and looking like he was born in hockey pads.
The room is already alive around us, navy-and-gold jerseys hanging from the stalls, fresh sticks lined beneath the glowing Bears crest on the wall.
There are stacks of white towels disappearing almost as quickly as the equipment staff can replace them, and across the room, Coach is attacking the giant whiteboard with a marker while half-dressed players weave around him, grabbing whatever overpriced sports drink Margot has promised will make us invincible tonight.
Declan digs around in his bag for his phone, then sits up straight beside me as he reads a message.
"Zoey's up in the suite with Morgan," he says, dropping the phone before pulling his laces tight. "Flight back to Chilmore is at seven tomorrow morning, so this will be her last game."
"Then we better make it good." I tug my navy Bears jersey over my shoulder pads, the gold number nineteen settling across my shoulders. "Morgan wants a goal. She texted me a list of demands. A goal, a fight, and for me to point at her when I score."
Declan chuckles. "She sent me the same list."
"I bet she sent it to Mason too," I say.
"She's hedging her bets. Smart kid."
I nod toward the ceiling. "Plus the Madden Gala VIPs are here tonight. The hundred-and-twelve-grand people. Darcy's father has put on the full experience. Expensive suite, rink-side warmup access, the works."
"Does that mean you're gonna behave better than you did in the pool the other morning?" Declan says, side-eyeing me.
I look across at him, and fuck, he knows.
"Mase told you what he saw from the balcony, huh?"
Declan shrugs. "All he said is that he thinks you're a shit swimming instructor."
“Excuse me? She swam.”
Declan grins. “Just saying, I'm twenty-nine and I've never needed to put my hand around someone's throat to teach them backstroke.”
A laugh bursts out of me as I shake my head. “Then your teaching methods lack innovation.”
“Clearly.”
We both laugh, and for a moment, it feels nice.
Like the good old times.
Growing up, I used to think Declan was invincible. Not in the dumb kid way, but the way he just kind of just... stood there. Between me and whatever was coming. He did it without question.
I hate that it's been weird since the boardwalk. Since the truth about Dad came out and I realized the man I'd been looking up to my entire life had been lying to me because he thought I was too fragile to handle the truth.
That still stings.
Some mornings I wake up and the anger is still there, and I want to shake him and say you lied to me for seventeen years, you absolute walnut.
But then there's moment's like this.
Right now, I have my big brother sitting next to me before we play hockey together. Needling me back and giving me as much shit as I give him.
Yeah. Being lied to hurts.
I don't think that part is going to go away anytime soon.
But at least Declan's still… here. Trying.
Across the room, Finn is gathering an audience with his phone in hand, hair doing its Irish rebellion thing.
"Lads. Lads! Have ye seen this?" He turns the screen around. Some Instagram sports network has a graphic with my face on it, the word INCOMING TRADE rudely covering my best features. "They're saying three teams have made calls about our Becky boy!"
My ears perk up. They have?
"Three teams?" Sawyer speaks up from his corner. "I bet Winnipeg's one of them."
"Yep. Winnipeg," Finn nods, delighted. "You know what the average temperature in Winnipeg is in January, Beck? It's minus, lad. The whole number is minus."
"Becky boy will have to buy a coat," Travis calls out. "Like, a real one. Not that leather jacket you wear even though we live on the fucking beach!"
The room laughs, and I laugh with them, because that's the job. That's the role. Beck Morrison, unbothered, bulletproof, funny about his own execution.
But something snags in the back of my head.
Three teams have made calls?
Why don't I know about any of this?
And suddenly, I remember Darcy standing at the edge of the pool the other morning in that sexy-as-hell green swimsuit asking, way too casually, do you talk to your agent much these days?
I thought she was making conversation.
But looking back now, I can't help but put the pieces together.
Darcy Madden doesn't just make conversation. The woman has a color-coded calendar and checks her work three times before sending it. She doesn't ask idle questions.
She was checking whether I knew something.
Is there something that Darcy knows that I don't?
I roll that around for a second as Mason thumps back across the locker room from his shower.
Declan leans forward beside me, forearms resting on his pads. “Three teams already?”
Finn nods. “According to this.”
“Jesus,” Declan mutters. "This is getting serious."
"You alright?" Mason asks from the stall beside mine. He's got his phone out already, thumbs moving. "What's going on?"
"I'm great. Apparently I'm popular. Three whole teams want to pick me up and take me away from Beachside." I nod at his phone. "Who're you texting? Rose?"
Mason's entire body goes rigid as the color drains from his face.
"Shut the fuck up," he hisses. His head whips toward Coach Pearson so fast I'm genuinely worried about his spine. "How do you — how the hell do you even—"
I lean back, arms folded behind my head.
"Bro." I keep my voice low, but the smugness is fully operational. "You think I don't have eyes? You might see what's happening in the pool before sunrise..." I lean in closer. "But I see what's happening in the steam room after everyone's supposedly gone home for the night."
The look on my brother's face is absolutely priceless.
It's panic and fury and a very specific brand of oh shit that only happens when someone realizes their highly inappropriate relationship with the coach's daughter has been on show this whole time.
"You need to shut your mouth." Mason's neck goes all blotchy, and his eyes dart between me and Coach Pearson. "Right now. Her father, who by the way is the man who controls whether I play hockey or become unemployed, is literally thirty feet away from us, Beck."
"Fine," I say, dropping the smirk. "Then if it's not… her… that you're texting, then who is it?"
Mason huffs, looking at his phone again. "Dad."
I blink. "Dad, Dad?"
"Yeah. He asked if we're on TV tonight. I gave him my streaming login.
" Mason keeps typing, completely casual, like he's telling me the pasta's ready.
"I had to talk to Mom first though. She usually watches, but she's found some friends to go out with tonight.
She wants us to call Sunday, by the way. Let her know how we went."
"Hold on." I hold up a hand. "You talk to both of them? Mom and Dad?"
Mason shrugs. "Someone has to."
He says it without any weight, just a fact, and pockets the phone.
I stare at him. My brother, texting our cheating father his streaming login like it's nothing. Like there isn't a crater in the middle of our family with all our names in it.
"How?" I ask, and it comes out more honest than I planned. "How do you just... talk to him?"
"I dunno." Mason shrugs into his jersey. "It's just texts, Beck. I'm not absolving him. I'm just letting our father watch us play hockey."
And suddenly, Poppy's voice rings in my head again. Maybe you don't need to know what to say to your father yet.
Maybe Mason has found his version of coping with all of this.
Mine just… looks different to his.
That's allowed. Right?
"Cool," I say. "Well… Tell him I said hi."