15. Chapter 14 #3
I take a long sip of my drink, and my free hand drifts to my neck without thinking. My fingers brush the spot where Beck's thumb pressed against my pulse last night, where his grip tightened exactly the way I wanted, and a shiver rolls through me despite the warm air.
Josie's green eyes widen.
Then Rose's gaze slides past me toward the parking lot, where my black convertible sits in its usual spot. Her face changes. Because there, buckled into the passenger seat like a very important guest, is a giant blue stuffed bear.
Beartholomew.
"Oh my God." Rose grabs Josie's arm, both of their jaws dropping. "Oh my God. She fucked him."
"I didn't—"
"YOU FUCKED BECK MORRISON."
"Rose! Volume!"
"Was it good?" Josie demands.
"I'm not answering that."
"Your hand is literally on your throat right now, Darcy. You already answered."
I drop my hand, but it's too late.
Because what follows is the most relentless cross-examination I've endured since my father quizzed me on European hotel contract laws at age fourteen.
Josie wants details. Rose wants feelings.
Both of them want to know when, where, how many times, and whether Beck's personality in bed matches his personality everywhere else.
"Worse," I finally admit, pressing my cold glass against my cheek. "He's worse in bed. More."
"More what?"
"Just... more. Of everything. "
Rose fans herself with a napkin. Josie grins so wide I can see the fish in her teeth.
"And the bear in your car?" Josie prods.
"We won it on our date. Well. I won it. He spent eighty-seven dollars failing."
"That is the most Beck Morrison sentence ever spoken."
I allow myself one small, uncontrolled smile.
My phone buzzes again under my thigh, and I don't check it because if I see one more photo of that man's hand wrapped around himself in a team facility, I will combust in front of witnesses.
The laughter fades when I pick up another fry and realize I can't actually taste it anymore. Because underneath the warmth, underneath the stupid grin I can't flatten, there's a rock sitting at the bottom of my stomach that no amount of fried fish can dissolve.
"There's something I haven't told him."
They both turn to look at me, sensing my sudden drop in tone.
"Colin pulled me in this morning. The trade talks aren't just floating anymore."
The table goes quiet.
"He knows about the evaluation," I say, lowering my voice. "He knows a trade is possible. What he doesn't know is how far Colin's taken it, or how much weight my recommendation actually carries."
Josie's expression changes. "How much weight?"
I stare down at the fry between my fingers.
"Enough that Colin basically handed me Beck's career this morning and told me to pick a direction."
"Oh," Rose says softly.
"Yeah. Oh."
I drag the fry through the tartar sauce, suddenly fascinated by it. "And I've had chances to tell him. Last night on the pier, he looked straight at me and asked if I knew something he didn't."
Josie winces. "What did you say?"
"I'm your analyst. Then proceeded to mount him like some kind of desperate stray dog."
Rose slowly puts down her burger. "Darcy."
"I know."
"And his numbers?" Rose asks gently.
"Still messy. The game loss wasn't a one-off pattern." I drag a fry through tartar sauce without eating it. "That's the problem. The man is brilliant and reckless in the same breath. And no matter what I do, I can't make the data lie just because I want it to."
Josie reaches across the table and squeezes my wrist.
"Darce. You're allowed to have a complicated situation and still survive it." She waits until I look at her. "I say have another dose of the thing making you glow like a goddamn lantern right now. Stop trying to solve everything before breakfast."
Rose nods. "She's right. You're the smartest person I know, Darcy. You'll figure this out. But you're not going to figure it out by skipping the good parts."
I breathe out through my nose and nod, stealing one last fry before pushing back from the table, walking back to my vehicle.
I make it back to the Bear Cave by two, and lucky for me, the hallways are quiet. Most of the team would have finished up their morning skate by now, and the front office is operating at its usual skeleton-crew pace.
My heels echo as I walk toward my office, mentally organizing the Vegas prep list: travel itinerary, Beck's game-day observation template, updated performance data.
I reach my office, push open the door, and step inside.
“Flick the lock.”
The deep, husky voice comes from behind my desk, where my chair is turned around, facing the wrong direction.
The chair spins slowly.
Beck Morrison is sitting behind my desk like a Bond villain who traded the white cat for several hundred pounds of professional hockey player.
His gaze travels over me, pinning me to the doorframe. I swear to God, my knees almost give way.
My pulse trips.
He leans back in my chair, completely at home where he absolutely does not belong.
"Beck, what on earth are you—"
“I said…" He cuts me off, glaring across my own office. "Close the door, Darce. Then come and get on your knees for me."
I swallow hard.
Something Rose said at lunch floats through my head like a whisper.
You're not going to figure it out by skipping the good parts.
So I reach behind me.
Flick the lock and yank the blind down.