16. Chapter 15 #2
"You've got mascara right—" I touch the corner of my own eye.
She swipes at it with her thumb, checks her reflection in her phone screen, then glares at me. "This is your fault."
"You're welcome."
She crouches to collect the papers scattered across the floor. I drop down beside her and start handing them over, sneaking glances at spreadsheets covered in my name.
"Oh, by the way." She stacks the pages against her palm, evening the edges with a tap. "Colin wants me in Vegas with the team this weekend."
I stop reaching for a loose page with way too many red columns for my liking. "Vegas?"
"Yeah. For the away game." She looks sideways at me, then hides her expression again. "He said he wants eyes on you during the road trip."
Three days in Vegas? With Darcy?
"That's the best news I've heard since you told me you'd never been on a date."
She doesn't even try to hide the smile this time. "I'm traveling in a professional capacity, Beck. I'll be working. And so will you."
I gesture broadly at the wrecked desk, the scattered papers, and the shredded blue fabric peeking out from under her chair.
"Right. Very professional environment we've got here."
"What happens in my office stays in my office."
"What happens in Vegas, though—"
"Don't."
"What are you packing? Out of curiosity."
"A pantsuit."
"Noted. I'll bring the scissors."
She laughs and the sound bounces off the walls of her tiny office. Slowly, the office starts to resemble what it did when I busted in here right after practice this afternoon.
"So how are you feeling?" She sits back on her heels, papers gathered against her stomach. "After this morning. The film session."
I shrug, rolling my neck. "Fine."
She waits for the rest.
"Someone called the turnover a 'classic Beck play.'" I pick at the carpet. "The mistake I own. That part's fair. But framing it like it's who I am?" I shake my head. "That pissed me off more than the actual criticism."
Darcy looks at me, a little surprised by my tone as she stands. "Are you okay?"
I shrug and pull her against me. "I will be. Once I sneak you into my suite in Vegas."
"Vegas is still part of your evaluation," she says, letting me wrap my arms around her. "So make sure you behave this weekend."
I tilt her face up, kissing her softly. "I promise absolutely nothing."
Dr. Poppy Sinclair's office might be the nicest room in the entire arena.
And I say that as a man who lives in a mansion.
Rolling up early for my second 'mandatory' session before I join the team and take off to Vegas, I see she has two huge balcony doors cracked open, the wild ocean breeze rolling in off the water on a gorgeous sunny Beachside morning.
"Beck," Poppy says, smiling as I enter. "I wasn't expecting you so soon. Please, help yourself to some coffee. I'll be with you in a moment."
She gestures to a French press of coffee that smells as good as Luna's special blend. Hell, maybe it is. The pot is resting next to that bowl of fancy dark chocolate she keeps stocked like a bribe.
"Thanks, Doc."
I pour myself a cup and drop my travel bag at the door. The coffee is dark and ridiculously smooth, and the little square of salted caramel dark chocolate I steal from her bowl starts melting against my fingers before I even reach the chair.
Now I have good coffee, an expensive chocolate, and a giant armchair?
Honestly, if therapy came with a loyalty card, I'd be approaching a free session in no time.
"You're in a good mood," Poppy says without looking up at me over her laptop.
"Why wouldn't I be? I'm off to Vegas today."
“You say that like you’re heading to a pool party, not a road game,” Poppy says, typing something briskly. Her nails click against the keys with the kind of speed Darcy would admire.
“Who says it can’t be both? Hockey first, craps table second, regrettable buffet decisions third.
” I balance the coffee cup on my knee, shooting her my most shameless grin.
“Want me to smuggle you back a novelty shot glass, doc?
Wait. This isn't part of the session, right?
We haven't started. Don't judge me yet.”
“No, Beck. We haven't started.”
I laugh, but the sound’s not as easy as I expect.
This week’s been... draining.
After the game review shit early in the week, I've been busting my ass to show everyone what I'm capable of. But even with every ounce of extra effort I’ve been throwing in on the ice, in the gym, and in front of Coach Pearson, it feels like Darcy’s been drilling holes into me with her gaze.
Every movement, every stretch I've made feels painstakingly analyzed.
And yeah, it’s a little unfair that my brain pairs those professional moments with other moments we've been sharing all week. Her breathless beneath me, completely undone and wrecked, arching off her bed while I kissed every inch of her delicious body.
I haven't taken her back to the mansion, though.
Mainly because Declan and Mason have been their own special brand of torture this week too. I know they mean well. In that suffocating, brotherly way they've always had.
But their version of helping me take on this trade challenge head-on has turned the mansion into a boot camp I never signed up for.
Declan started meal-prepping for me. Not with me. For me.
I came downstairs Tuesday morning and there were six containers in the fridge with my name on them. Literally. He'd labeled them with a Sharpie.
BECK — TUESDAY LUNCH.
BECK — WEDNESDAY PRE-SKATE.
Like I'm five years old and can't be trusted to feed myself.
And Mason?
Mason's been doing this thing where he casually leaves his laptop open on the kitchen island with hockey analytics articles pulled up. Just... sitting there. Like bait.
They love me. I get it. But living in that house right now feels like being a group project nobody trusts all over again.
“Is everything okay, Beck? Or are you already fantasizing about the buffet?” Poppy’s eyebrow quirks as she closes her laptop and joins me down on the opposite chair.
“Just evaluating my mental posture, Doc,” I say lightly.
"Are you ready for our session?" Poppy asks, clicking her pen and pulling up a notepad.
I salute her with the coffee. "Take it away."
She lets a full ten seconds pass, all five-foot-three of her tucked into that chair like a very calm cat. "So. Have you called your father?"
Fuck.
And there it is. Thirty seconds. She didn't even warm me up today. Straight to the daddy issues.
"Wow. We're just raw-dogging therapy today?"
Poppy's pen pauses. "Whenever you're ready."
"No. I haven't called."
"Has he stopped calling?"
"Nope. Every few days. Voicemails. One text with a photo of the game on his TV." I turn the mug in my hands. "I just don't know what I'd say. That's still the honest answer. I pick up the phone and there's nothing in my head. Nothing."
"You remember how we talked about that being allowed?"
I set the coffee down. "Can we talk about something else? Because something else has been chewing on me all week, and I think I might want your advice."
This gets the calmest woman in the world paying attention.
"Of course. Go ahead. What seems to be the trouble, Beck?"
I take a deep breath and let the week unspool behind my eyes.