17. Chapter 16 #3
"Penalty kill stays the same," Coach continues. "Forecheck adjustments — Pete's got clips for tonight's video session when we get back. And now, the lineup." He glances at the iPad. "We're going in with one change for tomorrow. Beck… you're gonna sit this one out."
Huh.
I actually look around. Like there's another Beck here. Like maybe we signed one this afternoon and this has nothing to do with me.
But every set of eyes has turned to face me, burning into my fucking soul.
"Wait." My voice comes out weird. "What?"
Coach's expression tightens. "With everything happening around the roster right now, management wants a look at the line-up without you in it. See what the combinations look like, where the gaps are, what changes." He pauses. "It's part of the evaluation process, Beck. Nothing's been decided."
For a second, I just stare at him.
They want to see if the team works without me?
Somehow, that's worse.
"You'll sit this one out, kid. I've got you down as a healthy scratch," Coach repeats, like we're already moving on. "Sit up with the crew in the press box tomorrow. We'll talk after video. Alright — showers, bus leaves in thirty."
The circle breaks apart around me, but I don't move.
A healthy scratch?
What the fuck even is that?
I flew here with the team. I trained twice a day all week. I ate Declan's labeled quinoa. I made the boring play, the right play, twice in a row, ten minutes ago, on this exact sheet of ice.
And I'm watching from the press box in a suit?
The guys skate past me as a couple of gloves tap my shin pads, murmurs of sorry, brother, tough one, but it all lands like sound underwater.
Then I look at the bench.
Darcy's sitting right there behind the glass, tablet in her lap, and I look at her because she's the one person in this building who looks at me like I'm not a mistake with skates on.
But this time, she doesn't smile.
She doesn't make everything okay like I told Poppy she did.
She looks away. Fast.
And everything clicks into place with a sick, quiet little snap.
I've got a very important report to get ready.
Colin's calls all week. Her going stiff at the lookout. The question she dodged on the pier. Her whole "professional capacity" routine since we boarded the bus this morning.
She knew.
She sat six rows ahead of me on that jet, knowing I wouldn't be playing for my career tomorrow night. She took her key card and let me flirt with her at the check-in desk, knowing they were about to sit me down in front of the whole team and rip my fucking heart from my chest.
Somehow, once again, I'm the last one to find out about my own life.
"Beck, you good—"
Coach tries to come over and talk to me, but I storm past him, my shoulder colliding with his as I speed off the ice. I force my way through the bodies in the locker room, changing as quickly as I can, ignoring any muttered apology that comes my way.
I'm halfway to the exit with my bag over my shoulder when a hand catches the door frame beside my head.
"Beck."
"Not now."
I don't even check which brother it belongs to. Big hand, stupid voice, probably Declan. Doesn't matter.
I duck under his arm and keep walking, boots echoing down the concrete hallway, past the equipment carts, past a security guard who nods at me like this is a normal night in hell.
I finally make it out through a set of double doors into the Vegas evening.
The heat slaps me across the face. Dry, thick, casino-flavored air that smells like asphalt and someone else's cigarette.
I look around. Up and down.
I have no idea where I am. No fucking idea.
Some loading zone on the wrong side of the arena, palm trees strung with lights, the Strip glowing somewhere past the parking structure. The team bus is around front, and the team hotel is… wherever that is.
But that's my whole life, isn't it? I never know where I am.
Somebody always tells me.
Get on the bus, Beck. Sit in the press box, Beck. We'll talk after video, Beck.
A cab idles near the curb with its light on. I yank the door open and drop into the back seat before my brain catches up.
"Where to, buddy?"
I look out the window. "Just drive."
He pulls out, and I sit there with my bag on my knees, waiting for the anger to pick a target.
It doesn't go where I expect.
It's not Darcy lied to me, even though she did, even though the look on her face behind that glass is burned into the back of my skull.
It's simpler than that.
I'm done. Done waiting for everyone else to decide what happens to Beck Morrison. Done finding out about my own life from whistles and livestreams and lineup announcements.
I'm done trying to be fucking happy while everything around me falls apart.
I rip my phone out of my pocket. The missed calls are stacking up the screen already. Declan, Mason, and there, buried in the middle like he's been waiting for this exact moment: Dad.
For half a second, my thumb hovers.
Maybe now I'd finally have something to say to him.
Instead, I scroll, searching for another name.
My agent.
The arena disappears behind us as the cab pulls into Vegas traffic.
I hit CALL.
He answers on the second ring.
"Beck! You're in Vegas, my man!"
I stare through the window at the Strip blazing ahead of me.
"I sure am. Hey, you free for dinner? I need to chat about something."