18. Chapter 17
Darcy
The visiting suite at the Vegas arena is a crime against modest budgets.
There's a private bar stocked with champagne, a marble counter loaded with sliders and salty fries and a shrimp tower taller than me, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking twenty thousand seats glowing gold under the lights.
A waiter in a black vest keeps appearing at my elbow like a magic trick from the casino floor, refilling a wine glass I still haven't touched.
I should be inhaling all of it.
Instead, I'm running on ninety minutes of sleep and a report I rewrote eleven times last night, trying to make numbers about Beck Morrison say something kinder than they do.
"—and then he used the belt," Josie whispers, and Rose makes a noise like a kettle. They're onto their second bottle of champagne already. We've been here for thirty minutes.
"The belt from his pants?"
"Rose, where else do belts live?"
"I don't know!" Rose fans herself with a cocktail napkin. "Meanwhile Mason texted me a photo of the room service menu with one item circled and the caption thinking of you. And it was the strawberries."
They both squeak and giggle some more.
So much for keeping that a secret.
"Oh my God. I need to lie down," Josie says, only to slurp more alcohol instead of laying down.
"You two are disgusting," I mutter.
Josie tips her sunglasses down even though we're indoors at night, because Vegas. "And you look like you slept in a filing cabinet. What's wrong?"
"I was working. And nothing is wrong. I'm just doing what I came to Vegas to do. My job."
"Oh, the report." Josie's voice softens as she rubs my arm. "Darce. You know he'll—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Not now. Say another word, and I swear to God, I'll cry."
Below us, the lights drop on the rink. The crowd cheers and the horn sounds, and the Bears spill onto the ice to a wall of boos so loud the glass hums. Declan glides to center for the face-off, eyes set like concrete.
Mason settles onto the blue line, calm as Sunday as my two best friends cheer for the team.
But when I look down, I see it.
The hole.
The left wing spot where Beck should be, filled by a kid named Bailey who is a perfectly nice human, but absolutely not Beck Morrison.
Even from up here, the whole line-up looks like a smile with a tooth knocked out.
The girls settle back down in the seats beside me, Rose leaning over to ask, "Where is Beck anyway? He's supposed to be here, right?"
I shrug and look at the clock on the jumbotron. "No idea. I haven't seen him since—"
Since he took one look at me, broke my heart with those daggers, and stormed out of this very building.
I swallow as Josie steals a bowl of fries from the waitress walking by.
"Declan said he never saw him," Josie says. "He went for a walk, searching the hotel. He stayed up as late as he could, waiting by his door."
"Mason said he'd been weird all day. Maybe Poppy said something to him?" Rose considers.
My stomach has been folding itself into smaller and smaller squares since warmups.
Where could he be? Beck should be here.
Because the thing is, this doesn't look good. I'm starting to finalize my recommendation for Colin with my report.
And after a very abrupt and, frankly, rude phone call my mother gladly dealt me as I piled onto the team bus yesterday, I know I can't fuck this up.
Because my mother didn't call to wish me luck. She called to remind me who I am.
Apparently, word of the Morrison trade has traveled through her circles. Someone's husband knows someone on the league board, which means my evaluation is now dinner-party conversation in Beverly Hills.
I spent twenty minutes of Diana Madden explaining that a Madden doesn't get things wrong publicly. That recommending a franchise trade away one of its most beloved players and being mistaken about it isn't just a career stumble, it's the kind of story that ruins a family name.
She wasn't cruel. She never is.
She was helpful, in that way that feels like the corset she yanked tight on the night she set me up with one of her society sons.
Make sure your judgement is always right, darling. We do not make mistakes.
So no pressure. Just my career, my reputation, and thirty years of Madden perfection riding on one report.
The puck drops. Vegas wins the draw, and within two minutes, one of their wingers walks straight through the space Beck usually dies defending and buries one top shelf.
1-0. The home crowd explodes.
The Bears reset, but something still feels wrong.
Three minutes later, Mason sends a beautiful stretch pass up the boards, right into the space Beck usually attacks.
Bailey gets there.
Eventually.
But by the time he collects the puck, Vegas has already collapsed around him and the play dies against the boards.
I shake my head.
Beck would've been there.
I know it instantly. Worse, I know exactly what Beck would've done with it.
He would've taken the puck in stride, cut inside and either forced the defenseman to commit or made one of those ridiculous passes that gives me heart palpitations almost as reliably as when he grabs my hair and calls me his good girl.
"Oh no," Rose says quietly, nudging me. "Look who decided to show up."
I look over just as the suite door opens.
Oh, thank Christ.
Beck walks in, and my heart does something complicated and painful. He's in a suit, a dark, rumpled thing, nothing like the gala tux that made my knees forget their job. His hair looks messier than usual, and his tie is missing entirely.
Where the hell has he been? Did he pull an all-nighter in Vegas?
He glances at me across the VIP box, but it so fast, I practically miss it.
No grin. No cheeky wink. No hey, Spreadsheet.
Nothing.
He checks his phone, frowns at whatever's on it, and drops into a seat at the very front of the box. Literally as far away from me as the room allows. Josie and Rose exchange a look over my head that they think I don't see.
I pull out my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Can we talk?
I watch Beck pull his phone out, and the screen lights up in his hand. He looks at my message, and I see the tiny shift in his shoulders.
Down on the ice, Vegas forces another turnover through the neutral zone. Bailey gets caught too high, leaving Finn scrambling across to cover, and suddenly it's a two-on-one with Sawyer stranded in the crease.
He never has a chance.
Bears are down 2-0. Nine minutes in.
The suite groans as Josie swears at a man giving us the finger from in front of the window. Rose grabs the napkins again, this time for actual stress.
And Beck?
Beck puts his phone face-down on the armrest, completely emotionless. I look to my phone, waiting for the reply.
But it doesn't come.
By first intermission, it's 3-0 and the shrimp tower has become a grief-eating station for sulking Bears fans.
I make my move the second the horn sounds, weaving past the marble counter with a speech half-loaded in my head. Something professional. Something honest. Something that doesn't start with Beck, please look at me again. I miss you.
But when I get closer, he moves to the darkest corner of the suite, his phone pressed to his ear. He's animated more than usual, one hand shoved through his hair as he paces toward the far window. He's talking low and fast, his back to the whole suite.
I stop three feet away like an idiot.
He glances over his shoulder, sees me, but turns back to the window without even so much as a kind glance.
Okay. Cool. Message received.
I retreat to my seat, where Josie is watching over her sunglasses like a lifeguard about to jump in.
"That's it," she announces. "I'm going over there."
I slump back in my seat. "You're not going over there."
"I'll be polite. I'll simply walk over, smile, and rip him a brand new asshole for being such a jerk."
"Josie—"
"What? He's ignoring you. At a hockey game. That's like ignoring someone at their own birthday party." She points a fry at me, eyes steady. "There are rules, you know."
"I agree. That man has an entire second asshole coming," Rose agrees, deadly calm, which is somehow scarier. "I know where they keep the zamboni keys. I can go get it and drive it right up his—"
"Nobody is using arena vehicles," I say, cutting Rose off with a stiff hand. "Sit down. Both of you."
They do exactly that, but Rose keeps glaring at the back of Beck's head like she's trying to set it on fire with her mind.
Down on the ice, second period begins, but it only gets worse.
Vegas scores twice more, and the Bears look like eleven men playing a sport and one man—Declan—trying to win a war by himself. He throws a hit so hard the glass flexes, and the home crowd boos him with genuine affection.
It's the most Vegas thing I've seen all night.
At the second intermission, I move quickly to try and get Beck again, but as soon as I stand, he's on the phone. Again. Same low voice, same turned back, same knife between my ribs.
Who is he talking to? His father? A very chatty blackjack dealer?
By the third period, the score is 6-1, and Declan is in the penalty box for what the referee called roughing. I'd call fully justified considering how badly we've played tonight.
At the front of the suite, Beck suddenly unfolds from his chair.
I look up just as he rises, rolls his shoulders beneath his rumpled jacket and stares down at the ice one final time.
For half a second, I think he's finally going to look at me. Maybe even come and speak to me.
Instead, he just buttons his jacket, pockets his phone, and walks out of the suite while his brothers are still bleeding on the ice below.
There's no announcement, no glance back.
He's just… gone.
I'm on my feet before my brain votes.
"Darcy—" Josie starts to follow, but Rose throws an arm across her.
"Go get him," Rose says. "And if he's mean to you, remember. Zamboni."
The hallway outside the suite is a river of cocktail waitresses and men in silk shirts. Up ahead, Beck moves through it fast, shoulders up, head down.