Chapter 11
Finley
I start the video on my screen again, watching Jennifer Grey’s feet as if she’s a center on the team we’re playing for the championship.
One, two, three, four, I count in my head, questioning every life decision I made that got me here.
Shit. Left, not right.
I run through it a few times before my watch buzzes, letting me know it’s time to head to Kane’s—Beckett’s. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to calling him that, even if it seems strangely natural to have him call me Finley instead of Coach Blake.
“Come in!” he hollers in response to my knock.
I open the door, slowly moving into his space. “Beckett?” I call.
“Here,” he says, walking out of his bedroom. “Sorry. Needed to take a shower before standing too close to anyone.”
His dark hair is still wet, clinging together as he runs his fingers through it. I forcibly pull my gaze to his face, reminding myself again that he is my player and ogling is out of the question.
“Cleanliness is always appreciated.”
He quirks an eyebrow, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from taking back the inane comment. “Noted.”
I hold up my laptop. “I’ve got the video, so we can practice with the movie, at least for the first few attempts.”
“Perfect.”
I pull the video up as Beckett shoves his coffee table to the side. As soon as I hit play, I move to the center of the room as the opening strains of “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” start playing.
Beckett walks toward me, and my body buzzes in anticipation. This performance is making me more nervous than I’d like. Wrapping his arms around me, we both do our best to maintain an appropriate distance, nothing like the embrace on the screen in front of us.
We move cautiously at first, finding our footing together. He gracefully spins me out, and I laugh at the sudden movement, a giddy feeling like when you lose your stomach on a roller coaster bubbling up within me. Beckett’s hand tightens on my waist, almost as if he’s going to pull me in close.
Beckett steps on my foot, and he curses.
“My bad,” I mumble, my gaze laser-focused on my laptop. I can’t ever seem to remember these steps, which frustrates me to no end.
We muddle through the part with the quick steps, finding our groove as he spins me again before pulling me close once more. Our gazes land anywhere but on each other.
“Where’s the hair flip?” he asks, as I move side to side, his hands two hot irons on my waist.
Beckett twirls me around as I mumble, “It’ll be a cold day… in hell… when I do that. “
“Ah, come on, Queenie.”
“So many sprints,” I threaten, as I place my hand back down on his shoulder, and he laughs like he knows I’m joking.
We move through the more traditional dance portion, our movements more rigid, less…
thrust-y, than the couple on screen. We both pause, not sure what to do as the couple on the screen stares lovingly into each other’s eyes.
Thankfully, it’s only moments before we’re dancing again, our bodies slowly finding the rhythm.
Finally, Beckett lets go of me, and I quickly say, “No hand kiss.” He shrugs before turning away, and I’m amused when he does a limited version of the male solo, hamming it up as he reaches the part where he’s down on his knees.
“You’re supposed to be laughing at me adoringly,” he teases.
“Is this not an adoring look?” I ask, careful to keep my expression blank.
“I think we might’ve discovered why you’re single,” Beckett teases without missing a step.
“And here I was thinking it was the fact I’m already married to my job,” I banter. We get to the section where I’m supposed to hop off the stage, preparing for the big lift, so I press pause on the laptop. We’ll have to go out to the hall for that.
“Is that why?” Beckett asks, not even breathing heavily.
I shrug. “I don’t honestly know at this point.
There aren’t a lot of men interested in dating me, and the ones who are…
tend to like a strong woman in theory, not practice.
My last boyfriend said he loved my drive, until I worked enough late nights in a row that he started calling me cold.
It’s probably for the best, anyway. My schedule is a lot for anyone to have to put up with. ”
“I don’t believe that. Any man would be lucky to have you,” Beckett says softly, his right hand tightening into a fist by his side.
“The only one who ever might’ve agreed got scared off the first time he met my dad. Apparently, Hal Blake is too much, even for those who worship him as a coach.”
“It must be hard having him for a dad.”
I consider my answer. “He’s the reason I am who I am today. Some people think he puts too much pressure on me, but he just wants to make sure I achieve my goals.”
“I get that.”
“Did your dad pressure you to play hockey like him?” I ask, though I immediately regret the decision, remembering the sentence that always follows that one in the articles. Beckett’s dad played AAA hockey until he died in a car wreck.
“He did. And yeah, he’s a big reason I’ve pushed myself as hard as I have.”
There’s a pause, just a second or two, where neither of us says anything. He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but closes it, his gaze snapping away from my face.
Regret twists low in my belly. I shouldn’t have said anything.
Shouldn’t have opened up like that with a player, shouldn’t have tried to connect—especially not him.
I bite the inside of my cheek, holding the emotions threatening to spill over at bay.
I want to take it back, but instead, I turn my attention to the laptop screen, hoping we can move on.
Beckett nods, his gaze seeming to pick up everything I’m not saying, though I know my face is expressionless. “Well, that was good for a first try.”
“You were good,” I say, forcing myself back to the light banter we’d fallen into earlier. “I can’t believe you remember that much from college. That was ages ago.”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest as he moves into the kitchen. “It wasn’t that long ago. And I practiced. I told you I would.”
“I believe you. But I also practiced, and I messed up about twenty times more than you.”
“You did not.” He hands me a glass of water as he takes a sip of his own. “Plus, this is our first practice. We have time to get it right.”
I nod. “Right.” Though it doesn’t feel that way now, I have no doubt we’ll get there, even if it means I’ll have to spend every day with Beckett. Practicing.
“You can count on me,” he says, before winking. It was so nonchalant, I’m not even sure he noticed he was doing it.
A laugh bursts out of me. “Did you just wink at me?”
“Maybe?” But the smirk dancing at the corner of his lips tells me he most certainly did.
“Get it together, Beckett.” I push his arm before immediately breaking the contact. What the hell am I doing? Am I… flirting with my player?
Beckett just chuckles. “Should we try again?”
“Yes.” I force myself to be professional. I get into position, while Beckett restarts the video.
We run through the beginning of the dance three more times, getting to know each other during the breaks, before finally deciding we need to work on the lift.
I almost want to say no, to stay in his apartment where we get to be the versions of ourselves who laugh together and tell stories about painful middle school dances and a packed auditorium for a college dance performance.
When we get into the hall, we both walk to our respective ends, and I silently pray none of our neighbors choose this moment to leave their apartments.
“Ready?” Beckett asks, humor lacing his tone.
I push onto the balls of my feet a few times. “Just psyching myself up. I’m not meant for flying.”
“I didn’t drop you last time.”
No, he didn’t. But that was half the problem. Having his hands on my hips, lifting me like I weighed nothing, was a shock to my system that I’m not sure I can survive again. The way his warmth seeped into me. The strong, reassuring strength of him.
I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve found myself daydreaming about it multiple times.
“I’ve added some muscle weight since then,” I say. The side effect of choosing to try to work out my pent-up energy by lifting weights.
“You are in the weight room almost as much as the guys,” Beckett notes, something about his grin telling me he finds this whole situation funny.
“I hold myself to the same standards as my team. Culture of accountability and all.” I fall back on my usual answer. And I do. I would never expect a player or staff member to do something I’m not willing to do myself.
“And from everything I’ve seen about you, that seems true.” He tilts his head. “Come on, Finley, I’ve got you.”
I nod, believing him. Hell, that’s not my problem.
I know he’s got me. I’m just not sure if I’m ready.
Forcing myself into action, I move, the toes of my shoes dig into the floor as I run toward him, the tingling in my chest amplifying with each step.
I spread my arms as wide as I can in the hallway as Beckett bends his knees.
Then, I jump.
His hands hit me low on the hips, his thumb pressing the inside of my hip bone, and a small gasp slips out of me as I tighten every muscle in my body. Holding myself straight is my one job.
Beckett straightens, lifting me overhead, and we both hold there as he counts out loud.
Heat zips through me like overtime levels of adrenaline, my body betraying my careful control. My gut tangles into a deep knot, begging me to do something.
When he gets to four, he lowers me, keeping my body close to his, his touch lingering half a beat too long.
“Okay, well, that was…” Beckett lets me go, stepping back as he runs his hand through the dark strands of his hair.
“Yeah, totally,” I agree, forcing my gaze away from the muscles bunching along his forearm. The ones that just lifted me over his head like I wasn’t too much for him.
“So—”
“I guess—”
We both start speaking at the same time and then chuckle.
“I should probably—” he starts again, just as I say, “Well, I’d better—”
“Go.” We say the final word at the same time, and an uncomfortable laugh sneaks out of my throat.
“Right.” I nod. “I’ll see you at practice, then.”
A tight smile pulls on Beckett’s face. “See you tomorrow.”