Chapter 47 Beckett
Beckett
“Are you ready?” I ask, pulling a suit jacket over my shoulders and taking one final look in the mirror.
“Ready,” Finley replies as she walks into the room, still fastening her earring as she moves.
She looks amazing, in a black dress that hugs her curves and heels. Her dark hair is down, the curls she’s been working on swaying slightly.
“Never mind,” I say, caging her between me and the wall in our upmarket Parisian hotel room, “let’s just stay here. You look far too good to go out.”
It was the tenth day of Finley’s suspension when I suggested we go literally anywhere people wouldn’t recognize us.
For the first time in our lives, we both have unlimited free time. After spending eight days barely leaving my bedroom, we finally came down from the high of being together enough to realize that we needed to do something other than have sex.
Not that I was complaining.
And based on the way she woke me up with her mouth every morning, I don’t think she was, either.
But I wanted to take her on dates. To buy her dinner.
To go to the movies. And Denver isn’t exactly a safe place for that at the moment.
Hell, the United States and Canada were both out, considering how recognizable she is.
But Paris? Well, it felt like it’d be a lot easier for us to go unnoticed here.
Plus, it was the most romantic place I could think of.
And since I tell Finley just how hard and fast I’ve fallen in love with her at least once a day, it felt fitting for our vacation. Even if Finley feels guilty about taking a vacation when she should be enduring her suspension.
Fortunately for her, I disagree.
So we booked our flights two days ago. And now, here we are with two weeks left before we need to return to Denver.
I lean down, brushing a kiss against her lips that deepens into something more.
When we finally pull apart, Finley wipes at the edges of my lips with her thumb. “My lipstick looks good on you.”
“It’d look even better on my dick,” I whisper in her ear, my voice teasing.
She quirks her lips to the side. “Only one way to find out, I suppose.”
“We’ll be late for dinner,” I force myself to remind her, and it takes a Herculean effort to get the words out as she starts to drop to her knees in front of me.
She pauses, her hand on my zipper as she thinks about it. After a moment, she says, “We can be late.”
“Fuck, yes, we can.”
She looks up at me, her tongue millimeters from the head of my cock, and warns, “Just don’t fuck up my hair.”
“Yes, Queenie.” I love this version of Finley. The one who is working on being okay with being late every once in a while, but still commands a room like a fucking drill sergeant.
She licks the tip of my dick before pulling me into the warm tunnel of her mouth. My hips jerk forward, and I have to fist my hands next to me to avoid gripping her head to take control.
Working me with her mouth and hand, I’m right on the edge quickly. It’s fucking incredible how my body responds to this woman.
“Need to be inside you,” I say, pulling her to her feet. I slide her dress over her hips and lift her up, spinning us so her back is against the wall. I shove her panties to the side, groaning when I feel how wet she is for me.
“Fucking love you,” I murmur as I slowly push inside.
Finley’s eyes flutter closed as I pick up my tempo, but she still manages to reply, “Love you, too.”
As I make love to the most amazing woman against a wall in a Paris hotel room, I can’t help but think about how lucky I am to have ended up here. How grateful I am that I realized the team doc was right: I would feel the decision to keep playing for the rest of my life.
But not because of my hip—because of Finley.
And that wasn’t a hurt I was willing to try to play through.
Five minutes later, I slowly lower Finley onto her post-orgasm jelly legs. After grabbing a washcloth, I clean her quickly and tuck myself back in my pants before pulling her toward the door. “Dinner awaits.”
We’re almost to the restaurant when Finley’s phone rings. Her dad’s name flashes across the screen. When she goes to ignore it, I pull her to a stop. She’s been avoiding his calls since the day the news of her suspension broke, and I can tell how much it’s wearing on her.
“You can talk to him,” I say.
She slips the phone into her purse. “He’s just going to lecture me.”
“You don’t know that.”
She laughs, a joyless imitation of her usual chuckle. “Right.”
I squeeze her hand. “I don’t care whether you talk to him or not. It just seems like you care.”
Her right cheek pulls in slightly as she thinks it over. “Maybe.”
We take a few more steps before she announces, “I’ll call him after dinner.”
“Sounds great.”
As we walk in the warm June night, the lights of Paris glowing gold around us, I feel content in a way I never did before I stopped chasing my parents’ dream for me and started chasing my dream woman.
“This is already the best decision I’ve ever made,” I say.
“Coming to Paris with your favorite person?” she asks.
I bump my shoulder into hers. “You’re assuming that’s you?”
She leans into me, and I drop her hand to wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Yep.”
“Was it the two-week trip to Paris?”
She laughs. “I was thinking the way you referred to me as your girlfriend when we checked in.”
I raise my eyebrow as I pull her to another stop. “Wait, have you been functioning under the assumption that you’re not my girlfriend? I know we’re doing things a little out of order, but I assume the woman I love and sleep with every night falls into that category without us having that talk.”
“I just like hearing it,” she admits, pressing onto her toes to place a gentle kiss on my mouth.
“Then come on, girlfriend. Dinner awaits.”
We make it to the restaurant later than predicted, but they still let us in.
Candlelight flickers across white tablecloths, and music plays softly in the background as we’re led to a secluded table.
Though requesting the table in the back was likely unnecessary.
No one points. No one stares. I’m not a professional athlete; she isn’t Coach Blake.
No microscopes, no adoring fans. Just Beckett and Finley.
I order a bottle of wine, and by the time we order, we’ve had just enough to attempt the French pronunciations, clearly butchering them by the look on the waiter’s face.
When the man leaves, Finley starts laughing so hard she has to wipe her eyes.
“I needed this,” she admits once she’s recovered.
I reach across the table and lace my fingers through hers. “I needed you.”
Her phone vibrates in her purse, the sound barely audible over the hum of the conversation. She stiffens a little, though she doesn’t reach for her bag.
“You still planning to call him after?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. I am.”
“Proud of you.”
Her lips twitch. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone tell me they were proud of me so freely.”
“You? The most badass woman I’ve ever met?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t deserve that moniker. I’m scared of answering a call from my own dad.”
“Doesn’t change what I said.”
“But you’re right. I do need to speak to him.”
That’s Finley. Brave, even when it costs her something.
Dinner is slow and perfect. We talk about what we’ll do when we get back. Who she hopes White trades for in the off-season. Where I’m going to live once I move out of the Yeti’s apartment—I laughed when she mentioned the apartment across from Larsen is available to rent.
When she asks me what I’m planning to do when we get back, I consider deflecting.
I know what I wanted to do for so long that I feel adrift right now.
But I do have a few feelers out with old friends who have moved on but remained in the sports world.
So I tell her about the most exciting one, an opportunity to be a hockey analyst, and in classic Finley form, she dives into the pros and cons without a second thought.
We walk back toward the hotel with the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance. When her phone rings for the third time, Finley stops beneath a streetlamp to answer it.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
“I’ll be right here.”
She steps a few paces away, straightening her spine, like she’s about to be interviewed.
I watch her chew the inside of her cheek, the only outward sign that she’s nervous.
The woman, who coaches a professional hockey team, is now standing on a sidewalk trying to work up the courage to talk to her own dad.
Whatever happens in that conversation, I already know one thing: even if they decide to cut ties—which I really hope they don’t—she’ll always have me.
And maybe a dark-haired, blue-eyed kid or two to keep us company.