Chapter 20 Beckett
I leave her apartment at nine-thirty, the words she said still echoing in my head.
You're not.
Not a rebound. Not a replacement. Not a distraction.
Just…me.
I sit in my truck for ten minutes before starting the engine, my hand on the keys but not turning them. My lips still feel the ghost of her kiss — soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. The way her fingers curled into my shirt. The way she looked at me when I pulled away.
I wanted her.
I almost didn't stop.
That's a problem.
I start the truck and drive back to my place, replaying the moment over and over. The way she leaned into me. The vulnerability in admitting she didn't know who she was without Cody. The trust in her eyes when she said I wasn't a rebound.
I'm in trouble.
Deep, complicated, dangerous trouble.
Theo would see it immediately. He already suspects — the texts, the warnings, the way he looked at me during practice when I hesitated. He knows.
And if he knows, that makes this exponentially more dangerous for both of us.
I pull into my parking spot and kill the engine, sitting in the dark.
I don't get to want things that aren't part of the plan.
But I do. I want her in a way that has nothing to do with strategy, revenge, or whatever the fuck Theo's endgame is.
I want her because she's real. Because she's fighting back. Because when she looks at me, she sees something worth trusting.
And that terrifies me more than anything Theo could do.
The team bus to UCLA leaves at noon on Thursday.
I'm one of the first ones on, throwing my bag in the overhead compartment and claiming a window seat near the back. The bus fills gradually with guys dragging themselves on, still half-asleep, Coach doing a headcount, the equipment manager triple-checking that we have everything.
Theo gets on last.
Headphones in, expression unreadable, moving down the aisle like he owns the space. He doesn't sit near me. Doesn't even glance in my direction. Just takes a seat three rows up and stares out the window.
But I feel his awareness anyway.
Silas drops into the seat beside me, immediately pulling out his phone. "Ready to get our asses kicked again?"
"We're not getting our asses kicked," I say.
"We split with them at home. We're playing in their house now." He shrugs. "Odds aren't great."
"Theo won't let us lose."
Silas glances up at me, something sharp in his expression. "You sure about that?"
I don't answer.
The bus pulls out, and the next three hours pass in relative silence. Guys sleep, listen to music, or play games on their phones. Coach reviews plays on his tablet. I stare out the window and try not to think about Adela sitting on her bed, looking up at me with those eyes.
Theo and I exchange a look once.
He knows something.
I can see it in the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long, the way his expression hardens almost imperceptibly.
I look away first.
The UCLA locker room smells like every visiting locker room — industrial cleaner and old sweat and tension.
We gear up in relative silence, the energy different than usual. Tighter. More aggressive. Nobody's joking, blasting music, or talking shit.
This game matters not just because we split with them at home. But because losing here would set a tone for the entire season. It would mark us as the team that can't close, can't dominate, or can't win when it counts.
Theo stands in the center of the room once we're all dressed, and the noise dies immediately.
"They embarrassed us," he says, his tone ice-cold and controlled. "At our house. In front of our crowd. We don't let that stand."
He looks around the room, making eye contact with each guy in turn.
When his eyes land on me, they hold for a beat longer than the others.
"No hesitation tonight," he says, still looking at me. "We play fast. We play hard. We finish."
The words feel targeted. Personal.
I hold his gaze and nod once.
Coach takes over after that, running through the game plan, line combinations, and special teams setups. But Theo's words hang in the air like a challenge.
No hesitation.
Translation: Don't fuck this up.
The UCLA arena is loud.
Hostile crowd, banners everywhere, their fans screaming before the puck even drops. They remember Friday's split. They want blood.
I skate out for warmups, testing my ribs with each stride. The bruise has faded from purple to yellow-green, but it still flares when I twist wrong or take a hit. I've been taping it tighter, taking ibuprofen like candy, pretending it doesn't affect my play.
But it does.
Theo and Silas know it.
The game starts fast and physical. UCLA comes out aggressively, throwing hits, pressuring our defense, and making us work for every inch of ice.
Theo responds by being Theo — dominant, ruthless, skating like he's got something to prove. He draws a penalty in the first five minutes by making their defenseman look stupid, then scores on the power play with a shot that goes bar-down so clean the goalie doesn't even move.
He skates past the UCLA bench afterward and smirks.
That's Theo –– violence wrapped in control.
Second period, things start to fall apart.
I'm covering the point when their forward, Rowan Melrose, cuts through the neutral zone faster than I anticipate. I hesitate just a fraction of a second, calculating whether to step up or fall back, and in that fraction, he blows past me and feeds a perfect pass to his winger.
Goal.
Tie game.
I skate back to the bench, and Theo's stare from across the ice is lethal. Not angry. Just cold. Assessing. Calculating the cost of my mistake.
Third period is a disaster.
UCLA scores again off a turnover that isn't entirely my fault but isn't not my fault either. We push back, create chances, but nothing falls. Theo plays like a man possessed. He’s hitting everything that moves, taking shots from impossible angles, and willing the puck into the net through sheer force.
But it's not enough.
Final score: UCLA 3, UW 2.
The locker room after the game is silent.
Not the contemplative kind of silence. The furious kind. The kind where everyone's too pissed to speak because anything they say will make it worse.
Coach is red-faced, veins bulging in his neck, as he tears into our defensive coverage, lack of discipline, and inability to finish.
I sit on the bench and stare at the floor, my gear still on, sweat dripping down my face.
Theo is across the room. He pulls off his gloves, his helmet, his pads. Then he throws one glove hard into his locker. The sound echoes. But he doesn't explode. Doesn't yell or punch anything or lose control.
When he walks past me on his way to the showers, he stops and leans down just enough that only I can hear him.
"You're distracted."
I don't respond.
Because he's right.
The bus ride back is worse than the ride there.
Guys sleep or pretend to sleep. Nobody talks. Coach sits at the front with his headphones on, reviewing game footage and probably planning Monday's practice from hell.
I stare out the window and try to figure out how everything went so wrong so fast.
My phone buzzes around midnight.
Adela: I'm sorry about the game.
I stare at the message, my chest tightening.
She watched. Saw Theo dominating. Saw me hesitating. Saw us lose.
Can’t win every time, I type back.
Three dots appear immediately.
Come over when you're back?
I should say no because it’ll be too late. I should go home and ice my ribs and sleep off the adrenaline and frustration still coursing through my veins.
But I don't.
Yeah.
It's almost two in the morning when I pull up outside her building.
The campus is dead quiet, just a few scattered lights in dorm windows where people are still awake. I text her that I'm here, and she buzzes me in immediately.
When she opens the door, she's wearing sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. No makeup. Just her.
"Hey," she says softly.
"Hey."
She steps aside to let me in, and I notice immediately that her laptop is closed. No research. No timeline. Just the quiet intimacy of her space at two in the morning.
I drop my bag by the door and stand there awkwardly, not sure what I'm doing here or what she wants from me.
She closes the distance between us and touches my ribs, like she's checking for damage.
I wince despite trying not to.
Her eyes meet mine. "You don't have to pretend with me."
The words detonate something inside me.
All the restraint I've been holding onto — the control, the careful distance, the pretending I'm not falling for her cracks wide open.
I kiss her.
Not soft like last time. Not testing.
Hungry.
My hands find her waist, pulling her against me. She responds immediately, her fingers threading through my hair, her body pressing into mine.
All the adrenaline from the game, all the frustration from Theo's cold assessment, all the fear of what I'm risking by being here — it pours into this kiss.
She walks backward toward the bed, pulling me with her. I follow, my hands already finding the hem of her tank top, sliding beneath it to feel the warmth of her skin.
She breaks the kiss long enough to pull her shirt over her head, and I stop.
"Are you sure?"
Instead of answering, she pulls me back to her, her mouth finding mine again with an answer that doesn't need words.
Clothes disappear in urgent, clumsy movements — her sweatpants, my shirt, the compression wrap around my ribs that she carefully peels away. She traces the bruise with her fingertips, and I catch her wrist gently.
"I'm fine," I murmur against her neck.
"It’s okay," she whispers back, “to not be. It’s just me."
I pull back and look into her eyes. She means it. Her gaze softens as she touches my face, a small smile pulling at her lips. I kiss her again, and this time we fall onto the bed as I press myself against her.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her hair’s across the pillow, her chest rising fast, and she’s wearing nothing but a scrap of cotton that I hook my fingers into and drag down her legs without asking.
I’m supposed to be preventing her from doing anything reckless, and here I am being just that.
I drop my mouth to her throat and drag it down her collarbone, sternum, the soft curve of her breast. I take my time there, my tongue tracing until she shifts beneath me with a quiet, impatient sound that tells me exactly what she wants.
I don't give it to her yet.
I keep moving down to her ribs, stomach, the soft skin below her navel, and her fingers thread into my hair and tighten when I press an open kiss to the inside of her hip.
"Beck." My name comes out breathless.
I kiss her again, not answering. Then I part her thighs and settle between them.
I take her apart slowly — mouth only, unhurried, thorough — until her hips are rolling against me and her grip in my hair has gone from polite to desperate.
She tries to muffle the sounds she's making, and I pull back just enough to say, "Don't. "
She stops trying.
I work her until her thighs are trembling on either side of my head and she's saying my name on a loop, broken and breathless, and then I push her over — feeling the moment she falls, the way her whole body shudders, the sound she makes that I am going to be thinking about for a very long time.
I work my way back up her body while she's still coming down, and she reaches for me immediately, pulling me in, impatient.
"Now," she says. "Please."
That word from her mouth. I don't survive it.
I settle between her thighs and push inside her, watching her face the entire time. The way her lips part. The way her eyes go half-closed and then find mine, holding contact like she's decided I matter.
It does something to me I'm not prepared for.
Not just want. Something more dangerous than want.
I start to move, and she adjusts to match me immediately, her hips rolling up to meet each stroke, her body already knowing what mine is doing before I do it.
I keep the pace measured, even though everything in me says to go faster.
I want to watch her, want to see every expression cross her face, want to feel every small sound before it becomes a loud one.
Her nails drag down my back, and I give her more.
"God," she breathes. "Don't stop."
I have no intention of stopping.
I shift my weight and change the angle, and her breath cuts off completely for one suspended second before she gasps, and that reaction makes me do it again, and again, until she's gripping my shoulders hard enough to pinch and whispering please against my lips.
"Look at me," I say quietly.
She does.
Eyes open. On mine. Fully present in this, in me, in something she has no idea is built on a fault line.
Her whole body tightens. I feel it building in her — the way her breathing stutters, the way her thighs lock around me — and I drop my hand between us and push her over the edge a second time while I'm still moving inside her.
The sound she makes undoes me completely.
I follow her with my face pressed to her neck and her name somewhere in my chest that I don't say out loud, because saying it feels like crossing a line.
I blow my load into the condom I’m wearing and press my forehead to hers, trying to catch my breath, trying to process what just happened.
I crossed a line I can't uncross.
And the worst part?
I don't regret it.
She traces patterns on my chest, her breathing slowly evening out.
"Stay," she whispers.
It's not a question. Not a demand.
Just a request from someone who doesn't want to be alone.
"Okay," I say.
Because, regardless of Theo and the plan and the danger and the inevitable fallout, I can't bring myself to leave.
Not tonight.
Not when she's looking at me like I'm something worth holding onto.