Chapter 22 Beckett
Saturday’s optional practice is brutal. Not that optional when Coach Crick sends that kind of text message.
Not physically — though Coach runs us hard enough that my ribs are screaming by the end –– but mentally. The weight of yesterday’s loss hangs over everything like a storm cloud that won't break.
We gather in the film room first, the lights dim, everyone slumped in their chairs with the particular exhaustion that comes from getting your ass kicked and knowing you deserved it.
Coach pulls up the game footage, and we watch in silence as he breaks down every mistake, every missed assignment, every moment where we could have been better.
Then he gets to the second period.
My missed coverage plays in slow motion on the screen — the UCLA forward, Rowan Melrose, cutting through the neutral zone, my hesitation as I calculate whether to step up or fall back, the perfect pass to his winger, the goal.
The room is silent.
I can feel eyes on me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the screen.
"Beck," Coach says, his voice sharp. "What happened here?"
I swallow. "I misread the play."
"You hesitated."
"Yes, sir."
He lets the silence stretch for a beat too long, then moves on to the next play.
But I feel Theo's eyes on me from across the room. When I finally risk a glance in his direction, his expression is blank.
Not angry. Not disappointed.
Cold.
I shiver.
Practice ends around eleven. Most of the guys shower quickly and clear out, eager to salvage what's left of their weekend. I take my time, icing my ribs in the training room, avoiding the inevitable.
But Theo waits.
When I finally emerge from the training room, the locker room is mostly empty. Just Theo, fully dressed, sitting on one of the benches, scrolling through his phone.
He looks up when I approach.
"You're slower," he says conversationally.
I toss my gear bag into my locker. "We lost as a team."
"Don't lie to me."
The words are quiet. Almost gentle. But they land like a punch.
I turn to face him fully. "I'm not—"
He stands, closing the distance between us in two steps. "You smell like her."
My stomach drops.
Not accusatory. Not jealous. Just observant. Like he's commenting on the weather or the score of yesterday's game.
I open my mouth to deny it, but what's the point? Theo doesn't miss details. Doesn't make observations he's not certain about.
"Don't complicate this," he says quietly.
That's the warning.
Not a threat. Not yet. Just a clear, controlled reminder that I'm playing a game with rules I agreed to, and deviating from those rules has consequences.
"I'm not," I say, even though we both know it's a lie.
Theo studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes sharp and assessing.
Then he picks up his bag and walks toward the exit.
At the door, he pauses. "Keep your head straight, Beckett. We have a season to win."
Then he's gone.
I stand there in the empty locker room, my ribs aching, my head spinning, trying to figure out how everything got so complicated so fast.
I drive alone after practice, taking the long route back to my apartment because I need time to think.
Theo doesn't miss details. He sees patterns, connections, and weaknesses. And he doesn't tolerate divided loyalty.
I've seen what happens when people disappoint him. When they become liabilities instead of assets.
The thought that's been circling my brain since this morning finally crystallizes into something concrete and terrifying.
If Theo thinks I'm compromised, she becomes leverage.
Not just a pawn in whatever game he's playing with Cody, Judge Ravenshaw, and his family.
Leverage against me.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
I chose to get close to her. Chose to comfort her, help her, sleep with her. Every step was a choice, and I made them all knowing full well what Theo expected from me.
And now those choices have put her directly in his crosshairs.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
Adela: What are you doing later?
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I want to say: Stay away from me. Delete my number. Forget I exist.
I want to protect her from what's coming.
I should put some space between us. I really should fucking say no. I exhale.
I can't.
Yeah. After dinner?
Perfect.
I set the phone down and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
This is getting out of control.
And I have no idea how to stop it.
When I arrive at Adela's apartment that evening, something feels off.
I can't put my finger on what exactly. Her door is closed properly. The lights are normal. Nothing is physically out of place. But there's a tension in the air that wasn't here this morning.
She opens the door with a smile, pulling me inside and kissing me before I can say anything. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the warmth, the familiarity, the simple comfort of being wanted.
Then she pulls back, her expression shifting to something more serious.
"Your teammate was intense last night," she says casually, walking toward the small kitchen to grab drinks.
I freeze. "What?"
"I watched some of the game." She pulls two bottles of water from the fridge.
My pulse kicks up. "Which teammate?"
"I don't know." She hands me a bottle and opens hers. "The one who smiled after that brutal hit in the first period. He watched the crowd after he scored. It was…" She searches for the word. "Predatory."
The observation lands like a stone in my stomach.
She's noticing him.
Seeing what I've been trying to keep her from seeing.
"Yeah, the guys are competitive," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
"No, this one… it was more than just that." She leans against the counter, studying me. "This one looked…happy. Not about winning. About hurting someone."
She's right.
And the fact that she saw it, that she's putting pieces together, makes her exponentially more dangerous.
"Hockey's a violent sport," I say, deflecting. "Guys get aggressive."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it drop.
I follow her to her room. We sit on the bed — her bed, where just hours ago everything felt simple and good and uncomplicated. She curls into my side, her head on my chest, and I should feel relaxed.
But all I feel is alarm bells screaming in the back of my mind.
Her hand traces patterns on my stomach, and I feel myself responding despite the anxiety crawling up my spine. She shifts closer, her mouth finding mine, and for a moment, I let myself get lost in the physical pull between us.
But then I hesitate.
Not because I don't want her. Not because of rebound concerns or timing or any of the reasons I hesitated before.
Because being close to her right now feels like painting a target on her back.
She senses it immediately, pulling back to look at me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The lie comes automatically.
"Hey." Her eyes search mine. "You're doing it again. Pretending."
"I'm not—"
"You are." She sits up slightly, her hand on my chest. "What happened?"
Everything. Theo's warning. The realization that I’m somehow putting her in more danger. The growing certainty that I can't protect her from what's coming.
"Just tired," I say again, hating myself for the lie. "Long practice."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes, the way her expression shifts from concern to something harder.
But she doesn't push.
She nods and settles back against me, and the silence between us feels heavier than it should.
I leave around ten, kiss her goodbye, and promise to text her tomorrow.
In the parking lot, sitting in my truck with the engine running, my phone buzzes.
Theo: Keep her close.
I stare at the message, my blood running cold.
Three words. Simple. Direct.
But devastating in their implication.
Because they confirm what I've been afraid of since the moment I woke up in her bed this morning.
Theo is using her.
He always has been.
And now that I've gotten close to her, now that I've crossed lines I can't uncross, he's not just using her against Cody or Judge Ravenshaw or whoever else is on his revenge list.
He's using her against me.
And I have no idea how to protect her from what’s to come.
I don’t know his fucking plan.
I delete the message and drive home, the weight of what I've done and what I'm still doing settling over me like a shroud.
This was always going to end badly.
I didn't realize how badly until now.