Chapter 4
Declan
"Again, Biscuit! Again!"
Beck's voice carries across the sprawling back deck of the Morrison Beach Mansion, high-pitched and ecstatic. I'm sprawled on one of the lounge chairs by the infinity pool, sunglasses on, a beer in my hand, pretending I'm anywhere but here.
It's not working.
The mansion stretches behind me, with big enormous windows and weathered wood, a modern architectural masterpiece that somehow feels like home.
The infinity pool glitters in the sun, cascading into an invisible horizon where the Pacific meets the sky.
Palm trees sway in the breeze, their fronds shadowing the decking where I've been laid out ever since we got home from practice.
Yep.
This place is paradise.
With one tiny, infuriating exception.
"Yes! Good boy! Who's a good boy?!"
I crack one eye open.
The dog, the stray, the creature that has somehow taken up residence in my goddamn bedroom for two whole days, is sitting on the grass below the deck, tongue lolling, tail wagging so hard his entire back end is swaying.
He's watching Beck with the kind of adoring attention that usually reserved for people holding steak.
Mason is crouched beside him, a training treat in his hand. "Okay, Biscuit. Down."
The dog drops like a sack of potatoes.
"YES!" Beck pumps his fist. "HE DID IT! DID YOU SEE THAT, DEC?!"
"I saw it," I mutter, taking a long pull of my beer. "I also saw him shit on the rug this morning, so maybe let's not throw a parade."
Beck gasps, shooting daggers my way. "He's learning. And he was just as embarrassed about that as we were."
The dog's tail wags so hard his entire back end threatens to detach from his spine. He's staring at Mason like Mason's his entire world, which, fine… he did feed him this morning.
But the dog has slept in MY bed. For two nights. Without fail.
"Okay, okay, one more time," Beck says, crouching beside Mason. He holds up a treat. "Biscuit. High-five."
The dog lifts a paw. Beck loses his goddamn mind.
"YES! Oh my god, he's the smartest dog who ever lived!"
I take another pull of my beer, watching this circus unfold. "You're setting the bar real low there, Beck."
"Shut up, you love him."
"I don't love anything that sheds on my pillow."
"I just wish you'd start using his name. It's Biscuit. Because he stole one off the counter," Mason says, scratching the dog's flopped ear. "Remember?"
"Of course I remember! The mutt stole it off my plate," I grumble.
Beck covers 'Biscuit's' ears. "Don't call him that!"
"I'm just saying. If I find him on my bed again, I'm renaming him." I sip my beer. "To Pancake. Because he'll be real flat. Real fast."
Beck's mouth drops, but I ignore whatever comes out of his mouth and go back to my well-earned midday beer.
Diego, our house manager, emerges from the open doors with a fresh pitcher of iced tea. He's thirty-one, lean and fit in a way that suggests Pilates and good decisions, with golden-brown skin and dark eyes that are permanently evaluating everything in his line of sight.
His dark hair is cut in a precise fade, and somehow, even while doing housework, he's dressed like he's about to host a dinner party.
"Senor Beck, if you keep feeding him treats from the table, he will learn to beg, not lie down."
Beck waves a dismissive hand. "It's fine, Diego. We're building a foundation here."
Diego shakes his head as he sets the pitcher down on the outdoor table. He's been with the mansion since before we moved in, inherited along with the property like a piece of furniture.
"Your brother," Diego says, nodding toward me, "has been very quiet this morning."
"Your brother," Beck mimics, "has been brooding. It's his brand."
"I'm right here."
"I know." Beck grins, finally turning to face me. "That's what makes it so fun."
I take another pull of my beer, letting the silence stretch. The ocean crashes against the shore below the bluff, a steady pulse that usually soothes me.
Today, it just reminds me of everything I'm trying not to think about.
The last two days have been almost normal. Practice, drills, film sessions. Coach Pearson ran us through defensive formations until my legs burned, and I threw myself into every rep like I could sweat out the memory of that conference room.
The interruption, as I've started calling her in my head, hasn't shown her pretty face inside the locker room.
Good.
That's exactly what I wanted.
Mason stands, brushing sand off his knees. Biscuit immediately trots over to him, tail still wagging, and sits at his feet like a loyal soldier awaiting orders.
"Okay, that's actually impressive," I admit.
Mason shrugs, but there's a hint of pride in his voice. "He's smart. Picks up commands fast."
"Too bad his owner's a dumbass."
"Alleged owner," Beck corrects, plopping down on the lounge chair next to mine. "We're still waiting on the vet to confirm. But between us?" He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I've already picked out his Halloween costume."
"Of course you have."
"A tiny hockey jersey. With a 'C' on it."
I groan, pressing the beer bottle to my forehead. "I hate you."
The afternoon sun warms my skin, and for a moment, I let myself relax.
This is what I wanted. This is what I need. The easy rhythm of my brothers banter, the salt-spray air, the knowledge that the only thing on my schedule for the rest of the day is a nice meal at Breakers before bed tonight.
But then Diego clears his throat.
"Senor Declan. You have a message."
I open one eye and see Diego tapping at the huge weekly planner screen that came with the mansion. It's a sleek, state-of-the-art tablet looking device that dominates the wall by the door leading out to the deck.
The damn thing is synced to our phones, the security system, and probably Coach Pearson's blood pressure monitor. I'm half-convinced it has a direct line to his disappointment, like somewhere in the settings there's a button that just says 'Summon Morrison.'
"Ignore it," I grunt, pulling my sunglasses back over my eyes.
"It's from the arena. Something about mandatory media training this afternoon."
"I'm not going."
"Coach was very specific. He said, and I quote the message directly, 'Tell Declan if he tries to skip this, I will personally duct-tape him to a chair and livestream it.'"
Beck howls with laughter. "Oh, I like Pearson sometimes. He's funny when he's annoyed."
Fuck.
I know I'm not getting out of this. Coach's been riding my ass since the meeting, and if I skip the first real thing Josie's organized since she got here, he'll make my life a living hell.
Josie.
Just thinking her name sends a complicated jolt through my chest. I haven't seen her since the dog incident on the boardwalk. Haven't talked to her. Haven't done anything except replay that moment in the conference room on an endless loop in my head.
The way she looked at me. The way she didn't look at me.
Like I was nothing.
Like that night never happened.
Deep down, I know that's the part that's really eating at me, isn't it?
Not the awkwardness. Not the fact that she's still probably the sexiest person I've ever met in my life.
It's the fact that she's been here for nearly a week, and still, she hasn't said a damn word about what happened between us.
Not even a glance. Not a single flicker of recognition that would acknowledge that I was inside her, that I made her come so hard she screamed bloody mercy into the hotel pillow.
I shift on the lounge chair, my jeans suddenly uncomfortable.
"Oh yeah, I heard about this media thing," Beck says, stretching his arms above his head.
"Apparently she's been running around the building all morning, setting up for some big training thing.
Travis Campbell and Finn told me she's got a whole presentation planned.
Slideshows. Role-playing scenarios. The works. "
"Role-playing?" Mason raises an eyebrow. "Like, improv?"
"Like, 'pretend you're being interviewed by a hostile reporter and don't say anything that'll get us sued.'" Beck grins. "I'm gonna be amazing at it. Naturally."
I drain the rest of my beer and stand, the lounge chair creaking in protest. "Fine. I'll go. But I'm not participating."
"Sure you're not." Beck's voice is singsong. "You're just gonna sit there and grunt. Real productive."
"I'm the captain. And you jerks should be following my example."
"Then lead the way, Cap. Show us how it's done."
I grab my keys off the outdoor table, ignoring the way Biscuit looks up at me with those big brown eyes.
"Don't even think about sleeping in my bed," I tell the dog as I stalk back inside.
"He wouldn't dream of it!" Beck calls after me. "But hey, wait up! We're coming too. Can't let our captain face the media wolves alone, right?"
I freeze mid-stride, turning to see both Beck and Mason getting to their feet, Biscuit trotting after them.
Beck's grin is audible even without looking at him. "Besides, wouldn't want you to have all the fun with Josie."
Fucking hell.
The Bear Cave is buzzing with activity when I push through the player's entrance.
And I mean buzzing.
There are people everywhere. Production crew types with headsets and clipboards, wrangling cables and adjusting lights. A craft services table has been set up in the hallway, loaded with coffee urns and pastries that look suspiciously gourmet.
What the hell happened to my quiet little arena?
"Captain Morrison!"
I turn to find a young guy in a Bears polo beaming at me, a clipboard clutched to his chest. "Great, you're here! Ms. Whitfield's been expecting you."
I give the fucker a slow once-over, from his overpriced sneakers to his desperate little clipboard. "Who the hell are you?"
The kid's smile falters for exactly half a second before bouncing back. "Oh! I'm Tyler, from the production team. I'm Ms. Whitfield's assistant for the day."
Assistant for the day. Jesus Christ.
What the fuck is happening to my hockey team?