25. Free Preview #3
"No." I hold the towel out, trying to evert my eyes.
He takes it without looking away from me.
He's barefoot, shirtless, and water is tracking down his shoulders and over the ridged lines of his chest. One drop breaks loose and slides down the center of his chest, over each of his abs, disappearing beneath his waistband like it knows exactly where it's going.
I have never been jealous of water before, but goddamn, I hate that droplet.
"You want the towel back?" His eyes flick down, clocking exactly where mine just were. "Or should I stay wet for you a little longer?"
"I was assessing your risk of hypothermia."
"Sure you were. Very thorough. You always start assessments at the waistband?" He drags the towel through his hair, then plants one elbow on the bar. Still shirtless. "So, Spreadsheet Lady. How many decimal points did you have to move to get me kicked off the team?"
I cut him a hard look. "I didn't move anything. Manipulating the data would defeat the purpose of collecting it."
"Oh, good." He nods slowly. "So the numbers just woke up one morning and independently decided to ruin my life."
My insides squirm, but I take a deep breath to soothe the tension.
"I don't have the authority to trade you, Beck. I simply submitted a recommendation. Ownership, management, and coaching staff will make the final decision."
"Right. So you just loaded the gun." His grin sharpens. "And now someone else gets the blame when they decide to pull the trigger... not you?"
I don't dare flinch. "I did my job."
He moves a fraction closer, his forearm settling on the bar beside mine.
"Alright. Then answer me one thing, Ms. Madden." The torment finally drains out of his voice, leaving something quieter underneath. "Do you actually believe I'm the weakest player on this roster?"
"Beck, we don't have to talk about this—"
He moves closer again.
"Yes. We do."
I know I'm not leaving this bar without answering him honestly, so I take a deep breath, and lay the facts out.
"Your performance metrics make you the most logical trade asset among the three of you. Declan provides leadership and defensive stability. Mason is consistent across both ends of the ice. You carry a high salary, you draw penalties, and you've failed to convert enough of your key opportunities."
I glance across at him, hoping that when I look into his eyes, it will distract me from his body.
It doesn't.
Because Beck Morrison's eyes are even sexier than his abs.
Then to my surprise, instead of retreating, he leans closer.
"I know what Declan is," he says. "I know what Mason is. Everyone's been explaining it to me my whole life."
"So then what are you?" I ask.
That irritating grin comes back. Except it's softer this time, maybe even sadder, as he leans back and releases a heavy sigh. He looks out at his teammates drying off on the sand and shakes his head like even he doesn't know the answer to my question.
"I'm… available."
"You're…" I frown, trying to make sense of that. "Wait. What?"
His gaze drops to my mouth. "I'm available."
His eyes stay on my lips a second too long, and I feel it like a thumb dragged across them.
My whole body clenches around absolutely nothing.
This is a problem. This is a significant problem.
I'm getting turned on by the man I'm supposed to be shoving out the exit door.
"Well… You keep looking at me like you're trying to work me out." He rolls his shoulders with a cocky shrug. "So, why don't you find out for yourself?"
I roll my eyes and scoff. Right in his smug face. "You're drunk."
"That's not an answer."
He leans in, and I have to fight the genuinely appalling instinct to do the same thing.
I have spent years around professional athletes without feeling anything I couldn't control. I have dismissed many good-looking men over the years. Men with clean reputations and no flaming shots on their permanent record.
Beck Morrison should be the easiest man in this bar to walk away from.
Instead, my fingers tighten around my phone because I suddenly want to drag them across his bare chest.
"See. You don't hate me," he says quietly.
I step back before I do something catastrophically unprofessional. Before I forget that I've already watched one woman disappear into a man whose world swallowed hers whole, and that I made a vow at seventeen at the end of a very long dining table to never turn out like my mother.
"No, I don't hate you," I say. "But I also don't do hockey players."
Beck's eyes flash, infinitely more amused. He leans in one final time, and murmurs against the shell of my ear:
"Well, thanks to you, sweetheart... that won't be a problem soon."
He pushes off the bar and walks away, towel slung around his neck, disappearing into his adoring, chanting, half-naked team like a man who didn't just hit on the woman trying to destroy him.
I stand there, pulse hammering, phone still open to the report that could end his Beachside career.
And I genuinely cannot decide which is more dangerous.
Being wrong about Beck Morrison.
Or wanting him.