Page 102 of Double Puck

"Beck," Poppy says, smiling as I enter. "I wasn't expecting you so soon. Please, help yourself to some coffee. I'll be with you in a moment."

She gestures to a French press of coffee that smells as good as Luna's special blend. Hell, maybe it is. The pot is resting next to that bowl of fancy dark chocolate she keeps stocked like a bribe.

"Thanks, Doc."

I pour myself a cup and drop my travel bag at the door. The coffee is dark and ridiculously smooth, and the little square of salted caramel dark chocolate I steal from her bowl starts melting against my fingers before I even reach the chair.

Now I have good coffee, an expensive chocolate, and a giant armchair?

Honestly, if therapy came with a loyalty card, I'd be approaching a free session in no time.

"You're in a good mood," Poppy says without looking up at me over her laptop.

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm off to Vegas today."

“You say that like you’re heading to a pool party, not a road game,” Poppy says, typing something briskly. Her nails click against the keys with the kind of speed Darcy would admire.

“Who says it can’t be both? Hockey first, craps table second, regrettable buffet decisions third.” I balance the coffee cup on my knee, shooting her my most shameless grin. “Want me to smuggle you back a novelty shot glass, doc? Wait. This isn't part of the session, right? We haven't started. Don't judge me yet.”

“No, Beck. We haven't started.”

I laugh, but the sound’s not as easy as I expect.

This week’s been... draining.

After the game review shit early in the week, I've been busting my ass to show everyone what I'm capable of. But even with every ounce of extra effort I’ve been throwing in on the ice, in the gym, and in front of Coach Pearson, it feels like Darcy’s been drilling holes into me with her gaze.

Every movement, every stretch I've made feels painstakingly analyzed.

And yeah, it’s a little unfair that my brain pairs those professional moments with other moments we've been sharing all week. Her breathless beneath me, completely undone and wrecked, arching off her bed while I kissed every inch of her delicious body.

I haven't taken her back to the mansion, though.

Mainly because Declan and Mason have been their own special brand of torture this week too. I know they mean well. In that suffocating, brotherly way they've always had.

But their version of helping me take on this trade challenge head-on has turned the mansion into a boot camp I never signed up for.

Declan started meal-prepping for me. Not with me. For me.

I came downstairs Tuesday morning and there were six containers in the fridge with my name on them. Literally. He'd labeled them with a Sharpie.

BECK — TUESDAY LUNCH.

BECK — WEDNESDAY PRE-SKATE.

Like I'm five years old and can't be trusted to feed myself.

And Mason?

Mason's been doing this thing where he casually leaves his laptop open on the kitchen island with hockey analytics articles pulled up. Just... sitting there. Like bait.

They love me. I get it. But living in that house right now feels like being a group project nobody trusts all over again.

“Is everything okay, Beck? Or are you already fantasizing about the buffet?” Poppy’s eyebrow quirks as she closes her laptop and joins me down on the opposite chair.

“Just evaluating my mental posture, Doc,” I say lightly.

"Are you ready for our session?" Poppy asks, clicking her pen and pulling up a notepad.