Page 112 of Double Puck

The arena disappears behind us as the cab pulls into Vegas traffic.

I hit CALL.

He answers on the second ring.

"Beck! You're in Vegas, my man!"

I stare through the window at the Strip blazing ahead of me.

"I sure am. Hey, you free for dinner? I need to chat about something."

Chapter 17

Darcy

The visiting suite at the Vegas arena is a crime against modest budgets.

There's a private bar stocked with champagne, a marble counter loaded with sliders and salty fries and a shrimp tower taller than me, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking twenty thousand seats glowing gold under the lights.

A waiter in a black vest keeps appearing at my elbow like a magic trick from the casino floor, refilling a wine glass I still haven't touched.

I should be inhaling all of it.

Instead, I'm running on ninety minutes of sleep and a report I rewrote eleven times last night, trying to make numbers about Beck Morrison say something kinder than they do.

"—and then he used the belt," Josie whispers, and Rose makes a noise like a kettle. They're onto their second bottle of champagne already. We've been here for thirty minutes.

"The belt from his pants?"

"Rose, where else do belts live?"

"I don't know!" Rose fans herself with a cocktail napkin. "Meanwhile Mason texted me a photo of the room service menu with one item circled and the caption thinking of you. And it was the strawberries."

They both squeak and giggle some more.

So much for keeping that a secret.

"Oh my God. I need to lie down," Josie says, only to slurp more alcohol instead of laying down.

"You two are disgusting," I mutter.

Josie tips her sunglasses down even though we're indoors at night, because Vegas. "And you look like you slept in a filing cabinet. What's wrong?"

"I was working. And nothing is wrong. I'm just doing what I came to Vegas to do. My job."

"Oh, the report." Josie's voice softens as she rubs my arm. "Darce. You know he'll—"

"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Not now. Say another word, and I swear to God, I'll cry."

Below us, the lights drop on the rink. The crowd cheers and the horn sounds, and the Bears spill onto the ice to a wall of boos so loud the glass hums. Declan glides to center for the face-off, eyes set like concrete. Mason settles onto the blue line, calm as Sunday as my two best friends cheer for the team.

But when I look down, I see it.

The hole.

The left wing spot where Beck should be, filled by a kid named Bailey who is a perfectly nice human, but absolutely not Beck Morrison.

Even from up here, the whole line-up looks like a smile with a tooth knocked out.