Page 113 of Double Puck

The girls settle back down in the seats beside me, Rose leaning over to ask, "Where is Beck anyway? He's supposed to be here, right?"

I shrug and look at the clock on the jumbotron. "No idea. I haven't seen him since—"

Since he took one look at me, broke my heart with those daggers, and stormed out of this very building.

I swallow as Josie steals a bowl of fries from the waitress walking by.

"Declan said he never saw him," Josie says. "He went for a walk, searching the hotel. He stayed up as late as he could, waiting by his door."

"Mason said he'd been weird all day. Maybe Poppy said something to him?" Rose considers.

My stomach has been folding itself into smaller and smaller squares since warmups.

Where could he be? Beck should be here.

Because the thing is, this doesn't look good. I'm starting to finalize my recommendation for Colin with my report.

And after a very abrupt and, frankly, rude phone call my mother gladly dealt me as I piled onto the team bus yesterday, I know I can't fuck this up.

Because my mother didn't call to wish me luck. She called to remind me who I am.

Apparently, word of the Morrison trade has traveled through her circles. Someone's husband knows someone on the league board, which means my evaluation is now dinner-party conversation in Beverly Hills.

I spent twenty minutes of Diana Madden explaining that a Madden doesn't get things wrong publicly. That recommending a franchise trade away one of its most beloved players and being mistaken about it isn't just a career stumble, it's the kind of story that ruins a family name.

She wasn't cruel. She never is.

She was helpful, in that way that feels like the corset she yanked tight on the night she set me up with one of her society sons.

Make sure your judgement is always right, darling. We do not make mistakes.

So no pressure. Just my career, my reputation, and thirty years of Madden perfection riding on one report.

The puck drops. Vegas wins the draw, and within two minutes, one of their wingers walks straight through the space Beck usually dies defending and buries one top shelf.

1-0. The home crowd explodes.

The Bears reset, but something still feels wrong.

Three minutes later, Mason sends a beautiful stretch pass up the boards, right into the space Beck usually attacks.

Bailey gets there.

Eventually.

But by the time he collects the puck, Vegas has already collapsed around him and the play dies against the boards.

I shake my head.

Beck would've been there.

I know it instantly. Worse, I know exactly what Beck would've done with it.

He would've taken the puck in stride, cut inside and either forced the defenseman to commit or made one of those ridiculous passes that gives me heart palpitations almost as reliably as when he grabs my hair and calls me his good girl.

"Oh no," Rose says quietly, nudging me. "Look who decided to show up."

I look over just as the suite door opens.