Page 115 of Double Puck

"Nobody is using arena vehicles," I say, cutting Rose off with a stiff hand. "Sit down. Both of you."

They do exactly that, but Rose keeps glaring at the back of Beck's head like she's trying to set it on fire with her mind.

Down on the ice, second period begins, but it only gets worse.

Vegas scores twice more, and the Bears look like eleven men playing a sport and one man—Declan—trying to win a war by himself. He throws a hit so hard the glass flexes, and the home crowd boos him with genuine affection.

It's the most Vegas thing I've seen all night.

At the second intermission, I move quickly to try and get Beck again, but as soon as I stand, he's on the phone. Again. Same low voice, same turned back, same knife between my ribs.

Who is he talking to? His father? A very chatty blackjack dealer?

By the third period, the score is 6-1, and Declan is in the penalty box for what the referee called roughing. I'd call fully justified considering how badly we've played tonight.

At the front of the suite, Beck suddenly unfolds from his chair.

I look up just as he rises, rolls his shoulders beneath his rumpled jacket and stares down at the ice one final time.

For half a second, I think he's finally going to look at me. Maybe even come and speak to me.

Instead, he just buttons his jacket, pockets his phone, and walks out of the suite while his brothers are still bleeding on the ice below.

There's no announcement, no glance back.

He's just… gone.

I'm on my feet before my brain votes.

"Darcy—" Josie starts to follow, but Rose throws an arm across her.

"Go get him," Rose says. "And if he's mean to you, remember. Zamboni."

The hallway outside the suite is a river of cocktail waitresses and men in silk shirts. Up ahead, Beck moves through it fast, shoulders up, head down.

I lose him at the escalator, only to find him again by the gift shop. I try calling out, but the noise from the arena takes over.

Must be another goal for Vegas.

I keep chasing, eventually losing sight of Beck again as a bachelorette party wearing matching cowboy hats swarms me. By the time I wrestle free and burst through the arena doors into the hot Vegas night, all I see are Beck's long legs sliding into a cab.

"Beck! Beck, wait!"

The door shuts. The cab pulls away.

No. Absolutely not.

I run to the taxi line in heels that were designed by a man who hates women, throw myself into the next cab, and hear myself say the sentence I've waited twenty-eight years to say.

"Follow that cab!"

The driver looks at me in the mirror. He's about seventy, wearing a Hawaiian shirt Colin would adore, and he lights up like a slot machine just hit the jackpot.

"Ma'am, I've been driving this town for thirty years waiting for someone to say that."

"Then drive!"

And boy, oh boy, he drives.