Page 12 of Double Puck

Chapter 2

Beck

"And so, my recommendation stands," Darcy says, cool as the ice below us. "Beck Morrison is the highest priced variable with the lowest return."

I lean back in my chair and take a breath, possibly just to remind everyone that despite the fact that they've been discussing me like I'm not here for the past thirty minutes, I actually do still exist.

Coach Pearson's office is the kind of room where careers get made or unmade with a single sentence.

I know which one I'm currently bracing for.

Colin Holden's already sweating at one end of the conference table, his collar wilting like he's been here for hours when I know damn well he rolled in fifteen minutes ago.

Me, Declan, and Mason are along the other side, crammed in here like the world's most hostile family photo. Josie is by the window, her arms crossed, still trying to ride the high of her sold-out arena despite the celebration not going exactly as planned.

Darcy sits at the far end beside Coach Pearson himself, her tablet open, posture immaculate. She's wearing a Bears blazer and a cream-colored blouse, but it's the tiny skirt and patterned stockings that are somehow more devastating than any bikini I've ever seen in Beachside.

"Across every category," Darcy continues. "Beck's production doesn't align with his salary. Penalties drawn versus converted opportunities. Defensive zone transitions. The model—"

"The model doesn't account for what the three of us do together," Declan cuts in, leaning forward. "Split the brothers and the brand collapses. That's not a spreadsheet problem, that's a franchise problem."

A wave of tension rips right across the room.

Honestly, I envy the Zamboni circling the ice below us right now.

It has no parents. No trade deadline. No devastating woman sitting across the table, looking like she could ruin a man’s career and then attend a charity luncheon without wrinkling.

What's her deal anyway?

Darcy Madden doesn't look like a woman who should be sitting in a hockey arena, reeling off numbers she's clearly been studying too closely.

She looks like royalty. A duchess. A queen of some cold, tiny country where everyone's terrified of her and the national anthem is just a fancy symphony orchestra.

I watch her with renewed interest as she taps her tablet.

“Declan, the model isn’t personal. Coach will back me up on these numbers. Beck draws more penalties than anyone, his defensive contribution remains inconsistent, and—" Darcy takes a long breath, still dodging my eyes. "—his contract gives us the greatest flexibility in the Trade Period.”

The woman currently standing in front of me, threatening to ruin everything I've ever dreamed of, doesn’t even look at me. Her gaze flicks past my face and returns to the screen with such clean indifference I want to reach across the desk and knock that tablet out of her hands just so she knows I'm here.

Or maybe I could just kiss her until she loses that perfect posture.

Shit. That thought is concerning.

I should hate this woman.

Right?

She wants to ruin my life. My dream. Everything I spent years pretending I wouldn’t kill for because I didn’t think I’d ever have it.

Now that I do? Now that I’m finally here?

The woman who won't even recognize I'm sitting in the room wants to rip it all out from under me.

For twenty-four years, I’ve thought about this. Living with my brothers, playing hockey every day, walking off the sand straight into a bar where your tab doesn’t exist because money isn't an issue. We drink late, crash even later, then wake up in time to realize we’ve got it so good we’d be idiots not to know it.

But hey, why not smash it to pieces. Just take me and carve me out of something I thought I finally fucking belonged to.

It’s always me though, isn’t it?