Page 16 of Double Puck

I don't know.

Whatever she's doing, I don't care, because her hair slides forward over one shoulder and I'm going to be replaying this moment in the shower for the rest of my goddamn life.

Eventually, she finishes doing whatever she was doing and spins around, catching my eyes locked on her ass. Her gaze flicks down to my jeans, to a tent situation I will neither confirm nor deny, then back up to my face.

She ignores it. Completely.

"Here." She holds out the folder. "Take this."

She steps back after I take it, smoothing down her skirt and sliding a hand through her hair to tuck it back behind her ear. Goddamn. This woman is absolutely stunning.

Trust my luck that the most attractive woman in the world is currently trying to destroy my life.

"What is this?" I ask, flicking through whatever she just handed me.

Inside the folder is a schedule of Coach Pearson's player planner. Only now, it's a color-coded schedule of my entire career, with scribbled notes all over it.

"Six AM?" I look up, horrified. "Darcy, I can't wake up that early. Six AM is a rumor. Science hasn't even proven it exists, yet you've circled it. Why have you circled it, Darcy?"

"Because that's when you're expected for your first beach run. Then breakfast at seven-thirty. We'll be in the gym by nine." She taps the page with one perfect nail. "Red is mandatory."

"It's all red."

"Correct."

I stare at her. She stares back, chin lifted, posture immaculate, like she didn't just rearrange my entire understanding of hosiery.

She glances down at the schedule between us, and that smile sharpens.

"Seven weeks, Morrison. Let's find out what you're actually worth."

Chapter 3

Darcy

"Oh my God. Would you stop slurping that thing and start stretching?!"

Beck Morrison lowers his iced coffee just far enough to squint at me over his sunglasses. Yes. Sunglasses. The sun has barely even surfaced over the ocean, and this ridiculous man is wearing aviators like some kind of hungover lifeguard.

He is, unfortunately, also shirtless.

"It's six in the morning," he says. "Leave me alone. This is literally the only thing standing between me and a coma right now."

"It's six thirty, actually. You were late. Remember?"

Oh. And he looks like he just rolled out of bed, too. Like he lost his shirt somewhere on the walk over, and decided clothing was more of a suggestion than a rule.

The worst part? Somehow, somehow, I don't seem to care.

Which is a professional failure on my part, honestly.

Because the data I presented in yesterday's meeting said Beck Morrison is a liability to the future of this team. But the data did not mention the abs. Or the V-cut disappearing into his shorts like an arrow pointing directly at my downfall.

"Sunrise has a grace period," he says, slurping loudly through the paper straw. "Everyone knows that."

He keeps rolling the straw between his lips, and each time he does I lose approximately four seconds of my life imagining what that tongue does when it isn't wasted on cold brew coffee.

I clench my thighs and pretend it's the sea breeze drifting across the shore.