Page 17 of Double Puck

"How are you drinking that thing anyway?"

I gesture to the clear plastic cup in his hand.

"What? This?" He holds the cup out. It's the size of his forearm, and it has whipped cream domed over the rim with caramel sauce dripping down the outside. "It's a triple-shot caramel latte Kai made me. Because someone scheduled a run at an hour that violates regular human behaviour."

"Regular human behavior? You're not even wearing a shirt," I say, dropping onto the bench to keep stretching. "Do I need to remind you this is part of your evaluation?"

"Then technically…" He spreads his arms wide. "…my shirt would only get in the way of your evaluation. I'm being helpful."

Seeing you shirtless is certainly NOT helpful, Mr. Morrison.

"And technically," he barrels on, because I'm quickly learning Beck Morrison has no off switch, "you're not my mom. I think. You'd tell me if we were related, right? Because honestly, with my family's current track record—"

"Please stop talking."

"—I'm not ruling anything out." He takes another slurp, deeply satisfied with himself. "Anyway. For future reference, my mom would've brought me a croissant. Although, she's living with my sister now though, so breakfast is more complicated because my niece—"

"Please, for the love of God, just stretch so we can start."

He pulls his sunglasses down, and those blue eyes pin me in place.

"I am stretching."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like a palm tree swaying lazily in the breeze.

And God, I hate that he just somehow makes all this look so… breezy.

The backwards cap and the black joggers and the complete absence of a shirt. This man is just so… casual about everything.

All six-foot-two of him, standing there with his sun-bleached hair sticking out from under that cap, sipping his ridiculous caramel latte like this is a beach vacation and not a mandated performance session to save his career.

How does he do it? How does he stay so relaxed?

Didn't his entire life just get ripped apart the night I revealed the trade recommendation?

Why isn't he freaking out?

I look away before my brain starts doing things I can't put in a report, pulling my right quad toward my chest instead.

In front of me, the ocean is beginning its daily transformation.

The water catches the first rays of sunrise as the waves roll in with that perfect, rhythmic swoosh that sounds like the world's most expensive sleep noise machine. The sky is turning from a deep purple to pink, and somewhere down on the sand, a dog is losing its absolute mind, yapping its high-pitched bark across the beach like it's cheering on the sun.

This is my favorite time of day. My quiet time. The one hour of the day where nothing demands anything from me.

Or at least, it was. Until Colin assigned me seven weeks of this.

"New leggings?" Beck's voice cuts through my focus.

I glance up. "What?"

"The leggings. Are they new?" He tilts his head, sunglasses sliding down his nose.

I stare at him.

I mean, he's right. They are new. I ordered them after the season opener and have been saving them like fine wine. They're the single most indulgent thing I own that isn't a blazer, and putting them on this morning felt wonderfully therapeutic.

They feel good, and the matching sports crop sits flat against my chest, firm enough to keep the girls locked and loaded for any workout I throw at them, but not so restrictive that I feel like I'm being slowly suffocated by spandex.