Page 2 of Double Puck

Across the bar, Mack begins arranging three shot glasses along the weathered timber like a man laying out surgical instruments. A huddle of overgrown hockey players notices and immediately changes direction.

"Alright, everyone! Listen up," Mack calls out across the bar. "These are my Morrison specials. Been perfecting them all season, and what better night to debut them than tonight?!"

A loud roar echoes through the bar and more fists pump in the air.

"Introducing… 'The Declan'. It's straight bourbon, because we all know smiling would kill him. And so will this shot." Mack slides a heavy glass of dark amber into position and gets to work on the next. "'The Mason' is my best tequila, because even Mason Morrison would send it back if the lime was crooked." There's a chuckle around the bar as Mack slides a perfect wedge on the rim of the glass, and sprinkles a line of salt in front of it. "And last but not least, 'The Beck'."

The third shot he lines up is electric blue, aggressively sweet-smelling, and topped with a float of rum that could probably power a small boat.

“This one is loud, reckless, and almost certainly going to give me legal trouble." Mack grins. "Much like the man himself.”

The room erupts in laughter as none other than Beck Morrison, the man I've recommended we trade due to his poor performance on the ice, steps into the gap between his brothers.

Damn.

To be fair, he is good-looking. Easily the most good-looking man I've ever wanted to strangle.

He has dark hair that's sun-lightened at the tips, and it falls messily across his forehead in the kind of careless way that probably takes longer to achieve than my entire morning routine.

He's lean where his brothers are built like brick walls, and his eyes are that ridiculous, sun-bright Morrison blue.

The worst part about this man isn't that he's gorgeous.

It's that he clearly already knows it.

"Thanks, Mack." Beck looks down at the drink, and studies it with theatrical concern. “Hmmm. But I think it’s missing something.”

Mack’s eyes narrow. “No. Beck, I'm warning you—”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You have a lighter in your hand.”

Beck glances at it like he’s surprised to find it there. “Huh. So I do.”

Then his gaze lifts. It crosses the bar, cuts through the crowd, and lands directly on me.

My thumb stops against my phone screen as heat pebbles up my arm.

The grin stays stretched across Beck’s face. But the warmth behind it shuts off so completely that the distance between us suddenly feels much smaller than the crowded bar separating us.

“Might as well set it on fire,” he says with a bite. “Apparently that’s what we’re doing with the roster tonight, anyway.”

He rolls the lighter between his fingers, still staring at me.

The laughter fractures and I notice the flush in Beck's cheeks.

How much has he had to drink?

A few players chuckle from instinct, but Declan’s face hardens beside him. Mason glances at Beck, then across the bar at me, his easy smile disappearing.

Beck doesn’t look at either of them.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Last time I looked at him, his eyes weren't this dark. It's like I've reached into his ribs and yanked out his heart, now with his career on the line, there's nothing left of his soul.