Page 32 of Double Puck

The man doesn't belong in my world, but that certainly didn't stop my body from flooding at every whispered command he said yesterday.

“Look at me, Darcy.”

I just obeyed him like I wanted to.

I shake my head.

No.

This is stupid. Beck Morrison is loud, impulsive and altogether too much.

I don’t want that. I don’t need that.

My parents have been married for decades and still move through every ballroom like a private company staffed by two frighteningly efficient employees. Dad has Mom’s champagne waiting before she asks. Mom fixes his cuff links without interrupting her sentence.

They don’t argue in public, forget birthdays or appear anywhere with spinach in their teeth.

That is the Madden version of love.

And I have no intention of attempting it with a man who thinks swallowing a flaming shot counts as conflict resolution.

Especially not when his contract is sitting inside my report, ready to tear in half.

I can either assess Beck Morrison like I've been hired to do, or climb him like an extremely muscular tree. Trying to do both feels like the kind of professional mistake that ends with lawyers and a mandatory seminar that will drag my family name through the mud.

So no. I’m Darcy Madden.

I do not fall for hockey players.

I date men who make sense. Men my parents can understand without needing a minute alone afterward to discuss whether I’ve made a sensible choice.

Glancing at my reflection in the rearview mirror, at least I can say I look the part. I always do.

Cream gown, pearl earrings, perfectly composed. My gaze drops to the pale-gold Parisian clutch resting in the passenger seat. My father gave it to me when I land the Bears job, along with a card containing two words.

Well earned.

In my family, that is practically a royal parade.

And yet, beneath all this polished perfection, the memory of Beck’s voice still thrums through my body.

Look at me, Darcy.

My phone chimes through the car’s Bluetooth. The jarring ringtone shatters the sound of the engine, making me jump as I look at the caller.

Colin Holden, the dashboard screen reads.

Because of course it’s Colin.

The man who missed this morning's scheduled meeting with no explanation, no apology, no acknowledgment that seventeen people rearranged their morning for a meeting he apparently forgot existed.

Not that I'd suffered.

The players all had a recovery day off, which meant I'd spent six blissfully uninterrupted hours doing actual work as well as clearing four weeks of unread emails.

I press the button on the wheel to answer, already bracing for whatever fresh hurricane he’s blown.

"You missed the meeting, Colin."