Page 5 of Double Puck

They follow him.

"Um…" Josie's eyes follow the line of hockey players marching out of the bar in various states of undress. "Have you seen how much Beck's had to drink?"

"No. But he appears to be still capable of moving his own limbs."

And those limbs? Yum.

Beck jumps down from the table and points at the moonlit Pacific Ocean.

"Last one in gets traded!"

The bar detonates with laughter.

"And that absolutely includes you, Declan!" Beck calls over his shoulder.

"Absolutely not," Declan announces, arms crossed. "I am the captain of the franchise. I am not running naked into the ocean."

Mason grabs one of his arms. "You're wearing underwear."

Finn takes the other. "For now."

"Mason. Mason. I will trade you both, I swear to—"

It takes another two more players to drag Declan away, but soon, they're physically dragging him across the deck.

"Oh my God, I am not missing this," Josie sings, skipping over while filming the whole thing.

I remain standing in the corner of the bar, watching the entire Beachside Bears roster stampede down the sand, colliding with the ocean in a wall of splashing bodies, raucous profanity, and soft moonlight.

The remaining crowd pours onto the deck to watch with their drinks raised and their phones out.

This is my chance. I should leave.

Colin is now trapped with two sponsors nearby, sweating through his awful Hawaiian shirt. He's had every chance to come and talk to me, but he still hasn't.

So screw it. I'm leaving.

I step to skip out the door, but the moment I do, Beck's gaze lifts from the water. His brows pull together, and he starts making his way towards me, sloshing through the waves and treading up the beach until he's dripping in front of me.

From behind me, Mack throws a towel over my shoulder without warning.

I would normally turn to thank him, but Beck Morrison is currently strutting toward me like he owns the entire beach.

"Going somewhere already?" he calls out, pulling his jeans back on.

Do not look at his boxer briefs, Darcy. Whatever you do, do not look at his boxer briefs.

"No." I hold the towel out, trying to evert my eyes.

He takes it without looking away from me.

He's barefoot, shirtless, and water is tracking down his shoulders and over the ridged lines of his chest. One drop breaks loose and slides down the center of his chest, over each of his abs, disappearing beneath his waistband.

I have never been jealous of water before, but goddamn, I hate that droplet.

"You want the towel back?" His eyes flick down, clocking exactly where mine just were. "Or should I stay wet for you a little longer?"

"I was assessing your risk of hypothermia."