Page 76 of Double Puck

He takes one step into my office, smelling amazing.

"I thought you'd want to…" I gesture vaguely at my monitor, where his evaluation file is still open. I've typed up his turnover play about a billion times in the last hour, yet I still can't seem to find a way to keep it in the file. "Cancel."

"Cancel our first date?" He scoffs. "Anyone would think it was you who had just been getting smashed into a wall for two hours. And I don't mean that in a good way."

"Beck—"

"Look, Darcy. The calendar invite was color-coded red. You remember what red means, right?"

"Non-negotiable."

"Correct. Red means non-negotiable. That was the first thing you ever taught me. So come on, let's get out of here before Goldie's shuts. If I've ever needed one of Kai's caramel lattes, it's right after a crushing defeat. And you're getting whipped cream tonight. First-date rules.”

“I don't think that's a rule.”

“You've never been on one. How would you know?”

I stare at him for a breath longer than I probably should before standing. “Okay. Alright. Let's go.”

The words sound ridiculous even as they leave my mouth, but I’m already moving toward the door, because the alternative is sitting behind my desk, overthinking the night to death.

I grab my purse off the edge of my desk, but as I try to pass Beck, his arm snakes around my middle, pulling me flush against him.

“Hold on there, Spreadsheet. Best date ever remember? Starting with—”

His lips meet mine in a fleeting kiss that sends a warm flutter all the way through me, and when he pulls back, his stupidly perfect eyes lock onto mine.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

Okay. So apparently compliments are included in tonight's itinerary too?

Wonderful.

I'm going to be dead before we reach the parking lot.

Seriously. Is this the same man who blew a game-winning play tonight?

And now here he is, knocking me completely off balance before leading the way to the door.

As he holds it open, I manage to ask, “So that's it? Aren’t you going to ask me what I wrote in the report?”

“Nah.” Beck smirks over his shoulder.

"Beck…"

"You wrote that I fucked up."

My whole body tightens. Because yes. I did.

I hated typing it. Hated watching Beck Morrison play genuinely good hockey all damn night, only to get reduced to the four seconds everyone will remember.

But my job isn't to protect Beck from the truth. Even when I'm starting to desperately want to protect him from everything else.

“Yes,” I admit. “I did.”

“Good.”

I stop walking. “Good?”