Page 94 of Double Puck

She isn't lying.

When the food arrives, I stop breathing.

The fish and chips alone look amazing. Thick fillets of white fish in a golden, shatteringly crispy batter, nestled beside a mountain of thick-cut fries glistening with sea salt and vinegar. Lemon wedges perch on the edge, a ceramic ramekin of tartar sauce sits in the center.

I'm already reaching for it before the server finishes setting down the burgers.

God, the burgers.

Mack's seaside pub burgers are absolutely loaded with beef patties that are charred at the edges and still slightly pink in the center. He has them layered with thick-sliced tomato and butter lettuce, and a melted cheese so perfectly golden it's dripping onto the plate.

I shove three fries into my mouth at once.

"Jesus, Darcy." Rose watches me with wide eyes. "When did you last eat?"

Around midnight. Off Beck Morrison's stomach.

But that's classified information.

"Skipped breakfast," I manage through the fries.

My body is screaming for salt and grease and bread. Apparently four rounds of Beck Morrison requires carbohydrate replacement therapy on a scale that would concern the Bears nutritionist.

A surfer wanders past our table barefoot, board tucked under one arm, and nods at us like we're locals. Behind him, the ocean stretches flat and grey-blue under gathering clouds, the storm Colin mentioned building on the horizon.

"So Vegas sounds exciting, right?" Josie says, pulling a piece of fish apart with her fingers. "Colin wants all three of us on the road trip. Rose is doing content, I'm handling media, and you're—"

I glance down, because my phone just lit up with a new text message.

"—observing Beck's performance," Josie finishes. "Darcy? You good?"

No.

No I'm not.

Beck Morrison has sent me a photo. Of himself. Shirtless, in what is unmistakably the Bears locker room, one hand braced on the wooden stall behind him, the other hand—

Oh my God.

I flip the phone face down so fast I nearly launch it into the sand.

"Great." My voice comes out approximately two octaves higher than normal. "Totally fine. Vegas. Yeah, cool. Love it. Love a big dick. I mean, road trip."

Rose tilts her head, frowning. "You just turned the color of that ketchup bottle. What's wrong?"

"It's just the sun." I wave vaguely at the overcast sky. "Or the reflection."

My phone buzzes again. Face down, screen glowing through the table like a nuclear warning.

I casually reach over, pick it up, tilt it toward myself.

It's another photo, this time at a… lower angle. Even with the briefest of glances, I can see Beck's abs, his hip bones, his hand… Oh my. His hand is wrapped around himself again, the Bears logo on the wall behind him perfectly, infuriatingly visible.

He's in the locker room.

That is absolutely not going in the report.

I type back one-handed under the table: You are in a PROFESSIONAL FACILITY.