Page 17

The bar off the lobby is mostly empty—a handful of travelers are scattered between tables, dim lights, and low music. And Beckett is sitting near the windows with two whiskeys waiting. Beyond the glass, the silver Gateway Arch curves against the dark sky.

I drop into the booth across from him. “You buying?”

“You won.” He smirks.

“Exactly. You owe me a victory drink.” I pick up the glass.

The whiskey burns warm down my throat, replacing the lingering taste of the protein bar I inhaled after the game.

Beckett shakes his head.

“You had that shot.”

Here we fucking go.

“I knew inviting you for a drink was a mistake.” I relax back into the booth with a sigh.

“I invited you.”

“It’s my hotel.”

“My city.” He takes a drink.

Okay, he’s got me there.

“You had a blocker.”

“Mercer was open.” I shrug.

“And you had a blocker.”

“And Mercer needed that goal.” I roll the glass between my palms, watching the amber liquid climb the sides. Beckett knows what it’s like fighting back from an injury and a season that haunts you.

That shuts him up for approximately two seconds.

“Still would’ve scored.” He settles deeper into the booth, clearly unwilling to let it go.

“Probably.”

He gives me a look.

“What?” I spread one hand.

“Nothing.” He takes another drink.

Here we go.

“Bullshit.”

He shrugs. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“See the better play. Make the pass instead of taking the shot.”

“It’s literally my job.”

“Uh-huh.”