Page 106 of Double Puck

Right. Stay focused.

Go to Vegas. Play good fucking hockey. Keep my eyes on the ice.

I've spent half the week buried in game footage anyway, studying Vegas until I practically know their defensive rotations better than they do. My tablet's already loaded with clips for the flight, because apparently this is who I am now.

Beck Morrison: prepared professional athlete.

Except Darcy is sitting six rows ahead of me in a window seat, legs crossed, reading something on her tablet with her sexy hair tucked behind one ear.

She's wearing a tight Bears polo top that's unbuttoned loosely around her neck, and her nails tap against the screen at a rhythm that shouldn't be as hypnotic as it is. Problem is, I've had those nails digging into my back all week. And apparently my dick has an excellent memory, because it twitches enthusiastically at the reminder.

She hasn't looked back once. In fact, she hasn't looked at me at all since we got on the transfer bus. She was talking animatedly on the phone the whole drive, and I'm pretty sure it was her parents she was talking to, because there was a lot of 'Yes, I know' and 'Mom, I am perfectly capable of dressing myself for dinner.'

I get it.

We're traveling with the team, she's here as my analyst, and apparently riding six rows back so I can whisper filthy things into her ear isn't included in the official Beachside Bears travel policy.

Fine. Professional Darcy today.

I can behave.

I tear off a piece of croissant and chew it hard.

"You know who you remind me of right now?" Mason asks, watching me watch her.

"If you say Dad, I'm opening the emergency exit and throwing you out."

"No. Mom."

That gets my attention.

I spin in my seat to look at him. "What? I am nothing like Mom."

"Oh really? Remember when she'd clean the entire kitchen whenever she and Dad were fighting?" Mason says. "We'd wake up and everything was in a different spot. Used to drive Zoey nuts. Every cupboard. Every drawer. Nothing where it was the night before."

"Shit. He's right you know." Declan looks at me, brows pulling together like he's just seeing it. "That is you right now."

"I'm literally sitting here eating a croissant."

"Yeah, after you've trained twice a day all week," Declan says. "And now you're studying on the jet instead of seeing how many tiny bottles of tequila fit into one cup."

Great. This is just great.

Two minutes into the flight, and they're on my case already.

Classic Morrison family travel energy.

"Where is the tequila, anyway? If you two are gonna start, I might just need some."

Mason nudges my knee with his. “Dude, we're just saying... stop overthinking everything. You've been studying plays all week, you're practically living at the rink. I've barely seen you at the mansion.”

That's because I've been balls deep in the woman trying to send me away from you assholes.

“Exactly,” Declan says. “Just get out there tomorrow and play. Trust yourself. Don't force anything.”

I roll my eyes and stare between them. “You two hear yourselves, right?”

Mason frowns. “What?”