Page 111 of Double Puck

Somehow, once again, I'm the last one to find out about my own life.

"Beck, you good—"

Coach tries to come over and talk to me, but I storm past him, my shoulder colliding with his as I speed off the ice. I force my way through the bodies in the locker room, changing as quickly as I can, ignoring any muttered apology that comes my way.

I'm halfway to the exit with my bag over my shoulder when a hand catches the door frame beside my head.

"Beck."

"Not now."

I don't even check which brother it belongs to. Big hand, stupid voice, probably Declan. Doesn't matter.

I duck under his arm and keep walking, boots echoing down the concrete hallway, past the equipment carts, past a security guard who nods at me like this is a normal night in hell.

I finally make it out through a set of double doors into the Vegas evening.

The heat slaps me across the face. Dry, thick, casino-flavored air that smells like asphalt and someone else's cigarette.

I look around. Up and down.

I have no idea where I am. No fucking idea.

Some loading zone on the wrong side of the arena, palm trees strung with lights, the Strip glowing somewhere past the parking structure. The team bus is around front, and the team hotel is… wherever that is.

But that's my whole life, isn't it? I never know where I am.

Somebody always tells me.

Get on the bus, Beck. Sit in the press box, Beck. We'll talk after video, Beck.

A cab idles near the curb with its light on. I yank the door open and drop into the back seat before my brain catches up.

"Where to, buddy?"

I look out the window. "Just drive."

He pulls out, and I sit there with my bag on my knees, waiting for the anger to pick a target.

It doesn't go where I expect.

It's not Darcy lied to me, even though she did, even though the look on her face behind that glass is burned into the back of my skull.

It's simpler than that.

I'm done. Done waiting for everyone else to decide what happens to Beck Morrison. Done finding out about my own life from whistles and livestreams and lineup announcements.

I'm done trying to be fucking happy while everything around me falls apart.

I rip my phone out of my pocket. The missed calls are stacking up the screen already. Declan, Mason, and there, buried in the middle like he's been waiting for this exact moment: Dad.

For half a second, my thumb hovers.

Maybe now I'd finally have something to say to him.

Instead, I scroll, searching for another name.

My agent.