Page 116 of Double Puck

We swing onto the Strip, past the windows with neon lights galore, the Bellagio fountains erupting on our left like the whole city is applauding my terrible decisions.

"Boyfriend?" the driver asks, weaving between two limos, tires screeching.

"It's complicated."

"It always is, sweetheart. It always is."

Beck's cab pulls into the hotel. Mine screeches in behind it, and I throw money at the driver. Too much money, judging by his salute.

I slam the door and chase Beck across the lobby, past the glass flower ceiling and into an elevator that closes right in my face.

"Fuck!"

"Oh! Goodness me."

I turn and the woman beside me looks so much like my mother that for one horrifying second, I wonder whether Diana Madden has learned teleportation purely to criticize my posture.

"Sorry."

The woman's eyes travel over my hair, my dress, then my abused heel as I slam my hand on the elevator button again.

Somehow, sorry has made things worse.

I take the next elevator, remembering Beck's room number while my heart pounds inside my chest. When the doors open, Beck is halfway down the hall, key card in hand.

"Beck!"

He doesn't hear me, or if he does, he doesn't stop. The door to 2604 swings open, starts to close—

"Beck! Wait!" I get my foot in the gap. My poor, abused, expensive shoe. "Would you just talk to me?"

He yanks the door open, and I get my first real look at his face all night.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Beck Morrison angry is not something I'd wish on my mother's worst enemy, and my mother's worst enemy once wore white to a Madden wedding.

I've seen Beck Morrison worked up before. I've watched those blue eyes darken while his hand curls into my hair, watched his throat tighten while he tells me exactly what he wants from me.

Usually, that look makes every intelligent thought evacuate my body.

This isn't that look.

There's nothing playful in his eyes now. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle jumps beneath the scruff, his broad chest rising beneath his wrinkled shirt while every inch of him seems wound tight enough to snap.

For once, Beck Morrison looking dangerous doesn't make me want to take my clothes off.

"Talk?" His voice is all rough and quiet, which is worse than yelling. "Now you want to talk. That's funny. Because you've had weeks, Darcy."

"Beck—"

"You knew." He steps back into the suite, and I follow because leaving isn't an option. "About Coach's decision. About the scratch. You sat there rinkside and watched them tell me in front of the whole team, and you already knew."

"I didn't know about the scratch—"

"But you knew it was coming." He laughs, cutting me with those blue eyes. "God, you're good. You didn't even lie. You just never said anything. Very elegant. Very Madden of you."