Page 130 of Double Puck

After Vegas, it seems the Bears have seen enough, and a decision is set to be made.

A meeting has been set up for 9AM. At the Morrison Mansion, of all places.

The final decision about Beck Morrison's future in Beachside is sitting on my laptop at home, with the document open and still unfinished. I'm up to version nineteen. I know it's version nineteen because I named it so many times I feel like a college student having a breakdown.

Josie catches my face doing whatever my face is doing.

"Hey." She bumps my shoulder. "You finished it yet?"

"Almost."

"Darcy."

"It's finished. It's just not... finished-finished." I stab a fry into ketchup. "There's a difference."

Rose lowers her camera. "What does it say?"

"That's between me, the document, and the four hundred cups of caffeine that helped write it."

They exchange the look. The one they think I don't see. The one that says she's spiraling, deploy fries. Rose slides her basket toward me without a word, and honestly, that's friendship I never had in high school.

We drift toward the merchandise stall, where The Vault has set up a pop-up table stacked with jerseys, snapback caps, and foam claws.

Brooke Kessler runs the operation from behind a table like a girl who was born and raised in this town and is no longer impressed by it.

"No, ma'am, we don't do refunds on signed items," she's telling a woman, her blonde hair flowing in the wind. I love Brooke's hair. It's gorgeous. "That's Declan Morrison's actual signature. It went up in value the second he touched it. You're welcome."

Behind her, half the roster is signing merch in a line.

Declan signs with grim efficiency, clearly spurred on by Josie's… promises. Mason is next to him, signing with a smile that makes at least two moms adjust their sunglasses. And at the end of the table, Corbin Cole has apparently forgotten how pens work.

Because Brooke just moved in a little closer, smothering him with her perfume.

"You want the silver marker or the gold?" she asks him, blinking long lashes at him.

Corbin looks at the two markers like he's trying very hard not to look anywhere else. "I—yeah. Yes."

"That wasn't a yes-or-no question."

"Gold. No—silver. Um. Ah. What are you using, Brooke?"

"I'm not signing anything, Corbin. You're the famous one."

Brooke smiles slowly, clearly delighted by the fact that Corbin has now forgotten both his own name and the basic function of a marker.

"Silver," she finally tells him, tapping the pen in his hand. "You're doing great, superstar."

Brooke winks and wiggles her hips as she walks away. Corbin turns approximately the color of Rico's salsa.

"Dear God. I want to put that boy in my pocket," Rose whispers.

"I want to put that boy in therapy," Josie says. "Poppy does group rates, right?"

The microphone squeals across The Yard, pulling our attention. Then, like a warning siren sounding across the entire boardwalk, I hear the voice that lives rent-free in my head every damn night.

"BEACHSIDE! Who wants to see some JUSTICE?"

Beck Morrison is standing on a picnic table in board shorts and a Bears tee with the sleeves shoved up, holding a megaphone he absolutely was not authorized to have.