Page 21 of Double Puck

"This audit is going worse than I expected," he mutters, shaking his head like I'm the one being unreasonable. "Yet somehow, I'm the one being sent to the team psych for therapy sessions."

"That was a team decision. You can't blame me for that."

"A team decision that conveniently happened right after you handed in a report calling me unstable."

"I submitted a data-backed performance evaluation to the coaching staff."

He waves a hand. "Same thing."

By the time we hit the twenty-minute mark, the joke is firmly on me.

Beck’s breathing may be theatrical enough to qualify for community theatre, but his pace never slips. He matches every increase I throw at him, long strides eating up the boardwalk while the muscles across his back flex beneath a growing layer of sweat. Even after two sprint intervals I do purely to test him, his heart rate drops faster than yesterday’s data suggests it should.

Which is irritating.

Useful, professionally.

But mostly irritating.

My watch vibrates against my wrist as we round the curve toward a quieter stretch of beach, where the morning sun has turned the sand into crushed diamonds. The ocean looks too blue to be real.

“Recovery walk,” I say, slowing my stride.

“Thank Christ.” Beck presses a hand to his chest. “I was moments away from seeing the light.”

Our breathing gradually settles, and without discussing it, we both drift toward the weathered wooden railing that separates the boardwalk from the stretch of beach below us.

I lean against it, the worn wood smooth beneath my palms.

The beach itself is nearly empty except for a lone jogger in the distance and a couple walking hand-in-hand at the water's edge.

Beck settles beside me at the railing, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. For a moment, we just stand there in silence, watching the world wake up around us, our post-run buzz making everything feel perfectly suspended in time.

Then his voice changes.

“Okay,” he says. “Last question, and I promise, it's the easiest one. Something good happens, like, the best news of the whole year. Who’s the first person you call?”

The waves fill the silence.

And my brain… comes up empty.

"Maybe Josie?" I finally admit, wincing as the image of her face in yesterday's meeting creeps in behind my eyes. "At least… she was becoming that."

Beck's eyebrows climb above his sunglasses. "Was?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure she's furious with me." I sigh into the breeze. “She thinks I blindsided everyone with the trade recommendation. And objectively, I suppose she has grounds for that conclusion.”

“Objectively,” Beck repeats. “Is that how the Madden family apologizes? You send people a report?”

“I haven’t apologised.”

There is no grin now, no theatrical outrage. Just Beck, listening.

“I’ve always been taught to keep work and friendships separate,” I continue. “In my family, mixing personal feelings with professional decisions is how mistakes happen.”

“Wow. The Maddens sound fun.”

I give him a look. “Have you met me?”