Page 33 of Double Puck

"Good afternoon to you too." He sounds entirely unbothered, waves audible in the background. "I had a… thing."

"A surfing thing?"

"A wellness thing. It was very nice, actually. Do you know the place—"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What do you need, Colin?"

“Oh, nothing urgent!" he drawls, as though he’s about to drop something nuclear. "Actually! Have you seen the early attendance forecast for this weekend’s game? We might be heading for another sellout! GO BEARS!”

“That’s great,” I reply tightly.

"I mean," he continues, tone picking up, "I have to give it to Ms. Whitfield… what she’s doing with the Morrison brothers’ content? BRILLIANT. Engagement numbers are through the roof. I don’t know how she does it. Well, actually, I do. It’s those faces. Those abominations of God walking around in human bodies, am I right?”

He laughs wildly and I manage a fake smile my mother would be proud of. “Yes, Josie’s doing great.”

And she is. She’s killing it. She deserves this validation.

But it doesn’t make it any less painful. The fact that I'm being reduced to the numbers girl while someone else gets to be the person people actually like.

“Anyway,” Colin says, his voice shifting. “That’s not why I’m calling. I heard you’re attending the Madden Foundation gala tonight.”

My stomach drops. “How did you—”

“Darcy, your mother is a lovely woman. We had a great chat this morning.”

I tighten my grip on the wheel. “You called my mother?”

“I called about buying a table for the Bears. It’s good community visibility, good press, and frankly, it’s an excellent chance to see how the players handle themselves outside an arena.” He pauses. “I told your mother I’d happily return the favour with a VIP box for a future game, although she didn't seem too enthused.”

Of course she didn't.

My mother loves charity, but she absolutely does not love hockey.

“Colin—”

“And also, Beck will be there.” His tone goes smooth again. “You should probably know, I got an email this morning. Another team is interested in lodging a formal offer. Your recommendation is clearly beginning to move. But as we discussed, before we make a decision, I want you assessing the whole picture. Tonight, you can get a good look at his connection with the community.”

“You want me to assess him at my mother's annual charity gala?”

“I want you to assess whether Beck Morrison is a player we should trade, or a player this city might want to keep.”

“And if he gets drunk and climbs a chandelier?”

Colin laughs. “Then document it thoroughly. Enjoy your evening, Darcy.”

He hangs up, leaving me alone with the ocean but almost immediately, my phone buzzes through the Bluetooth again, this time with a video call igniting the screen in the center of the dash which reads: Beck Morrison.

Of course.

Nothing screams high-profile gala prep like virtual harassment from a man who probably doesn’t own cufflinks that match.

I press the green button with one hand while deftly steering with the other. Beck’s face fills the screen immediately, and—

"Oh, no. What are you doing?" I groan.

He’s in a tuxedo shirt that isn’t fully buttoned, his bowtie hanging loose around his neck, his chest infuriatingly visible.

It is absolutely not pressed.