Page 4 of Double Puck

Josie smiles, and I catch her glancing toward the bar where Declan is being aggressively hugged by Finn while Sawyer tries to pour beer over his head. She watches him like he's the only person in the room.

"Can I ask you something?" Josie tilts her head, studying me.

"I guess."

She leans closer, lowering her voice. "Did you have to do it tonight? Announce the trade, I mean."

My spine straightens on instinct.

"My report was complete, and the Trade Deadline is coming up. Tomorrow's meeting requires everyone on the roster to understand where they stand before they arrive."

"He understands it, Darce. I think the people three towns over just heard Beck Morrison's ego explode. But, babe…" She turns to face me, which is somehow makes this worse. "The team just won the biggest game in franchise history. His parents are getting divorced. He literally just found out that his brothers have been protecting him since he was a kid. That's a lot to handle, and then you go and make it ten times worse?"

My stomach drops as I stare down at my drink.

Maybe she's right.

But I'm part of the Madden family, a long line of wealth and prestige that means we never let emotion get in the way of doing what needs to be done.

Before I can construct a response, Finn MacAllister climbs onto the small stage, hijacks the microphone, and taps it three times.

"Right, listen up, you gorgeous animals! A new team needs traditions!"

"A new team needs discipline," Coach Pearson calls from somewhere near the taco table. "Get the hell off the stage."

Finn ignores him completely. "So let's hear your ideas on how we should celebrate tonight!"

"We could steal a police horse," Sawyer offers from a corner booth.

A chorus of groans rumbles from the team. "That's Portland's thing, dipshit."

Corbin Cole raises his hand tentatively, the rookie's voice cracking as he speaks. "What if... we, um, had a team mascot that was just like… a regular seagull? We could train it to steal fries from visiting fans?"

There's a murmur of contemplation, then Beck vaults onto a table like he was launched from a cannon.

"I've got it!" he announces, taking a long pull of yet another beer. "How about tonight, we all create the first official Beachside Bears victory skinny-dip!"

Josie and I both groan, but the team erupts in cheers.

Without so much as a discussion, shirts start flying and shoes are being kicked off under tables. Corbin nearly decapitates a waitress trying to remove his jeans while still wearing his sneakers, apologizing to her eleven times while mid-hop.

"Oh my God," I groan, shielding my eyes. "This is not happening."

I peek through my fingers to see Josie laughing as Mack reaches behind the bar, grabbing a baseball bat he's apparently named Sheila. He's holding her aloft like a fucking sword.

"Anyone who leaves underwear in my bar, they'll answer to me!" Mack growls, squeezing his fists around the handle. "Out! OUUUUT!"

Beck strips his shirt off, and—

"Okay. Wow."

Josie nudges me with her elbow, cutting me a look. "Didn't see that in your statistics, did you?"

She's right.

Beck Morrison is cut like a goddamn Roman gladiator. The lights pour over a torso that has no business being that hot as he plants both feet on the table and leads a chant so loud my ears rattle from the noise, but the meaning is clear: follow me.

And they do. Maybe that's the thing my spreadsheets failed to capture.