Page 47 of Double Puck

Instead, there's a chair so comfortable I'm nearly falling asleep, looking out a window with an actual ocean view that might well match the one I woke up with at the mansion this morning.

Poppy's still typing on her laptop, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, calm as a monk.

Which leaves me alone with my thoughts while I examine the bowl of expensive dark chocolates on her desk.

And my thoughts, ladies and gentlemen, are exclusively about Darcy Madden's mouth.

Goddamn.

That kiss in the kitchen has been replaying on a loop ever since we left the gala last night. The way she grabbed my shirt. The little sound she made against my lips. The goddamn taste of her.

Fuck.

Kissing Darcy Madden might genuinely be the best thing I've ever done, and I once scored a between-the-legs goal on national television.

Christ. Is it weird that I'm more turned on by the woman trying to end my career than I have been by any other woman in my life? Is that what the experts would call an unhealthy obsession?

Should I be disclosing this crush to my therapist?

I scrub a hand through my hair.

Shit.

I have a therapist now. An actual therapist.

When did my life become… this?

Six months ago my biggest problem was rolling out of my massive bed in my equally massive mansion and stumbling down to convince Mason to make my favorite breakfast.

Now I'm sitting in a chair that's hugging me, waiting for a tiny therapist woman to dissect my brain, while the woman trying to trade me lives rent-free inside it.

Okay. Coach might have a point. I DO need help.

Poppy closes her laptop and slides her glasses off, setting them down before looking at me with the calmest eyes I've ever seen on a human being.

My body goes all weird and shaky as she gets up from her desk. I swallow hard as she crosses the room and settles into the armchair opposite me. Dr. Sinclair's maybe five-three, and she moves like someone who has never once been in a hurry.

"Alright," she breathes, smiling. "Beck. Thanks for coming."

"I mean, it was mandatory, but you're welcome."

"Mandatory attendance still counts as attendance." She folds her hands in her lap. "Can I get you anything? Water? Chocolate?"

Poppy glances towards those little squares of temptation wrapped in shiny gold foil on her desk.

To be fair, they look like they belong in a billionaire's safe, not a therapist's office. Fancy as hell, probably filled with imported caramel or some secret truth serum designed to spill my guts. One bite and I'd probably confess every childhood insecurity, like the time Declan beat me at Monopoly and I cried because I thought it meant I’d be poor forever.

"Is the chocolate a trap?"

Poppy raises a brow. "How would chocolate be a trap, Beck?"

"I don't know. I take a piece, and suddenly I owe you my childhood trauma. Classic bait and switch tactic, right?"

A patient smile crosses her face. "It's just chocolate, Beck."

I fold my arms and sink back in the chair. "That's exactly what a chocolate trap would say."

Poppy doesn't laugh, but she doesn't frown either. She just... waits.