Page 75 of Double Puck

I look at her. "Yes."

“Because I know you, Beck. And when Darcy has to tell Colin you played like a dickhead tonight, you're not allowed to decide that means she doesn't care about you.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours.” She nudges me again. “That's why I'm telling you not to fuck up something good because the girl you've got a massive crush on is honest enough to do her job.”

I stare at the Bears logo in the middle of the floor.

"You're annoyingly wise for someone who smells like cinnamon."

"It's my brand." She kisses the side of my head, stands, and points at me. "Call me when the date goes well. Not if. When."

Then she's gone in a swirl of hugs and Morgan negotiating one final piggyback from Declan, and I hit the showers.

Fifteen minutes later I'm back at my stall in dark jeans and my good shirt, running product through my hair while the room slumps around me in various stages of post-loss grief.

Finn clocks my fresh attire first. He sits up slowly, like he's witnessing a new moon rising.

"Lad." He gestures at me from head to toe. "We just lost. Where in the name of God do you think you're going looking like that?"

"I have a date."

The room goes quiet in a completely different way than it did after the goal.

"A date," Travis repeats. "Tonight. After that?"

"Yep." I check my collar in the mirror. I look good. "The turnover was mine. But I'll own it tomorrow. Watch the film, do the skate, take whatever Coach throws as punishment. But tonight, I've got somewhere to be."

I grab my jacket and walk out into the arena's after-hours quiet.

I stomp up the stairs and down the hall to where the glass offices are all dark.

All, except one.

I knock and step into Darcy's office, the tapping of her keyboard fading as she looks at me over the monitor of her computer.

"You ready for our date, Spreadsheet?"

Chapter 12

Darcy

Ilook up, and my heart sinks through the floor.

"Beck? You can't be serious."

"What?"

"Your team just lost."

"I'm aware. I was there. Front row, actually. Great seats, terrible ending though." He grins across my office. "You look surprised to see me."

The man I just spent two hours being mildly impressed with is dressed up like he's been thinking about this date all night instead of the game he just lost.

He's wearing dark jeans and a shirt that actually has buttons, which might be the most formal thing I've ever seen Beck Morrison wear outside my mother's charity gala. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, because apparently losing a hockey game isn't enough suffering for one evening.

Now I have to deal with those sexy veins too.