Howlong had it been this time since he’d spoken to his dad? To any of them? Fourmonths? Six? Shit, he was an absolute bastard.
Thinkof something else.
Beckettclosed his eyes, and he was standing at the blue line on home ice. It was gamesix of the Stanley Cup finals, and they were heading to their second overtime.He took a slapshot, and the puck threaded its way between players’ legs andsticks and popped the back of the net. How it found its way in was still afucking mystery, but he’d scored the game winner and brought his team victory.What a sweet time.
Thepilot’s voice announcing their arrival dragged Beckett back to the present. Hechecked his seat belt and scrubbed his hand over his face. As the planedescended, he glimpsed the brown and gray hues of Colorado’s winter landscape,reflecting the bleakness in his soul. Back home again. Would it be anydifferent this time?
.~ * * * ~.
Paige wrapped a cup in a sheet of butcher paper and tuckedit into a moving box. She closed the flaps and dusted off her hands. “That’sthe last of the dishes, Gwenn.”
Gwenn draggeda forearm across her sweaty forehead. “Time for a break.”
Henrywedged himself between boxes to reach the fridge, pulled out three beers, andpassed them around. He raised his bottle to them as he pushed rumpled,toffee-colored curls out of his brown eyes.
“Ican’t tell you how much we appreciate your help, Paige. Gwenn tells me you havemore projects than the Denver Zoo has resident geese, and I’m grateful youcarved out time to help us.” He gave her a goofy grin, which made him moreloveable than he already was.
Paigetook a long, slow sip, savoring the icy liquid flowing down her parched throat.With a satisfied “ah,” she said, “I do it for the beer. Besides, you know howit is. With so much money in the bank, the FDIC can’t insure it all, who needsto work? It’s like being a professional baseball player.”
“Tooright,” Henry chortled. “Speaking of professional players, have either of youseen the news about your old DU classmate?”
“Who?”Paige took another swig of her beer.
“BeckettMiller.”
Paige’sgut jolted, and she nearly spewed the beer. A pair of gorgeous glacier-blueeyes floated through her head, and a deep-timbred voice belonging to one tall,broad, brown-haired Adonis whispered the name “Andie” from a secure vault in adormant section of her memory banks. No one but Beckett had ever called herthat.
Gwennshot her a sidelong glance. “There’s a blast from the past.” To Henry, shesaid, “What about Beckett Miller?”
Paigehad followed Beckett’s career with lazy interest—enough to track his trajectoryto the peak of his profession, where he’d been ranked a top defenseman in theNHL. Bits and pieces zipped through her brain: Beckett’s big frame gliding overthe ice, stick in hand as if part of his arm. A montage of him flatteningopponents to Imagine Dragons’ “Radioactive.” His stance as he fired home apuck. Long, sun-streaked hair brushing the tops of his squared-off shoulders.
Dubbed“a beast with presence,” he’d scored the series-winning goal in the Kings’ Cuprun. She’d watched him on TV as he danced atop a trolley lumbering along aparade route. He’d sported a backward ball cap, dark sunglasses, and a smile asbroad as the street. No lie, Paige’s heart had wobbled a bit at the sight ofhis handsome face. Yeah, she was married, but she wasn’t dead. She stillappreciated a perfect male specimen.
Henry’svoice jarred her back to the present. “He’s in big trouble. Some girl hepartied with OD’d.”
Paige’smouth swung open. “OD’d, as in died?”
“No,but she was in the hospital for a while. Miller’s been suspended, and he’s losta ton of endorsements. Translation? This was a royal fuckup that’s costing himbig. No surprise, though, considering the other shit he’s pulled.”
“Likewhat?” One or two Beckett Miller off-ice antics bubbled up in Paige’s stunnedbrain, though the specifics escaped her.
Henryset his bottle down on the counter beside the discarded caps. “Like beingpicked up for DUI, possession, scuffles at bars, getting tossed from stripclubs. Crap like that. The guy lives like a rock star.”
Gwenntutted. “All that charm, that body, that money. He was always too attractivefor his own good. Trouble in a perfect package.” She seemed to rememberherself. “Of course, Henry’s the perfect package without the trouble.”
Heflicked a bottle cap at her.
Paigewhistled softly. “Once a bad boy, always a bad boy.”
Wherewould I be if I’d said “yes” to Beckett Miller?
CHAPTER 4
Welcome to Your Life
Beckett leaned against the white-tiled wall, hot water runningover his head, coursing over his body in rivulets. He was spent—after onlythirteen minutes in a matinee game, which was way less than his average oftwenty. Pathetic. And he’d only played fifteen two nights before, hisfirst game back. Even though he’d worked out during his suspension, it hadn’tkept him in game shape. Nothing but playing did. But despite the fatigue, itwas amazing to be back out there again. What a fucking rush. Yeah, he wastired, but he would never admit it to anyone—especially Coach. No, Coach wouldonly see Beckett’s best self: the defenseman who quarterbacked on the ice, tookaway the puck, and hit like a freight train—the defenseman opponents hatedplaying against. It was the only way to convince Coach to ratchet up Beckett’sice time. Why the hell pay him five million dollars a year to warm the bench?
“Miller!Coach wants you,” a teammate barked.
Shakinghis head, Beckett shed water like a golden retriever. “Yeah, sure.”
Hedressed quickly—black shirt, black tie, gray suit, black shoes—and trudged toCoach LeBrun’s office. The door was ajar, but there was no Coach behind thedesk, so he stepped inside to wait. And stopped in his tracks. A woman withshoulder-length, dark copper hair sat in one of Coach’s chairs. She turned herhead to him. Her eyes were startling, light green, like the water in Belize.He’d almost bought a car that color once. What the hell had they called it?Selenium? Seafoam? Celadon?
