by G. K. Brady
With a drawn-out sigh, she slid in beside him and lay on her back in silence, her fingers laced over the quilt she’d pulled over her chest. A streetlight bathed the room in blue-white shadows, setting objects aglow like the bridge of a vessel traveling in deep space in a sci-fi movie.
Adrian’s bare back faced her, and she ran her hand across his warm skin. She rolled toward him and caressed his side, his stomach. When she headed south, his hand captured hers and hauled it back up.
Awake after all.
He kissed her fingertips. “Wake me up early, and I’ll take care of you properly, you little sex fiend.” His back rumbled with a laugh.
Did wanting your husband after he’d been gone make you a sex fiend? Was her libido out of control? Like Mom. She shuddered at the thought.
Paige punched her pillow and rolled onto her back, giving Adrian space—he hated being crowded in bed. If only she could sleep. As she lay there wide-eyed, her mind wandered to a time when nightly lovemaking was a given. Back then, she struggled at her business and worked nonstop, coaxing tiny sparks of opportunity to catch on fire. Now her business was blazing even as her marriage was faltering. She needed to blow on those embers too and fan them into a fire. How perfect her world would be if both home and work hummed along in parallel.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she pushed the thought away for another day.
.~ * * * ~.
Beckett boarded his Denver flight, stuffing himself in an economy-class middle seat with no place to put his legs. No charter flight, no first-class seat this time.
Unable to sleep, he plugged in his earbuds and stared at the lit seat belt sign above him, trying to ignore the fat guy wedged against him from the aisle seat and the one in the window seat who probably hadn’t bathed in a year. Beckett blew out an extended breath.
His mind returned to his downward spiral. If he were honest with himself, it had begun soon after he started with LA ten years ago, when he’d been injured. Scared shitless he’d lose his job, he popped pills and played through the pain. It had been easy to do and even easier to justify. After that came the recreational drugs. He’d been at one of those parties where he’d been dazzled by so many fucking hotties he’d corkscrewed his neck looking at them all. Among them, he’d recognized a dark-eyed swimsuit model whose glossy magazine spread had been his inspiration for many a jack-off session. He’d gawked, just gawked, incredulous he breathed the same air she did. When she’d come on to him, he’d been marble-mouthed, uncomfortably aware of how outclassed he was. She’d laughed and led him to the bathroom, where she’d given him his first taste of cocaine—and a damn fine blow job. He’d been awed she’d deemed him worthy.
He’d never seen her again, but it hadn’t mattered. Over the years, he’d gained confidence on and off the ice. As his own celebrity grew—aided in part by his reputation as the “Iron Man” who could play every game—a long line of women had followed. Beautiful actresses, lingerie models, and Playboy Playmates he’d never imagined being with before offered themselves up on platinum platters. So long as he was ready to party and buy whatever they wanted—drugs, jewelry, cars, private jet rides, wild times, pieces of whatever lame-assed venture they were peddling—they were his for the picking. They’d used him, and he’d used them. He’d been too stupid—or too addicted to the good time he chased—to understand how expertly they were working him, until the day he’d grasped he was giving up far more than he got. By the time that epiphany struck, he was too far gone.
Sucked into a vicious, wicked whirlpool, he had no idea how to climb out.
A thunderbolt zapped him, and he jerked in his too-tight seat. Mom. Tears sprang to his eyes. Fuck! Where had that come from? Was she watching from heaven? He hoped not. No, Mom would not be proud of her oldest son.
Despite the millions he’d made and spent starting a hockey camp for kids, buying Dad and Marion a house, paying for Cooper’s college, putting money in their bank accounts, Beckett couldn’t erase his guilt. He was still an outsider in his own family—and he’d earned it. Because of what happened with Mom.
How long had it been this time since he’d spoken to his dad? To any of them? Four months? Six? Shit, he was an absolute bastard.
Think of something else.
Beckett closed his eyes, and he was standing at the blue line on home ice. It was game six 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 and sticks and popped the back of the net. How it found its way in was still a fucking mystery, but he’d scored the game winner and brought his team victory. What a sweet time.
The pilot’s voice announcing their arrival dragged Beckett back to the present. He checked his seat belt and scrubbed his hand over his face. As the plane descended, he glimpsed the brown and gray hues of Colorado’s winter landscape, reflecting the bleakness in his soul. Back home again. Would it be any different this time?
.~ * * * ~.
Paige wrapped a cup in a sheet of butcher paper and tucked it into a moving box. She closed the flaps and dusted off her hands. “That’s the last of the dishes, Gwenn.”
Gwenn dragged a forearm across her sweaty forehead. “Time for a break.”
Henry wedged himself between boxes to reach the fridge, pulled out three beers, and passed them around. He raised his bottle to them as he pushed rumpled, toffee-colored curls out of his brown eyes.
“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help, Paige. Gwenn tells me you have more projects than the Denver Zoo has resident geese, and I’m grateful you carved out time to help us.” He gave her a goofy grin, which made him more loveable than he already was.
Paige took 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 how it is. With so much money in the bank, the FDIC can’t insure it all, who needs to work? It’s like being a professional baseball player.”
“Too right,” Henry chortled. “Speaking of professional players, have either of you seen the news about your old DU classmate?”
“Who?” Paige took another swig of her beer.
“Beckett Miller.”
Paige’s gut jolted, and she nearly spewed the beer. A pair of gorgeous glacier-blue eyes 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 a dormant section of her memory banks. No one but Beckett had ever called her that.
Gwenn shot her a sidelong glance. “There’s a blast from the past.” To Henry, she said, “What about Beckett Miller?”
Paige had followed Beckett’s career with lazy interest—enough to track his trajectory to the peak of his profession, where he’d been ranked a top defenseman in the NHL. Bits and pieces zipped through her brain: Beckett’s big frame gliding over the ice, stick in hand as if part of his arm. A montage of him flattening opponents to Imagine Dragons’ “Radioactive.” His stance as he fired home a puck. 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’ Cup run. She’d watched him on TV as he danced atop a trolley lumbering along a parade route. He’d sported a backward ball cap, dark sunglasses, and a smile as broad as the street. No lie, Paige’s heart had wobbled a bit at the sight of his handsome face. Yeah, she was married, but she wasn’t dead. She still appreciated a perfect male specimen.
Henry’s voice jarred her back to the present. “He’s in big trouble. Some girl he partied with OD’d.”
Paige’s mouth swung open. “OD’d, as in died?”
“No, but she was in the hospital for a while. Miller’s been suspended, and he’s lost a ton of endorsements. Translation? This was a royal fuckup that’s costing him big. No surprise, though, considering the other shit he’s pulled.”
“Like what?” One or two Beckett Miller off-ice antics bubbled
up in Paige’s stunned brain, though the specifics escaped her.
Henry set his bottle down on the counter beside the discarded caps. “Like being picked up for DUI, possession, scuffles at bars, getting tossed from strip clubs. Crap like that. The guy lives like a rock star.”
Gwenn tutted. “All that charm, that body, that money. He was always too attractive for his own good. Trouble in a perfect package.” She seemed to remember herself. “Of course, Henry’s the perfect package without the trouble.”
He flicked a bottle cap at her.
Paige whistled softly. “Once a bad boy, always a bad boy.”
Where would 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 running over his head, coursing over his body in rivulets. He was spent—after only thirteen minutes in a matinee game, which was way less than his average of twenty. Pathetic. And he’d only played fifteen two nights before, his first game back. Even though he’d worked out during his suspension, it hadn’t kept him in game shape. Nothing but playing did. But despite the fatigue, it was amazing to be back out there again. What a fucking rush. Yeah, he was tired, but he would never admit it to anyone—especially Coach. No, Coach would only see Beckett’s best self: the defenseman who quarterbacked on the ice, took away the puck, and hit like a freight train—the defenseman opponents hated playing against. It was the only way to convince Coach to ratchet up Beckett’s ice time. Why the hell pay him five million dollars a year to warm the bench?
“Miller! Coach wants you,” a teammate barked.
Shaking his head, Beckett shed water like a golden retriever. “Yeah, sure.”
He dressed quickly—black shirt, black tie, gray suit, black shoes—and trudged to Coach LeBrun’s office. The door was ajar, but there was no Coach behind the desk, so he stepped inside to wait. And stopped in his tracks. A woman with shoulder-length, dark copper hair sat in one of Coach’s chairs. She turned her head 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? She seemed familiar, but that wasn’t unusual.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said as she rose. She was tiny. Did she even reach his chin? She held out her hand and flashed him a megawatt smile that lit up her whole face. “How are you?”
“I’ve been worse.” Beckett took her hand, his own nearly swallowing it whole, and shook. She had a surprisingly strong grip.
“Coach LeBrun should be back shortly.” She looked a little twitchy.
Realization grabbed him by the lapels and shook him hard.
The shrink.
Nice setup, Coach. Annoyed, Beckett plopped into the other chair and decided to have some fun. “You know who I am.”
She sat too; her smile dimmed a few watts. “Well, yes.”
“Beckett Alexander Woodford Miller. The Third. I play defense for the Blizzard.”
“I knew all that, but I didn’t know there were three of you.”
“Yeah, which is at least two too many. Don’t you need a notepad or something?”
She frowned. “I’ve got one, but I don’t need it right now.”
“So, Doc, you’re here to encourage me to pour out my feelings.” He stopped, covered his heart and belted out a tired chorus. “Whoa, whoa …” Nailed it.
Her body went a bit rigid, and she slid a little deeper into her seat. Away from him.
“You want me to tell you the whole sordid story of my life,” Beckett drawled, “about my journey down the dark path of destruction filled with booze, drugs, and women. Not in that order. They’re nasty habits, addictive habits, and they’ve led me to do bad things with absolute strangers whose names and faces are a blur. Take two nights ago, for instance. I leave the rink after a game, and, like most nights, gorgeous women are lined up by the exit. They remind me of neon signs flashing, ‘Pick me! Pick me!’ I didn’t know any of them, and it was tough to choose—they’re all fucking hot. Anyway, I showed great restraint and narrowed it down to a pair.” He paused to shrug. “They get me drunk, take me to their place, coke me up, and fuck my brains out. What’s a guy to do?”
Then he broke into a few refrains from a favorite old Glenn Frey song, “The All-Nighter,” followed by, “Yeow! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
She blinked like a green-eyed owl.
“I tried to resist, I really did,” he continued with shameful seriousness, “but I couldn’t help myself. But it’s not my fault. When I was six, I saw Patches chewed up in the hay baler, and I’ve been trying to recover ever since.” He leaned forward. She looked as though she might climb over the back of her chair. “Is there any way I can be cured, Doc?”
She blinked more rapidly.
“Something stuck in your eye, Doc?” He’d rattled her. Good! He kept going.
“I expect you’re really here to talk about the girl in Minneapolis who ended up in the hospital after a night of tequila, cocaine, and sex—see a pattern here?—because she had some sort of heart defect, and the damn thing went south on her. And it never should have because she was fucking twenty-two years old. How does that happen, for Christ’s sake? Oh, and it turns out she was about to get married. And she was pregnant.”
His chest compressed, and he pulled in a breath, then another. “Not mine. I’d only met her that night.”
The doctor stared at him with a stupefied expression.
“But you know what?” he resumed with mock sadness. “No matter how much booze, drugs, or women I have, I can’t get the picture of my poor little puppy out of my head.” Shaking his head, he let out a phony sniffle.
“Oh.”
“Seriously? I’m sitting here, pouring my guts out, and that’s all you’ve got? ‘Oh’? How many years of education did it take to learn that nugget?”
“How awful?” she ventured, completely flummoxed. And then her eyes flew to somewhere above his head.
“Miller,” came Coach’s voice behind him, “I see you’ve met my real estate broker, Paige Paulson.”
Beckett glanced over his shoulder at Coach, whose hands held two cups of coffee and whose face held pure exasperation. Coach wasn’t joking; Coach never joked. Beckett looked at Paige Paulson. Her face was colored the shade of the damn pink polka dots he couldn’t forget. They danced in his mind throughout his waking hours, haunting him.
Paige—hadn’t he known someone by that name?—interrupted his thoughts.
“Have you thought of writing a book, Mr. Miller? You have some great material. I’d recommend staying away from women who, well, you know. Your brains appear to be in short supply as it is.” She shrugged a delicate shoulder.
Beckett stood and yanked his hand through his hair. “I, uh, yeah.” He blew out a breath and let out a wry laugh. “Touché, Ms. Paulson. I apologize. I thought you were a shrink. I’m usually not such an ass.”
“Yeah, you are, Miller.”
Thanks, Coach.
“I’m sure he’s not,” Ms. Paulson piped up. “How else could Mr. Miller get the sort of attention he claims to get? He obviously has some charm. Of course, I wouldn’t really know.” She smiled sweetly. “I sure hope the part about Patches wasn’t true.”
Jesus H. Fucking Christ, Beckett, could you be a bigger asshole?
“The puppy part was made up. You, uh, called for me, Coach?”
“Gillaspie wants to meet with you and me, here, in an hour. So do me a favor and take your magnetic personality somewhere else while I talk to my guest.”
“Sure. Yeah.” He gave Paige a sidelong glance. “Ms. Paulson, the pleasure, I’m sure, was all mine.”
“I’m sure it was. Nice voice, by the way.”
He slinked through the door, closing it behind him. Paige? Paulson?
.~ * * * ~.
Paige recovered her breath when the thunderstorm named Beckett Miller thumped out of the office. Had she
really just said those things to him? She couldn’t have inflicted any damage on that pumped-up ego, the jerk. Wow! Some people get better with age. Others, not so much.
Marty closed the door. “Sorry, Paige. Miller’s going through a rough patch right now, though it doesn’t excuse his behavior. If I’d seen him walking this way, I would have headed him off.” He gave her a coffee and a contrite smile.
Paige smiled back, every movement deliberate. Tell him or not? She made up her mind.
“I spend my days with contractors, so don’t worry about it.” Although most of them show a certain amount of decorum and aren’t so … graphic about their conquests.
“I wish you had been the shrink. Miller needs one, though he won’t admit it—especially to himself.” Marty sank into the chair behind his desk, his dark brows bunched over thoughtful brown eyes. Fortyish, with short hair tipped in silver and a scar that puckered his eyebrow, Marty LeBrun spoke with a soft voice, though doubtless he used a different one with his players. Paige liked his manner, and she liked his wife, Claudia, which was one reason she had picked their offer out of five for her latest remodel. She knew they would take good care of her creation. With no agent, they’d asked to deal directly with her, which was why she now sat opposite Marty.
Paige blew on the coffee, rippling its surface. “The girl in Minneapolis, is she all right?”
Marty took a gulp. “Physically, as far as I know.”
“So Mr. Miller wasn’t making it up.” Or the bit about the women who …
“Miller’s got a decent side. Unfortunately, he’s got a wild hair, and now everybody’s paying the price. He’s a good leader in the locker room, patient with the young guys, and they look up to him. He’ll make a good coach someday—if he can stay out of trouble. I’d appreciate your keeping this between us.” Marty gave her a nod that told her the subject was closed.
She pulled a contract from her leather portfolio. “Your secret’s safe, Marty. I can’t imagine a reason why Mr. Miller and I would cross paths again.”