Taming Beckett: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 1)

by G. K. Brady

  His reckless behavior had doubtless created—and destroyed—his fortune, so why did she feel sympathy for him? Maybe she was dazzled, caught up in all that brilliance, and her brain was temporarily off-line. In need of a sounding board, she picked up her phone.

  “Gwenn? Got a minute? I just agreed to list Beckett Miller’s house, and I’ve got to know if that makes me frickin’ nuts.”

  “Oh my God, Paige, you are completely banana balls!”

  It didn’t matter that Gwenn was living in a city over thirteen hundred miles away; she was still Paige’s closest—and most honest—friend.

  Paige sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. But, Gwenn, I don’t think he’s the same guy. He was so … God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he was so sweet. Humble. Not the Mr. Full-of-Himself we knew. Maybe it’s an act, but I don’t think so.” Or maybe it’s because his life is in the toilet.

  “Are you really up for his BS, Paige?”

  “I hope so. He needs my help, and I couldn’t say no. And I need the paycheck.”

  A dog barked, and a child cried in the background. “Look, sweetie, I gotta go, but, Paige? If there’s one thing that man can do, it’s charm your pants off. Watch yourself.”

  Paige hung up, huffed out a breath, and muttered, “Good thing you’ll hardly see him, Paige. Er, Andie.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Something I Need

  “Andie? Hi. It’s me, Beck. Look, I’m heading home and wondered if you have the paperwork? Can we meet at your office? Oh. Where are you right now? That’s on my way. I’m there in ten.”

  He hung up and made a U-turn. Her voice had given him a lift. Maybe it was because his fortune was sliding further into a bottomless cesspool and he needed to think about something else. Signing listing contracts, getting his last house on the market, might give him some illusion of control. Or maybe it was because he wanted to see a bright face to help him forget the bleak voices from that morning: his agent, who had only heard from a minor league team in Albany curious about Beckett’s availability, reporting he’d had no other bites and that the KHL had gone dark; the police, with absolutely nothing on Jackie’s whereabouts; and Tom, who still hadn’t reached common ground with the Delgados’ attorney. Plus, Tom was fighting with a recalcitrant IRS agent who had conveniently lost all his notes of their agreements and was threatening jail time.

  Beckett turned down Madison Street and slowed to read house numbers. He didn’t need to. The chain-link fence, the soaring bright plywood box, and a sign announcing another remodel by Anderson Homes were like arrows pointing to his destination. He found a spot on the tight street and parked, grinning to himself. The pickup fit right in.

  As he strolled toward the construction site, a flash of dark red hair caught his eye. Andie stood on a hill of dirt next to a squared-off, severe-looking guy who watched her intently while she spoke and pointed at a piece of paper in her hand. She wore a ball cap, and her hair came out the back in a wavy ponytail. Faded jeans and a gray T-shirt didn’t hide delightfully ample curves, and Beckett visualized them sans the clothes. A number of guys on site were checking her out, no doubt picturing the same thing; she seemed oblivious. Jog back to the truck and grab a shirt to throw over her shoulders? That would make those perverts stop looking at her like she was a piece of candy. Maybe.

  She saw him, smiled, and waved him over. He climbed the dirt mound and stood about six inches below her to compensate for her Thumbelina stature. It almost worked.

  “Norm, this is Beckett Miller. Beckett, my construction manager, Norman Gutierrez.”

  “The former hockey player?” Gutierrez, steel-haired and hazel-eyed, gave Beckett a crushing handshake and a hard stare. All he needed was a sneer baring pointy teeth, and the attack bulldog look would be complete.

  Yeah, I get it. Don’t fuck with the lady.

  “A hockey player between jobs,” Beckett corrected.

  “Norm, Beckett and I are going to go over some documents in my truck. Do you need anything for now?”

  “Nah. I got you, Smalls.” This he said as he darted a sidelong glare at Beckett.

  “Show me your project, Andie,” Beckett said, inviting another Norm glare.

  Andie wound Beckett through the space, explaining what was what and what went where. How the hell could she dream all this up? Beckett suppressed his admiration. Eyes followed them wherever they went, right until they piled into the front seat of her truck. She rearranged things to make room for him and cranked on the engine. The radio was blaring a sixties tune, and AC blasted warm air in his face.

  She dialed the music down. “It’ll cool off in a sec. You okay doing this here?”

  He nodded and flicked his eyes over her. “Smalls, huh? I guess I’m not the only one with a pet name for you.”

  She laughed. “Yeah. Smalls, Buddy, and Miss Paige are what they usually call me, at least to my face. I don’t mind. It could be worse.”

  “Does your husband have a pet name for you besides Paigey?”

  The smile faded; she thumbed through a few sheets.

  “Sorry,” Beckett said. “Didn’t mean to get personal. You know those construction guys are totally checking you out, right?”

  She glanced over at him with a frown. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Their eyes are glued to you, especially that one bald buck with the tattoo sleeves. Maybe you should cover up.”

  She barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Now he laughed. “There’s something very hot about the girl next door in jeans and a T-shirt, especially when she has no clue she’s hot. Trust me on this one.”

  A fetching blush crept up her throat and cheeks. “You’re crazy.”

  “Should you be calling a client crazy to his face? Just sayin’—I haven’t signed yet.”

  “What you probably saw is them watching for money to fall out of my pockets. Getting paid is priority one.”

  “Is paying them an issue?”

  She sighed. “Things have been a little off. I had to let one crew go because I couldn’t keep them busy, and these guys are nervous. Understandably. They rely on me. So do their families.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “What isn’t the problem?” She rubbed her forehead. “Inspectors giving us a hard time, the EPA on our backs, unexpected repairs sucking up profits and slowing everything down. I haven’t got many deals in the pipeline to spread the risk. Usually I can balance, but it’s tough when it all hits at once.”

  “I know all too well.”

  “It’s bad, huh?”

  “It’s not great.”

  “I, um, pulled an ownership and encumbrances report on your place. Standard procedure.” She slid a paper from between a few other sheets and pointed at it. “I saw a judgment, so I dug deeper, and if what I’m seeing is correct, you have a sizeable IRS lien on your property.”

  He nodded, staring straight ahead. When he glanced back at her, she gave him a sympathetic smile.

  “Well, if you’re ready to move on this, let’s get busy signing,” she said.

  He fished his glasses out of his shirt pocket and slid them on. She seemed not to notice. They sat side by side, her explaining what he was signing and him agreeing while he pulled in her fresh-flower fragrance.

  When they finished the stack, she said, “The photographer will be there tomorrow. Your place should be listed before the weekend.”

  “Okay.” He tossed the pen down on her console with a twinge of sadness. He hadn’t loved the house, but it was one of the few remaining threads in a weave that represented a life he no longer had. And he’d loved that he could afford it. Once upon a time.

  “I’ll get you as much money as I can, but there’s a chance you’ll need to bring money to the closing table to cover the lien and mortgage. You do understand that?”

  “Yep.”

  She touched his arm. “I don’t understand everything you’re going through, but I’ll help any way
I can.”

  “You’re already helping.” He folded his glasses and slipped them into his pocket.

  She withdrew her hand. He wanted it back.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked softly. When was the last time he’d invited a woman—married or not—to do something so simple, so wholesome? So normal?

  A little frown played on her face.

  “Please?” he added, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.

  What had moved him to ask? Easy. He could breathe around her, and he desperately needed to breathe. She was the rare one who recognized his bullshit, and yet she looked past it. She cared—not because she wanted anything from him like everyone else, but because it was her nature, because she was sweet and warm and kind. With her, he could just … be.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Beckett’s blue eyes fixed on her hopefully. She didn’t want to have coffee with him. She just wanted to sell his house and help him move on. But the plea in his voice had struck a note, and he looked so pathetic, so different from the strutting, strapping man who had burst into Marty’s office last winter and boasted of his sexual prowess. Where had that swagger gone, the one he’d had since college? Maybe she should offer to buy him a coffee.

  “I just … Jesus, I just want to … to talk to someone normal, just for a little while, and be myself without wondering who wants what from me.” There was no mistaking the frustration in his deep timbre. “Just talk. About how you come up with your designs. About the latest book you’re reading. About your favorite dessert. Your choice.” They stood outside her truck now, and he was plucking her heartstrings as though she were a steel guitar. Gwenn’s warning bounced about in her brain.

  Paige looked at her watch dramatically. His puppy eyes were compelling—and gorgeous. Were those the same eyes he used when he was seducing the latest supermodel? Or three? No lie, it was effective. But she was immune, inoculated with her indomitable Adrian vaccine.

  She bit her lower lip. “I only have time for one.”

  One side of his mouth twitched in a half-smile. He suddenly looked nervous. “Um, good. I’ll take it. One is good.”

  At Paige’s suggestion, they walked, Beckett scrunching a ball cap low on his forehead. He continually tugged it down as he looked around. Awkwardness charged the air between them, manifesting itself in starts and stops in attempted small talk. Though the walk was only a few blocks, every step was excruciating. What am I doing? I just want to go home, sit in front of the TV, and eat a quart of vanilla before I talk to Adrian. But this guy’s my client—I can give him a half hour, right?

  They peered through a window at Dazbog and spotted an open table. After arguing briefly over who was paying—Beckett won because he invited her, he claimed— they slipped into hard wooden chairs on opposite sides of a square table. She stared at a poster of a giant cup of coffee. “Flavor as big as Russia,” it bragged. Fascinating. When she slid her eyes farther down, another poster listed their specialty drinks. Ah! That would take some time, and attention, to study. Maybe she could read them off to him and start a conversation that wasn’t as painful as what they’d exchanged so far.

  Their coffee arrived with a clatter of cup and saucer. She blew on the foam of her decaf skinny cappuccino and glanced around the space. An extraordinarily large number of women seemed to be in the shop, and they all seemed to be staring at Beckett. He removed the cap but kept his head down, intently stirring his coffee. His black coffee. He lifted his gaze to her, and a few strands of hair fell forward, hiding one eye. As he pushed it back, he gave her a half-smile.

  She pulled in a deep breath. Find common ground. “So. Tell me about playing in the NHL.” Oh God. It sounded as cheesy as, “Come here often?” and she cringed inwardly.

  Either he didn’t notice, or he was being polite. “Signed with the Kings out of college and stayed with them seven years. Won the cup with them in 2012. God, that was an amazing time.”

  A picture of Beckett in his backward ball cap, hooting and playing air guitar atop a double-decker bus flashed through her mind, as vivid as the day she’d seen it.

  “And you came here in …”

  He sipped his coffee and gingerly put the cup down. “I was traded to the Blizzard in 2014. A few months before the Kings won their second cup.”

  “That had to hurt.”

  A mirthless laugh. “Yeah, that one sucked big time.”

  Okay. Time to change the subject. “So you’re from Michigan. I’ve never picked up the Midwest accent. Born on a farm?” Where your pretend puppy bought it in the hay baler?

  “Yep.”

  I thought he wanted to talk? “Um, you still have family back there?”

  “My dad and stepmom live there. Believe me, when I visit, the Yooper accent comes roaring back. My mom’s was classic.” He paused to cough. “I have a younger brother in San Diego. Cooper.”

  She sat up a little straighter. “I remember. The car. Does he play hockey too?”

  “Not professionally. He was my shooting target growing up. My buddies and I used to drag his scrawny ass—him out on the ice, prop him up in the net, and take shots at him,” he chuckled.

  “That sounds … fun? Not for him, I imagine. Are you close?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. But with more time on my hands, maybe I can change that.”

  “So where will you move once your place is sold?”

  “I have a place in the mountains, above Evergreen, one I’ll never sell. I bought it free and clear years ago and put it in my dad’s trust for the family, so I’m praying the creditors don’t put the grab on it. I’m really the only one who uses it, but once in a while, we all get together. Those times are special.”

  “Your mom. When did she pass?” she asked softly.

  “She died when I was twelve and Cooper was eight. Dad remarried shortly after. I don’t think he wanted to be alone, you know? Marion, his wife, is a nice lady, but we’re not close. She had a few kids of her own when they got together.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  Beckett flashed her a warning look, pain and defeat shadowing his handsome features. The subject was closed. Her heart squeezed.

  She leaned her elbows on the table. “So tell me about playing for the Cup. About scoring the game winner. About how it felt winning hockey’s holy grail.”

  The shadows lifted, and he let out a soft laugh. “Which part?”

  “All of it.” She smiled. Maybe if he talked about his passion, got lost in the world he loved, he could hold the demons at bay. For a little while.

  “It’s going to take more than one cup of coffee.”

  She rested her chin in her palm. “I’ve got time for a second cup after all.”

  .~ * * * ~.

  Beckett reveled in the re-telling. He always did.

  “When I took the shot, I was just trying to get it to the net so a teammate could pop it in. Everything seemed to slow way down, like slow-mo. Then suddenly the place exploded. My teammates were jumping and screaming, throwing down their gear, mobbing me. It sounded like a roar came from the stands. All that commotion, all that noise, that’s when I knew we’d won. And I couldn’t believe it.

  “When I got my turn with the Cup, I swear jolts of electricity went through my fingers and arms. The thing weighs damn near thirty-five pounds, but I barely felt it when I lifted it above my head. I skated the rink with it, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.”

  “I bet there was quite the celebration afterward.”

  His eyes slid to the ceiling while his mind wandered back to the ice and the celebration that had spilled into the locker room.

  “Oh yeah. We hollered and whooped and sprayed each other with champagne and beer. I can still smell it. We sang ‘We Are The Champions,’ but only the words sounded like Queen,” he laughed. The euphoria matched nothing he’d ever felt before or since. “My jaw hurt for a week from smiling so much. What a hell of a ride.” If only Mom could have seen what
all her hard work and sacrifice achieved.

  His mind zoomed to what followed: dinner with his Dad, stepmom, and brother; celebrating with teammates and their families; a party that lasted days with his then-girlfriend, a smoking-hot actress, and her pretty friends. Recollections of that debauchery were dim, littered with images of empty handles of liquor, dancing bodies, mounds of cocaine and weed, mind-blowing sex, bowls of Viagra and ecstasy that looked like pastel M&Ms, passed out people. Everything was to excess—except sleep. Thank God Mom didn’t see that part.

  A knot wedged in his throat, and he cleared it with a cough.

  Andie’s voice brought him back to the coffee shop. “I watched the parade on TV and saw you dancing and cheering and playing air guitar on top of a bus.” Her lips were curved in a smile that exposed her dimple, her light green eyes dancing with amusement. “I remember wondering if you were sober. I’m not sure I would’ve been.”

  He belted out a laugh. “I’d been partying for days, so I was in a complete stupor. But I do remember that parade. I’d never had one thrown for me and my team before … or since. Something like two hundred and fifty thousand people were there. It was mind-bending.”

  “Did you do anything special with the bonus money?”

  He nodded. “I took care of a promise I’d made my family and bought the mountain place. I also started a kids’ hockey camp.” Which had fulfilled a promise he’d made to himself.

  She brightened. “A hockey camp?”

  “It’s closed now.” Because of my unending fuckups. Without means to continue the venture, he’d recently shut it down. The memory sat on him like a boulder, so he forced his mind back to winning the Cup.

  Twenty-six years old and he’d been at the top of the fucking world. And if he could do it again? Forget the parade, the parties, the girls, the drugs, the booze. All he wanted was one more turn on the ice hoisting the coveted prize, that resplendent silver Cup, that thing of glory and wonder.