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

by G. K. Brady

  “She’s my agent too,” Claudia piped up. Bless her.

  T.J. extended a meaty hand and a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Paige.”

  Beckett leaned in. “Don’t let him fool you. His nickname’s Man-Killer. He has a talent for—how do I say this politely?—laying the lumber on guys.”

  “Isn’t that your specialty?” Paige flicked her eyes from a grinning T.J. to Beckett. Two gorgeous examples of male in one kitchen. Holy moly!

  Beckett burst out with a laugh. “I’m a lightweight compared to this guy.” He jabbed a thumb in T.J.’s direction. “Then again, I can actually skate and handle a puck. We work with what nature gave us, right, T.J.?”

  Still grinning, T.J. shrugged. “In your case, Miller, we’re talking about a brain the size of a flea’s, so I’d say nature treated me more generously.”

  The ribbing continued throughout the afternoon, and Paige swung seamlessly between spectator and unabashed participant. With no Adrian casting a judgmental scowl her way, she let lightheartedness overtake her and lift her into a state of carefree fun—someplace she hadn’t been in a very long time.

  Later, as they drove to the dealership where Paige had left her truck, “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung came on the radio, and Beckett sang along. Effervescing cheer—and beer—motivated Paige to join him.

  He high-fived her when they were done.

  “I sounded terrible,” she said.

  “Not the whole time. You hit some of the notes, and I understood most of the words. It was a little tougher to follow when you grunted along, though.”

  She swatted his arm, and he laughed. Then she snorted.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, really. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  They stopped at a red light. “I was thinking of a magazine cover my assistant Katie showed me. My client is Hockey’s Bad Boy,” she chuckled.

  He let out a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. “Can I tell you something? I admit I liked that reputation once. I worked hard for it. Overachieved at it. Now I want to distance myself. I don’t want to be that guy.”

  “So? Just do it.” She mimicked Shia LaBeouf’s motivational YouTube speech. Sort of.

  Beckett accelerated through the green light, ignoring her attempt to lighten the moment. “How do you change your image when people won’t see you the way you wanna be seen?”

  “To hell with what everyone else thinks! Be what you want to be. They’ll adjust. If they don’t, you didn’t need them in the first place.”

  He swiveled his head toward her. “That’s the first swear word I’ve heard you use.”

  “When I’m making a very important point, I sometimes swear. Like now. Where the hell is my truck?” She craned her neck as they coasted into the parking lot.

  He drove to the service lot and pulled alongside her Tacoma. Oh, whoopsie. She placed her hand on the door handle. “They should have left my key on the—”

  “I’m not sure you should be driving. Why don’t you let me take you home?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “So you can see what a pig I am? Not a chance, buster.”

  Eddie Money sang “Take Me Home Tonight,” and she clamped down the urge to sing out loud—or ponder the words too much. She began gathering up her things, and Beckett grabbed her forearm. His hand was big, warm. It wrapped around her wrist and then some, sending tingles up her arm. He had very masculine, very sexy hands. The kind of hands that could rip off jar lids—or clothes.

  “Hey. Don’t go home yet,” he said softly. “Let me buy you a coffee.”

  “It’s seven o’clock! I won’t sleep if I have coffee. Besides, it’ll make me have to pee.”

  A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. He skewered her with his baby blues. “Then just sit here for a few minutes and talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Recite that fascinating contract to me. Lie to me and tell me how rich I’m going to be when the dust finally settles. List your top ten favorite seventies songs.” He pointed at her. “Made you smile.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  A grin spread over his face.

  She looked him over. Timberlands, jeans, a light blue button-down that revealed a white T-shirt underneath. Beckett was handsome, well put together, funny, and smart—when he didn’t think with his tallywacker. She understood why women found him irresistible.

  And that scared her silly.

  She had to clear her head. Without thinking, she blurted, “There’s something personal I’ve been wondering about.”

  “Fire away. I have no secrets from you.”

  “What happened to your mom?” The question had been stewing in her brain a long time.

  He was quiet for a few beats, staring at the dash, staring at nothing. A huge exhale left his body. I guess he does have secrets.

  Remorse lanced her and popped her happy bubble. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  What had happened to him? Way to bring it up, Paige. She longed to take his hurt away but had no idea how. She placed her hand on his arm, and Beckett covered it with his. They sat quietly, and time simply stood still, as though it shuddered a breath on the brink of some shift in the universe.

  He sniffled and finally broke the silence. “I should let you get home. Will you be okay?”

  She slipped her hand from his. “Yes.”

  “Hey.” He reached up and wrapped a lock of her hair around his index finger. She didn’t think to stop him. “Thanks for coming today. Dinner the other night and today are the best times I’ve had in a while.”

  As she drove home, guilt saturated her. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, was she? Beckett was a client, and so were Marty and Claudia, but she hadn’t told Adrian. If he’d called, I might have. Still, she was blurring an important line, turning it grayer and fuzzier every moment she spent with Beckett, and she had to stop.

  She missed Adrian, missed his body beside her at night. He’d been gone so much. She hadn’t talked to him in three days. Was he all right?

  When she got home, she called his cell, but it went straight to voicemail again. She looked up the Westin Waterfront in Vancouver, BC. He should have checked in yesterday. They’re an hour behind. If he’s there, I might catch him before he goes to dinner.

  She dialed the number and asked for his room. The phone picked up after two rings, and Paige felt a rush of relief. Until she heard the feminine voice on the other line say hello. I must have the wrong room.

  “Is—is Adrian Paulson there?” she stammered.

  “Adrian’s in the shower. Is this Harbour Cruises? Were you able to find a spot for two for tomorrow morning?” the woman asked with a lovely British lilt.

  Paige’s heart beat so hard it would surely disintegrate at any moment. Her ears pounded, blood whooshing in and out faster and faster, and a voice in her head screamed. Wrong room!

  Her breath fled her lungs, just as coherent thought fled her mind.

  “Hello? Are you there?” the melodic voice asked.

  Paige struggled to catch her breath. “Um, I beg your pardon. This is … this is the front desk confirming check-out.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you called. If we can’t get on the cruise, might we check out at one instead of noon?”

  “No problem. Good luck with that cruise.” Where had those words come from? It was as though someone was speaking through her.

  “Thank you! We’ve been celebrating the one-year anniversary of our first date, and it would be a perfect way to wrap up the weekend.”

  Paige hit the end button before the woman could say more and stared at her phone.

  Her stomach curdled. She threw her phone on the sofa and ran to the bathroom just in time to heave burger, corn, peach pie, and beer. After brushing her teeth, she dropped the toilet seat and perched, h
ugging herself, letting the tears come. From the other room, her phone chimed a text message, and she pressed tissues to her eyes as she weaved back to the couch. When she picked it up, U get home ok? Beck glowed on the screen. He’d added a line of emojis: a smiley face, two beer mugs clinking, a grill, an ear of corn, musical notes, and another smiley face.

  Fresh tears sprang up. She lay on the couch curled around the phone. It buzzed, and she balled herself tighter. It buzzed again and again. She looked at it through a watery film. Beckett calling, not Adrian. She wiped her nose and answered.

  “Are you all right?” Beckett rumbled.

  “Why?”

  “Usually you text me right back. I worried you’d been in an accident or pod people kidnapped you. Andie? You there?”

  A hiccup, followed by a little whimper, escaped her. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Andie! What’s going on?”

  “Adrian,” she gasped. “There’s someone …” She covered her mouth to hold back the sobs.

  “I’m there in fifteen.”

  “No, no, no,” she wailed. But he’d already hung up.

  He must have beaten some kind of land speed record, because he turned what was normally a twenty-minute drive into a twelve-minute trip. Nose pressed to the glass in her darkened office, she watched him bound from his truck and up the walkway. How had he known where she lived?

  Opening the door would break so many rules: one, don’t entertain a man alone when your husband’s away; two, never get personal with a client; three, don’t let a stranger inside your house; four, don’t let a client inside your house; and five, never, never crush on a bad boy.

  Rule one didn’t apply anymore, did it? She was already guilty of breaking rule two. Go big or go home. She opened the door, breaking rules three and four. Five, she refused to consider.

  Beckett closed the door and reached for her. “C’mere.” He pulled her against his chest and folded strong arms around her like a heavy quilt.

  As he held her, he whispered, “Let it out.” And she did, breaking rule six: never cry on a client.

  Later, she sat on the couch, her head on his sturdy shoulder. His hand cradled hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles.

  “You want me to beat his sorry ass?” he murmured.

  She shook her head.

  Beckett pulled back and looked at her, pushing a lock of hair from her face. He must have seen a soggy mess. “Why didn’t you call him out?”

  “I don’t know. I just … I froze.”

  “You were in shock. It doesn’t matter. I’ll still beat his ass. I can do it, you know.” One side of his mouth hitched.

  “I know. I’ve seen video. You’re good at it.” She sighed and sat up. “You know the worst part? Besides him breaking his vows?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “They’ve been together a year. A year! He’s been lying to me, and I’ve been a sucker the entire time!” Sorrow was quickly being replaced by fury.

  “Hey. Don’t run yourself down. This is all him, not you. Some guys are good at manipulating situations and people.”

  “That’s right. I almost forgot you’re a total womanizer too.” She laughed bitterly and sat up. “What am I doing? I get my heart crushed by one player and cry on another one’s shoulder. There’s your proof I’m a complete idiot.” And I’m picking guys who love ’em and leave ’em, just like my father!

  He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not playing you, Andie.” His ice-blue eyes searched hers. “I’m not,” he repeated.

  She laid her head back against his shoulder. His shirt smelled of hanging on a line in the sun, and his neck, stubbly with a day’s dark growth, smelled of Old Spice. Warm, comforting, familiar. It made her want to believe everything he said, sap that she was. Had the blaze of anger that had raged against Adrian gone out so soon?

  “Okay,” she relented. Apparently it had. Damn.

  After a few beats, he whispered in her hair. “C’mon. Let’s put you to bed.”

  Clanging alarm bells should have stopped her, but she let Beckett lead her into her bedroom, lift her covers, tuck her in after she slid beneath, and kiss the top of her head. Her heart fluttered a tic, followed by a sharp coil of shame twisting in her gut at the thought of wanting to haul him down beside her.

  “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.” He flipped off her lamp.

  She snuggled into her pillow and awoke in the same position the next morning to the sound of an engine starting. She sat up and peered out the window in time to glimpse Beckett’s truck pull away from the curb. A little pang of disappointment zapped her. On the coffee table was a scrawled note:

  Call me if you need anything.

  And my offer to wreck him still stands.

  B.

  She glanced around at neatened sofa cushions and straightened pillows. In the kitchen stood an empty cup under the coffee dispenser, along with a neon-orange sticky note with an arrow pointing at the machine’s start button. Above the arrow, Beckett’s scrawl urged her to “Push it good!” so she did, watching dark, steamy liquid gush into the cup. He’d even laid out a measure of half-and-half and a clean spoon. Her heart melted. How did he know?

  Between sips, she made a list. Then she pulled out suitcases, boxes, and trash bags.

  .~ * * * ~.

  “Paige, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you since I boarded in Vancouver,” Adrian’s peeved voice said over the phone. She hadn’t answered his few calls and texts. In fact, she hadn’t spoken to anyone—not even Gwenn. She’d only responded to Beckett’s texts asking how she was, if she needed company, how packing Adrian’s things was coming. And one where he asked if she wanted him, once again, to “knock him into next week,” turning her heart into a bigger puddle. A man standing up for her, running to defend her. Too bad that man wasn’t her husband.

  She pulled in an enormous, silent breath and braced herself. “Was that after your morning cruise with your English companion? I hope you enjoyed celebrating your one-year anniversary.”

  Dead silence.

  She could practically hear Adrian’s gears grinding, smoke pouring from them as they snapped off.

  “What are you talking about?”

  The anger she thought had retreated came thundering back. “Wow! You have some nerve, sounding pissed off at me, you lying son of a bitch!”

  “Paige, I’m at DIA. I’m coming home. Now’s not the time for this,” he ground out.

  “Oh no? And just when is the time for this, Adrian? On our fifth wedding anniversary? Our twentieth? On second thought, you’re absolutely right. There is no time for this. I’m done. I tried to sort out your most important shit from the rest of your shit. It’s on the front porch. If you don’t pick it up in two days, I’m donating it. I’ll box the rest and get it to you. And don’t bother with your key. I changed the locks. Goodnight, asshole.”

  “Wait, Pai—” she heard him yell as she hit the red button on her phone.

  Something akin to panic, mixed with a full dose of exhilaration and a boatload of adrenaline, swamped her. Her breathing came rapidly. She pumped a fist in the air.

  Her phone buzzed again, and she silenced Adrian. She knocked back half a glass of chardonnay, then picked up her phone and tapped a message to Beckett. Did it!

  U told him?

  Yep.

  Good girl.

  Thanks for your support.

  Anytime. I mean it.

  The adrenaline quickly dissipated, and her euphoria was missing in action an hour later when Adrian’s Cayenne pulled up outside. Oh no, oh no, oh no! She doused the living room light and snuck into her darkened office, peering from her window. He stood, hands on hips, inspecting two suitcases, a stack of boxes, and three black trash bags on the porch. Then he shook his head and stared at the door.

  “I know you’re in there,” he huffed. Just like the big, bad wolf. “Would you open the door so we can talk?”

  She crept to the front door and leaned her cheek against it. �
��What for?”

  Two beats. “I want to explain.”

  She wrenched the door open, surprising them both. “Explain what, you conniving creep? Why you’ve been fucking someone else for the last year? While you were fucking your wife? Give me a break, Adrian, and get the hell out of my sight. The only way I’m speaking to you is through a divorce attorney.” She was on tiptoes, stabbing the air with her finger.

  He rocked a step back, his eyes wide. “I only saw her a few times, I swear. She lives in the UK, and it was a mistake after too many cocktails one night, and then it just kind of …” He pulled a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t mean anything to me, Paige.” His voice broke, as if he were pleading.

  Paige folded her arms across her chest. “God, you’re a pathetic cliché, Adrian. And that’s even worse,” she growled. “You used her, and you lied to me. What does that make you? No one I want in my life.”

  “Paigey—”

  “Oh my God! Stop calling me that! I hate it!”

  He stared at her as though she’d slapped him. She raised an eyebrow. Slowly, he ran his hand over his chin.

  “I suppose now you’re going with Mr. Rich Playboy Hockey Player.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth.

  “Don’t try to make yourself feel better by accusing me of what you’ve been doing! And what in the hell does he have to do with this, with us?” She swept her hand back and forth between them. “Nothing!” And he’s not rich, you jerk. He’s wiped out. Adrian would never hear it from her. It would wound Beckett’s pride, which she was wholly moved to protect in that moment.

  “Besides, you’re the one who pushed me into representing him. And why would I trade a cheater for a player?” Her breaths were coming fast and ragged again, and she willed herself to slow them.

  Adrian’s brown eyes drooped at the corners. “Look, I made a mistake. Can I come in so we can talk?”

  “I don’t want to talk about your ‘mistake,’ Adrian. Go!” She pointed at the street.

  Paige locked the door, then rested her back against it with a long, slow exhale. She slid to the floor. Her eyes stung, and her clogged throat ached. “You ruined everything, you fucking bastard,” she whispered. All her bravado, all her rage, dissolved in a maelstrom of tears.