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

by G. K. Brady

  Super Massive Black Hole

  Beckett ran a hand over his three-day-old beard and checked his streaked blond hair in the mirror on his way out of his suite. Andie had insisted he send her a selfie after the stylist finished with him, and her reaction made him decide to keep the beard trimmed to a three-day growth. He grinned just thinking about it, then shook his head as he glanced over his shoulder at the elegant apartment. What a waste. If I can convince Andie to fly out, I’ll give her all the razor burn she can stand while we christen every damn room in this suite.

  He rode the elevator down and made for the lobby to meet his handler, an Asian woman named Marie. The click of his shoes over polished marble echoed with other footfalls, and as he approached a large round fountain, they were muffled by the burble of people milling around. While he scanned the space for Marie, several well-dressed ladies looked him over and smiled. Hookers. He kept his eyes moving. Other women smiled too. Not hookers. Where the hell’s Marie?

  Eyes cast toward the front doors, he circled the fountain when a dark-haired woman, her back to him, caught his attention. His eyes froze on her shoulders, then darted to her long legs that tapered into red-lacquered heels.

  Oh shit!

  She started to turn her head, and he ducked to the side, only to collide with a tiny woman.

  “Mr. Miller?” Blinking furiously, Marie straightened her jacket.

  “Christ, I’m sorry!”

  “No need for apologies, Mr. Miller.” She squared her shoulders. “Our new model just checked in, and I must find her.”

  “Beckett?” a familiar voice purred behind him. He groaned inwardly.

  As he turned to face Yamila, Marie said, “And here she is now! Welcome, Ms. Hesham. Here is Mr. Beckett Miller, the man you’ll be modeling with.”

  Just fucking kill me now.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Seated in a limo with Marie, Yamila, and another model, Beckett fidgeted as twilight settled over the city. He’d texted Andie throughout the day, though he hadn’t mentioned Yamila. Yet. He’d have to break that news over the phone, just as he needed to talk to Tom—to make sure this fucking cyclone coming at him didn’t grow legs. Pre-emptive moves.

  As soon as he’d clambered into the limo, he’d texted Andie. Headed to the hotel. Need to talk. She was with Gwenn, so it might not happen for a while.

  The driver dropped Marie and the model off at their hotel and continued on his way, leaving Beckett alone with Yamila in the backseat. He kept his nose glued to his phone, pretending she wasn’t there, but she slithered along the bench seat, her hands coming at him like E.T. He shifted away from her, but she slid closer and tried to climb into his lap.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” She pouted. “Can’t we have a little fun? I remember another limo ride when—”

  He grimaced. “Not now, Yamila. I’m tired.”

  Undeterred, a wicked smile on her face, she slipped to the floor on her knees, pawing and purring as she positioned herself between his legs. “Come on, lover. For old times’ sake.” Her hands glided over his thighs and latched onto his belt buckle.

  The limo stopped at a red light, and Beckett vaulted out, slamming the door on a stunned Yamila. The chauffeur lowered the front passenger window and shot him a questioning look. Beckett leaned in, Yamila’s indignant yelps in the background.

  “I’ll find my way back.”

  With a nod, the driver pulled away. Beckett dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled in one enormous rush. Against the night sky, the casinos and hotels pulsed their garish light, cascading pinks and oranges over noisy people. He shouldered his way through entire cross sections of humanity and dodged fountains, taxis, and people trying to stuff flyers in his hand. Finding a quiet corner, he called Andie. Straight to voicemail.

  “Hey, pixie, I really need to talk to you. Call me, okay? I miss you.” I love you.

  Herb’s number flashed on the screen, and Beckett answered.

  “How’s the shoot going, Beckett?”

  “A few glitches, but we wrap up tomorrow evening. I’ll be on a late flight to Denver.”

  “Well, you might want to change your plans and head to Philadelphia instead.”

  “Why Philadelphia?”

  “The Flyers want to take a look at you. Think you can pass a physical?”

  “Hell yeah, I can pass a physical!”

  “What about a drug test?”

  “Absolutely. Yes.”

  “Well, son, get your ass in gear and book yourself a flight. I’ll email you the details.”

  Beckett hung up, letting the conversation sink in. Then he emptied his lungs in a caveman bellow and pumped his fist. People shot him peculiar looks, but this was Vegas, so he bellowed again and ran the whole way to his hotel. Never had he been more excited to go to the City of Brotherly Love.

  When he hit the Palazzo, he went straight to his suite. The phone was ringing as he let himself in, and he picked up. It proved a mistake.

  “Why did you leave me?” Yamila whined.

  Is she talking about the car ride? “I needed air.”

  “What are you doing for dinner?”

  “Room service. Alone.”

  “That sounds boring. I’m going out with a group of girls. Want to join in? Could be a really good time.”

  “Like I said, not tonight.”

  He hung up, changed into his gym clothes, and headed to the fitness center. When he returned ninety minutes later, the message light on his room phone blinked red. Thirty-two voicemails, all from Yamila. Jesus! A call to room service, then he left the handset off the hook and showered.

  He was drying off when his cell buzzed. Finally!

  Pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder, he wrapped the towel around his waist. “Pixie! God, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you? How’s Gwenn?”

  He chugged Gatorade while Andie enthused about her day.

  “So what’s next? Dinner?” He swallowed the last of the drink, tossing the bottle in the trash can.

  “Gwenn’s going out with Henry and his business peeps, which is fine. I’m a little off.”

  Beckett straightened. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just a little tummy upset is all. The thought of food is blech right now.”

  “Well, I’m grabbing a Pellegrino. Get a drink so we can toast together.” Putting her on speaker, he poured the fizzing liquid into a glass.

  “You’re toasting with Pellegrino? I’ll grab a ginger ale. What are we toasting?”

  “I’m going to Philly.”

  “What’s in Philly?”

  He fought to keep his voice even. “I’m reporting to the Flyers. They need a veteran defenseman for their playoff run, and they didn’t acquire one at the trade deadline.”

  Her voice shrank. “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.” Isn’t that fucking fantastic?

  “Oh. Um, that’s great, Beck. Just what you wanted. I’m raising my soda to you.”

  He took a sip. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

  A beat, two, went by. “It means you’ll be away longer, and I miss you. How soon will they sign you?”

  He chuckled. “It’s nice to be missed. As for the Flyers, it’s an if, not a when. I have to pass a physical first and try out for the job. It’ll be no picnic, which is why I’m drinking nothing stronger than seltzer. If they sign me, you’ll miss me some more unless you join me in Philly, which is where I’ll be when I’m not traveling with the team.”

  Silence at the other end.

  He downed more Pellegrino. “Well, let’s just see how it all shakes out. I may be back before you know it. I dreamed about you last night, by the way.”

  “You did? Good dream or bad dream?”

  “Wet dream.”

  “Oh!” Her voice went all girly and breathy, bypassing his brain and bolting to his crotch.

  “I classify it under ‘good dream.’” He twirled the glass, and the ice clinked. “But now I have something less p
leasant to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  The effects of the bolt withered, and he pulled a sizeable breath into his lungs. “Some of the models I told you about, the girls …”

  “The scantily clad women?” She giggled—sort of.

  “Yeah, well, there are only two, and they’re fully dressed, but one of them was a surprise.”

  “Why?” Her tone sounded cautious.

  “Now before you load up your battleship guns, I had nothing to do with this. Somehow Yamila found out about the shoot and pulled—”

  “Yamila’s there?” Andie squealed.

  “Not in my room. In Vegas.”

  “Are you … are you spending time with her?”

  “Hell no!”

  A knock sounded.

  “Hey, pixie. My dinner’s here. Can I call you when I’m done?”

  “I might go to bed early. Text me. If I’m awake, I’ll call you back.”

  “All right. Talk soon, lov—pix—ah, Andie,” he stuttered. He hung up and was heading for the door when another impatient rap came. “Coming.”

  He opened the door. It took a beat for his brain to align with what he was seeing because it wasn’t a waiter pushing a tray with shiny silver domes.

  “What the …?”

  Yamila, in heels and a fur coat, stood in his doorway. The fur coat gaped wide, giving him a full nude frontal. The only other thing she wore was a shit-eating grin.

  “How’d you find my room?” he sputtered.

  “I peeked at Marie’s paperwork.” She fished out a plastic baggie from a pocket. It held white powder, and she shook it in front of him. “I have your favorite bourbon in the other pocket.”

  As he was preparing to slam the door in her face, two men emerged from a room several doors down. Yamila pivoted and flashed them too, the baggie still very visible in her hand.

  “Wanna join our party?” she tittered. “This is the famous hockey pl—”

  Beckett moved whip-fast, yanking her into the room, a hand over her mouth. Her words came out in a muffled, garbled yell that thankfully sounded nothing like his name. As he was shutting the door, he shrugged apologetically. “My date’s a little drunk.”

  He’d never seen two more astonished faces.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Paige did a few laps around her couch before picking up her phone again. She’d expected Beckett’s text a half hour after he ate, but that was hours ago. She rubbed the back of her neck. Did this have something to do with Yamila?

  Yamila! He hadn’t sounded pleased she was there, nor should he have been given the nasty stuff Paige had seen in that folder, and yet, he hadn’t deleted her emails. Beckett had proved there was more to him than charm, but was the bad boy simply on hiatus? Had he truly changed? Did she trust him? Not completely. Not yet. Tigers couldn’t be completely tamed, and she didn’t trust herself enough to comprehend if the stripes had changed or merely disguised the beast beneath. After all, her instincts had gone missing when she’d picked Adrian; she’d never seen the whole man.

  Paige’s stubborn doubt lingered.

  Maybe he’s working out details with his agent. Which brought up a different kink in her gut. Returning to hockey meant more than returning to the game Beckett loved. It meant returning to endless temptations, including lines of women waiting for their chance to screw Beckett Miller.

  He’d made it clear he enjoyed spending time with her—but was she like any other flavor of the month? Here today, gone … well, at the end of the month? And vanilla was not a good flavor to be if you were trying to capture the heart of an elusive man like him. Maybe it would be nothing more than a fling in the end; she’d enjoy it and move on.

  Stop it!

  She picked up her phone and thumbed a text.

  U there, Beck?

  Twenty minutes later, no answer. It wasn’t like him. She looked at the phone again and tapped his number only to hit the red disconnect button before the call went through. You’re being ridiculous. Holding her breath, she hit it again. It rang and rang. As she was about to disconnect, there came a fumbling noise. Someone answered. A feminine voice with a velvety accent.

  Oh God! Not again.

  “Um, is Beckett there?”

  “He’s busy right now. Who’s calling?” came the breathless voice.

  “This is Andie.”

  “Well hi … Andie you said? This is Yamila. He’s lying here next to me, and he doesn’t want to talk to you right now. You interrupted us, and we are—or rather he is—anxious to finish what we started. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my impatient man.” She tittered and hung up.

  A call vibrated Paige’s phone, a number she didn’t recognize. She jabbed the red button. Seconds later, the strange number buzzed again, but she dropped the phone, and in an obscene cosmic déjà vu, she ran to the bathroom and heaved ginger ale.

  God, could she pick them or what? A sliver of success, and Beckett had reverted. Once a bad boy …

  The strange number proved to be him calling from his hotel. He blew up her cell, leaving voicemails rambling about losing his phone and would she please call him at this number, any time tonight, that he’d be leaving the hotel in the morning, and he wasn’t sure how soon he could replace his phone or how she could reach him. He called her office phone and left messages there too. She cleared out both inboxes, shut off the phones, and crawled under the covers.

  How could I have been so stupid? Why did I ever let myself trust him?

  .~ * * * ~.

  Bleary-eyed, Paige inspected herself in the mirror the next morning and almost climbed back into bed. Dark circles under puffy red eyes, hair resembling a pile of cuttings one would find swept into a corner of a salon, and skin the color of cucumber flesh. Not her best look. She felt no better.

  When she arrived an hour later, Katie’s eyes went wide. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “As a matter of fact, I feel like garbage, but thanks for asking.”

  Paige regretted her snarky words as soon as they rolled off her tongue, but Katie left her alone. Beckett called, and Paige shook her head when Katie tried to hand her the phone. Later the same day, she got a lift when a woman phoned to say her boss was interested in acquiring an Anderson Home, and could she email over a clip of his existing place to give Paige an idea what he was looking for? Of course she could.

  The email arrived and Paige clicked on the link, excited to lose herself in a design for a potential client—one who’d heard of her! When the clip started, Paige studied it several seconds before she registered what was happening on the dim screen. Aghast, she turned to Katie. “I think this woman sent me the wrong video. It looks like two people having sex.”

  Paige turned up the volume.

  “Sure sounds like people having sex.” Katie rounded Paige’s desk and peered over her shoulder. “Wow! She’s really going to town on him. Oh! Time to change positions.”

  “Whoa! Is this her boss? And her? How embarrassing if—”

  The woman heaved out a groan and looked directly into the camera. “That’s it, that’s it, baby. Nobody makes me come like you, Beckett. Nobody. Ohhhh.” Paige’s blood froze as the woman yelped a series of yeses, punctuated by one rising, screaming “Oh, Beckett, my fucking God!” Paige stabbed at the pause button, but her hand shook so violently she couldn’t engage it before the man, his face unrecognizable at this angle, grunted and collapsed atop the woman’s back. Ears ringing, bile rushing up her throat, she slammed down her laptop lid. When she looked into Katie’s horrified face, she saw her own shock reflected in her red-rimmed glasses.

  An hour after the video hit her inbox, another one arrived from the same person. “There’s more where that came from.” Katie, an internet whiz, couldn’t identify the sender through the email or the fake business address, and the call had come from a burner phone.

  Yamila’s sultry voice replayed in Paige’s head. “My boss wants an Anderson Home … You interrupted … I need to get
back to my impatient man.” I should have recognized her voice!

  After Katie left for the day, Paige pulled the video up once more, closing it down the moment she recognized the back of Beckett’s head and his broad, bare shoulders—shoulders she’d run her hands over countless times, yet not enough. Her heart shattered, the shrapnel of millions of irreparable pieces flung far and wide.

  .~ * * * ~.

  The next days spilled into one another like a sputtering downspout in a torrential rain, and Paige dodged Beckett’s calls and deleted his emails and texts without reading them. He sent bouquets of cheerful Gerbera daisies—her favorite—with notes telling her how to reach him or that he’d finally replaced his phone and her number was the first one he loaded in. One card even asked what he’d done wrong. Seriously? Ugh.

  In between the onslaught of flowers and messages, he overnighted a box filled with Flyers garb, announcing he’d been signed to a short-term contract. A youth jersey—just her size—with the number twenty stitched on it, a Flyers teddy bear, and a women’s workout tank. She shoved the box in the deepest corner of a closet.

  “So did you see the highlight reel where Beckett flattened that Minnesota Wild player?” Gwenn asked her one evening.

  “I’m still wondering who he paid off to pass all their drug and whore tests.”

  Big sigh. “Talk to him, Paige. Hear him out. At least read his email.”

  “Why? So he can charm his way back into my life?” And what if I’m stupid enough to fall for it? No. Not giving him that opening. “Even if Yamila was lying, she had to be with him that night to film them effing their brains out, not to mention getting her claws on his phone. Tell me how else that works, Gwenn.”

  “She stole his phone?”

  “Ha! Again, she had to be with him, and it doesn’t explain away the disgusting video. God, I hate this. It’s making me physically sick to my stomach, like stomach flu that doesn’t go away. I wish it would just get it over with and move on. Like Beckett did.”

  “Sweetie, what are your flu symptoms?” Gwenn nudged.

  “Nausea, fatigue.”