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

by G. K. Brady

  “You don’t have a great track record.”

  He wanted to throw his head back and yell. Instead, he swallowed hard. “I admit I’ve used lousy judgment in the past, and this shit with Yamila is the price I pay for that judgment. You shouldn’t be dragged into my mistakes, ever, and it pisses me off beyond belief that she’s done that. But give me a break, Andie. You gave Adrian chance after chance, but I don’t even get one shot?”

  She sat stone-faced, those damn arms like a castle wall over her chest. Why did he feel as though he were drowning in the moat?

  “You’re killing what we have before it gets out of the gate, Andie. Look, I don’t have all the answers, but I want to build a life with you and the baby in your belly. I want to spend nights on the couch watching TV with my arm around you or sitting down to dinner with you wearing my shirt and a pair of socks. I want to wake up in the morning and my shoulder’s numb because your head’s been there all night. I want you in bed with me when I fall asleep. I love that. This is not about sex. It’s about how I feel when I’m with you, which is so incredible I can’t describe it, and all I can think of is how I want more. When I’m not with you, I’m so damn miserable, I can’t describe that either.”

  She turned her head and looked out the window. His chest hollowed.

  He pulled out his phone and checked the time. “Shit, I gotta go.” Snatching glimpses at her profile, he ordered an Uber. As he rose, his heart like a millstone, he added, “You might want to take a closer look at yourself.”

  She snapped her head back and scowled at him, her eyes red and brimming with unshed tears. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re scared, like me, and you’re holding yourself back, holding us back. First it was your statute of limitations on the divorce. Now it’s this mess with Yamila, and you’re choosing to believe the worst because it gets you off the hook. You’ve convinced yourself you won’t get hurt if you run away, which is bullshit. Being in love is a first for me, and it’s fucking terrifying. But at least I’m willing to try—because the alternative is even more terrifying. I want you in my life. God, so bad it aches, Andie.”

  She didn’t move. Just stared at him with those eyes.

  His lungs deflated. “You know where to find me.”

  Outside, he stuck in his earbuds and rocked on the balls of his feet as he waited for his ride. Maroon 5’s “Unkiss Me” came on his playlist, and he mumbled along until a gluey mass wedged in his throat and he couldn’t sing anymore.

  .~ * * * ~.

  By the time the team checked into their next hotel, Andie had forwarded the two fake emails she’d received from someone claiming her boss wanted an Anderson Home. One included an attachment, which he didn’t open. Not yet. The emails looked so professional, so legit. Even for Yamila, this was over the top.

  He forwarded the emails to Tom, then lay back on his bed and plugged his earbuds into his computer. No need for his roommate to listen in.

  Pumping a stress ball, Beckett opened the attachment and viewed the clip. It left him with an urge to wash the stink off, but his teammate beat him to the bathroom. Cueing it up again, he forced himself to watch a second time, but he stopped before the end and hurled the stress ball across the room.

  His phone buzzed.

  “Whoa, dude, you’re my hero,” Tom guffawed. “I nominate you for Stallion of the Year.”

  “Can you stop her?” Beckett growled. “And keep her away from Paige Anderson? I don’t want her exposed to Yamila’s raving insanity any more than she already has been. Paige isn’t used to this shit, and it’s tough on her.”

  “First tell me if you recognize it.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, that’s me with Yamila, and I recognize her place in Denver. The last time I was there was the day I learned about Blake Beaufort in your office. If you remember, you and I grabbed a few drinks.”

  “I remember. And the ‘no’ part of the equation?”

  “No, she absolutely did not have my consent in any way, shape, or form. I had no fucking idea she was taping this. I was wasted that night—so wasted, in fact, that I haven’t touched coke since—but I wasn’t so fucked up I’d let myself be taped.”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s time I had a few come-to-Jesus meetings, starting with her publicist. When I’m done, it’ll be clear that any hope for Yamila’s quote-unquote career will be nuked if she keeps harassing you. Then there’s Yamila’s very rich husband, the deep pocket who’s anal about his low profile. He’ll be willing to do just about anything to keep his wife’s bad behavior under wraps. Can you say settlement?”

  “Jesus, so this is what it comes to? A lawsuit?”

  “Money talks. It may not have to go that far, but she’s playing a vicious game, and she’s dealt you the winning hand, buddy.”

  “I might feel good about that if I weren’t so damn pissed off. Tom, you’ll take care of wiping this and any other recording from the planet?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks, Tom.” If only you could wipe it from Andie’s memory.

  CHAPTER 29

  I Miss You

  Paige unbuttoned her jeans and let out a relieved exhale. She rubbed her belly. “How we doing today, my little prince?” She chuckled to herself. “Sorry, if you’re a girl, princess.” Wonder how soon I’ll feel you move? Devastated when she’d learned she was pregnant, now she lived with a calm contentment—when she wasn’t wrestling her fears over childbirth or raising a baby alone. A certain peace came with knowing she wouldn’t be childless. Just partnerless. And she was mostly okay with that because her two choices were unacceptable. With trust a broken relic, neither man was a long-term option.

  “And speaking of choices …” Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Why was this so hard? It had been weeks since she’d told Beckett, but Adrian still didn’t know she might be carrying his child. She hadn’t even brought herself to send a one-sided email.

  A backache had plagued her since she’d wakened, so she granted herself yet another pass and downed two Tylenol before clicking on the TV. A Saturday matinee hockey game. Blizzard against the Flyers in Philly—it wouldn’t hurt to watch while she waited for the pills to kick in. Those silly credit card lookalikes were having a phone conversation about frogs or fraud. The game came back on, and Beckett filled her screen, his helmetless head cocked to the side, a gloved hand resting on his stick as he listened to a reporter’s question rink-side. Paige sucked in a breath, willing her heart not to gallop from her chest.

  “Your blond highlights are almost gone, Beck,” she lamented aloud.

  The interviewer shoved the mic in Beckett’s face. His eyes darted to her, then took a tour left, right, overhead as he answered. “This team’s got a lot of character. We’re playing for these great fans, this great city, and for each other. Right now we’re taking it one day at a time.”

  Paige belted out a laugh. “Oh my God, you are Mr. Cliché!” To her belly, she whispered, “That handsome rogue might be your papa, little prince. Good gene pool, though character’s a bit iffy. But never mind. You and I will manage on our own.” Somehow.

  She hadn’t heard the next question, but she did catch Beckett’s tight smile as he glanced at the dark-haired, perfectly made-up woman.

  “Those days are in the past. I’m here to help the team get to the playoffs.” He sported a warning frown.

  “Is more modeling in your future?” The reporter waved the microphone in his face again.

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Hockey comes first.”

  “And what can we tell the women in the audience about your availability?”

  This chick is way off base!

  Apparently Beckett agreed. “Is this interview about hockey?” His tone was icy.

  The reporter laughed. “Thanks for your time, Beckett. Have a great game.”

  He nodded and skated away.

  “Sorry, ladies. It seems Beckett Miller’s private life is off-limits these days. But if you’
re a Beckett Miller fan, stick around. We have a treat in store.”

  Paige’s stomach cramped. Why did this make her sick? Commercials over, the pretty interviewer was back. “We promised you a treat. Grant Paul released pictures from their upcoming ad campaign featuring our very own number twenty. A talented hockey player and a hunk. Ladies, you can thank us later.”

  A montage of Beckett in various elegant suits flashed across the screen. The backdrops were muted desert-scapes or mirrored casino windows reflecting sunlight in shimmering golds. Most were stills, but others showed a somber Beckett striding, spraying on cologne, or shrugging on a jacket. The last photo depicted him relaxing on a chaise by a sparkling pool, a glass of champagne at his feet and a sleek blond woman reclining on a half wall behind him. His tie was loose, as though he were relaxing at the end of a party. It was the only shot with another model.

  God, the man was beautiful.

  The accursed interviewer was back, her mic hovering before a Flyers fan’s face.

  “What did you think?” The interviewer’s fake smile displayed her shiny white teeth.

  The fan clutched her bosom. “Oh my gosh, what a handsome man! And a great defenseman too! Philadelphia is so lucky to have him.”

  The camera panned the stands, zeroing in on signs that read, “Marry me, Beckett!” or “I love you, #20!” with hearts for the o’s. Yech!

  “Apparently other admirers agree,” the interviewer informed the smitten fan.

  “So are we playing hockey or what?” Paige growled.

  The throbbing in her gut suddenly swelled, and something warm gushed between her legs. She scuttled to the bathroom and pulled her pants down. Bright blood and dark clots saturated her underwear. No, no! Horrified, hands trembling, she wet a washcloth and wiped herself. The bleeding continued, and she grabbed her phone and called her obstetrician’s office.

  “The doctor’s on call,” a kind voice at the answering service said. “Stay on the line, and I’ll try to reach her.”

  By the time the obstetrician picked up, Paige was seated on the bathroom tile, her eyes squeezed shut, her heart hammering in panic. Her breath hitched, and she fought whimpers as she described her symptoms to the doctor.

  “Paige, can you get to the hospital?” Paige said yes, she could. “I’ll meet you there.” The doctor’s voice was calm, but Paige heard urgency. Thin hope stretched to the ripping point.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Hours later, Paige stumbled back inside her home, her arm wrapped protectively around her tender belly—a belly now devoid of life. Her tears had been falling in earnest from the time the obstetrician had laid a gentle hand on her arm and said, “I’m so sorry, Paige, but you’ve lost the baby.”

  Though the doctor had assured her miscarriage was common, and that chances were even higher with an IUD, Paige couldn’t help turning over the same thoughts in her head. What caused it? Was it the wine I drank before I knew? Did all the sex with Beckett dislodge something? Was it because I twisted my body that time I heaved the box of tile? Did I drink too much coffee? What did I do wrong?

  The doc had said nothing could have prevented the miscarriage, and though Paige wasn’t convinced, she had nodded anyway.

  Alone in the darkness, she sobbed. “My little sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Now I’ll never know what color your hair was or if you had blue eyes. Were you my little prince or my princess? I’ll never get to meet you.”

  She slipped into bed, hollow and desolate, more alone than she’d ever been. There she remained for days, locking out the world, despair brushing dingy grays over everything she cared about. For a while, she forgot she’d been abandoned all over again.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Beckett had always enjoyed the kids, whether in hockey camps or hospitals or the stands. They were always genuine, their love of the game so pure. It was something he understood. But lately, he’d been looking at them with different eyes. He’d catch on a little girl with cinnamon hair, wondering if that’s what a daughter might look like. Or a little boy with blue eyes and light brown hair like his. Would they love hockey, maybe play? Would they be creative and design the hell out of structures? What would Christmas be like with them tearing around the house long before the sun came up, jumping on a bed he shared with their mother?

  All these musings floated through his brain like jettisoned debris as he packed his bag after the game. It had been a good game, and the crowd had been into it. Unfortunately, he’d turned over the puck which had led to the other team netting a goal. In the end, the Flyers won, but he hated when he fucked up. His teammates had tried to take the sting out, inviting him to join them for dinner and clubbing. They got it. He was family now. But like most nights, he opted for solitude. Alone to dream about the little person growing in Andie’s belly, alone to plan winning a place in her—and the peanut’s—life.

  He’d never been less in control. He had no say; it wasn’t his body. The reality shook him to the core.

  Winding his way through the fans and their crazy signs outside the arena—who asks a stranger to marry them on poster board?—he tapped his phone and held his breath. His dad picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey, Dad. What’s going on?”

  “Beckett! What a nice surprise. We just watched the game, son. You played well.”

  “Other than the goal on my watch, you mean?” he snorted.

  “That was a tough break. It happens. Do you remember the time …” and Dad launched into regaling moves Beckett had executed as a bantam.

  Soon Beckett was laughing, driving without recalling getting behind the wheel or arriving at his building. Why had he never reached out to Dad before?

  “So how’d you do it, Dad? You and Mom were always there, with my hockey, Cooper’s stuff, school.”

  “We just did. You make it work.” Beckett could practically hear his dad’s stone shoulders shrug. “It helps when there are two of you. You’re a team. You help each other. Sometimes one of you carries the load.”

  Beckett started to say something, but his dad let out a long sigh. “I guess that’s why Marion and I wed so soon after your mom died. I know that was hard on you, but raising kids as a single parent—that’s tough too. I just couldn’t see myself doing it. And I missed your mom so much. Marion took some of the hurt away, and she needed me too. Taking care of you boys, taking care of her and her kids, made me a better man and a better dad. And you, son, you really grew up that year. Sooner than you should have. I want you to know how proud I am of you.”

  A lump swelled in Beckett’s throat. He and his dad had never talked about Mom’s death. Beckett had resented him for it, and now he glimpsed his father’s suffering. But Beckett couldn’t ask the question lodged in his chest. How can you be a dad if your child’s mom won’t let you?

  His dad jolted Beckett from his wallowing. “So how’s that girl of yours? Is Andie with you in Philly?”

  Beckett swallowed. “Uh, she’s not with me anywhere, Dad.”

  Dad paused a beat. “I’m sorry to hear that, son. I really am. I thought you and she … Well, I liked her. She reminded me a little of your mom. Smart, spunky, and warm-hearted.”

  “I miss her.” Beckett surprised himself when he said it aloud. “I miss them both.” So much.

  “I still miss your mom too, Beckett. Only the good die young, and God had other plans for her. Never knew she had a heart defect until she died.”

  “But didn’t the stress over money bring it on?”

  “No, son. The doctors said it was a miracle she lived as long as she did. That she lived through childbirth. Little did we know she’d been on borrowed time.”

  “Wait—if money hadn’t been tight, she’d have died anyway?”

  “Yes, son. We weren’t rich, but what makes you think money was tight?”

  “I could swear Mom used to cry over bills.”

  Dad pulled in a breath. “For a time, your mom took care of her mother’s estate—paid bills and such—and it made her sad.
It reminded her of her mom’s passing. But it didn’t go on forever.”

  Beckett had pulled into the underground garage and stopped, engine running and headlights on, in the middle of the aisle. “I never knew, Dad. I’ve always thought it was my fault Mom died.”

  “Sweet Jesus, son! Why? No. God, no! It wasn’t your fault. Never. It was nobody’s fault.”

  Beckett sat in stunned silence.

  “My God, you’ve been carrying this around all this time?” Dad rasped. “Why didn’t you say something? I’d have set you straight.” He made a choking noise, then cleared his throat. “Beckett. Listen to me. Your mom lived as long as she did because she wanted to be with you boys. She loved you so much.” A pause followed by a deep breath. “She was a good woman, your mom. We were blessed to have her in our lives for that short time. Wouldn’t have had it any other way.” Another pause. “You there, son?”

  The lump in Beckett’s throat hardened, making it hard to talk. “Yeah, Dad. I’m here.”

  “So, uh, did your mom ever tell you I dogged her for a year?” Beckett knew what his dad was doing, and he was grateful for the change in direction. “I had to ask her three times to marry me. I wasn’t going to take no for an answer, but she sure made me work for it. She finally gave in just so’s I’d leave her alone.” A rumbling laugh came from the other end.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I guess I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t such a hotshot. Especially to my sons. I was the high school quarterback, and I thought my stuff didn’t stink. Your mom let me know right quick mine stinks same as everyone else’s.”

  Lights flashed behind Beckett, and he gave an apologetic wave and pulled into his parking space, killing the engine.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s something we all figure out—some of us later than others.” Beckett closed his eyes in that darkened garage.

  “I’ve known two good women, son. They don’t come along very often, and I count my blessings every day. And my kids? I couldn’t ask for two better young men. I’m not gonna lie, Beckett. I was worried about you for a long time, but you’ve grown into a good man. I saw it when we got together in Denver.” Dad’s breath hitched. “Maybe it was your girl that brought it out; maybe it’s because you’re getting older. Either way, it’s there. And don’t you forget it.”