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

by G. K. Brady

  “I’ve been busy. How’s your husband?”

  She looped both arms around his shoulders and pouted. “Lame, but loaded. I miss you, baby. We have so much fun together.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been in Greeley.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Greeley? What’s in Greeley?”

  “Not much. Look, I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  “Dinner tonight? I’m staying at the penthouse. Alone.” Drawing close, she slid one hand down his body and grabbed his crotch. “Or maybe we could skip dinner?” She licked his lips.

  “Ah, Yamila? People are watching.” He stepped out of her grasp.

  She pulled out a card, wrote something on it, and handed it to him with a wink. “Here’s the address, in case you forgot. Just show this to the doorman, and he’ll let you in. I restocked your favorite bourbon, baby, so don’t make me track you down in Greeley.”

  He glanced at the card. “You wouldn’t want to do that. Greeley stinks.” He crammed it in his pocket and hurried off, meaning to toss it in the trash.

  The card and his intent were soon forgotten as he sat across from Tom Carlisle. Pudgier and a little balder than in their college days, Tom was one of Beckett’s lawyers and his favorite for one simple reason: he never pulled any bullshit. He delivered the truth without frills, no matter how tough it was for a client to hear.

  “You double-checked, Tom? There’s no getting the endorsements back?”

  “The contracts are iron-clad, Beck, and you breached every single one with the Delgado publicity. Hands down, that gives them the right to pull everything. Just ask Tiger Woods.”

  “Shit.” Beckett rubbed his finger across his chin. “So if I agree to the Delgados’ settlement offer, that leaves enough to clear the debts and penalties on the restaurant, and I still have a little left over. I can keep the Colorado houses, the winery, the other assets.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, although you’re still carrying mortgages on the houses, and that winery is a sinkhole.”

  “But I’ll have enough left to make the payments, even if I don’t get the big NHL contract next season.” Beckett sat forward and planted his elbows on his knees. “Tell the Delgados I agree to their terms. I’ll call Blake and have him transfer the money over.”

  Tom stared at Beckett a moment, his mouth slack.

  “What is it, Tom? Did you just think of more bad news?”

  “What’s Blake’s last name?”

  “It’s Beaufort. Blake Beaufort. Why?”

  Tom’s color seemed to drain from his face. “And he’s your financial advisor?”

  “Yeah. Why? Shit, Tom, you’re scaring me.”

  Tom tapped on his keyboard. “You need to see this.”

  Beckett rose slowly, his stomach knotting, and he moved behind the desk to read over Tom’s shoulder. The screen displayed the Fox News logo in one corner, but it was the headline that drew Beckett’s eye: “Financial Advisor to the Stars Arrested on Multiple Counts of Fraud.” The subheading said something about a two-year FBI investigation into Blake Beaufort’s dealings, or rather his alleged theft of his clients’ millions. Beneath the devastating words were others, like “fake hedge funds” and “fraudulent wire transfers.” There were also two pictures: one of Blake Beaufort’s luminescent-white smile, the picture Beckett had seen countless times in all the slick marketing pieces, and the other of Beaufort, his head bowed and his arms bound behind him, being escorted by suits in sunglasses who could have been poster boys for FBI recruiting ads.

  Beckett’s heart dropped into his clenched gut. He read it again and gaped at Tom.

  “This isn’t a joke?”

  Tom’s expression told Beckett it wasn’t. “Shit, Beck, I wish it was. I was just reading about this before you came in. How much money was this guy managing for you?”

  Beckett stumbled back to his seat and sat down hard. “All of it,” he croaked.

  Tom’s eyes flew wide open. “Everything?”

  “Except a few hundred grand in a money market. No wonder he hasn’t returned my calls or emails. I thought the fucker was on vacation.” Beckett’s pulse was racing, his breathing irregular.

  “Yeah, he’s going on vacation all right. To federal prison. Jesus, Beck, how the fuck did you get mixed up with this snake oil salesman?”

  Beckett looked out the window with unseeing eyes. “People I knew in LA swore by this guy. They’d invested with him for years. Partied with him. Hell, I partied with him. I moved everything over to him before I came to Denver. I never saw any red flags.”

  Tom scratched the back of his head and blew out a breath. “Well, fuck. This changes everything, Beck. I need to go back to the drawing board on the Delgado settlement.”

  “And I need a drink.”

  Seated at a bar with Tom an hour later, Beckett tossed back his second Breckenridge on the rocks and signaled the bartender. “You sure you don’t want another one, Tom?”

  “Nah, I’m good. You’d better take it easy, though. You can’t afford Breckenridge anymore.”

  The fresh drink arrived, and Beckett twirled the glass on its paper coaster.

  Tom squeezed his shoulder. “You gonna be all right?”

  “Yeah.” Beckett sipped his drink.

  “Look, I gotta get home. The wife’s making something special for dinner.”

  “Then fuck you,” Beckett muttered.

  “No, I’m going home and letting my wife fuck me. Take my advice and call one of your girlfriends and do the same. And lay off the booze.”

  Beckett gave him a sidelong glance and snorted. After Tom left, he stared at the mirrored wall that rose behind the bar to the high ceiling. You can’t afford Breckenridge anymore. His eyes wandered over the top shelves and rested on a bottle he’d never be able to afford again: Pappy Van Winkle’s bourbon. His mind followed, landing in a LoDo loft. He asked for the check and pulled the crumpled card from his pocket.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Weeks later, the Hawks’ season over and his association with the Blizzard organization permanently severed, Beckett was back in Denver full-time, heading into a coffee bar when his phone vibrated. He was genuinely pleased to see Cooper’s number—a friendly voice on the other end for a change. Maybe he was in town and they could grab a bite, catch up. It had been too long.

  “Little bro! Where you at?”

  “Hey, Beck. I’m home in San Diego. What’s up?”

  “I’m good, I’m good,” Beckett lied. “So what you been up to, man? Everything okay?” Beckett mouthed “double espresso” at the barista and handed over his last gift card. She gave him a bright smile and went to work on his order.

  “Yeah, everything’s great. I, ah, have some news.”

  “What? Did you finally make it to the top of the most wanted list?”

  “Funny, Beck. Nothing that criminal. No, I … I’m getting married.”

  The barista slid Beckett’s espresso across the small counter. She pointed to the saucer and widened her smile. He barely noticed as he picked up his order and tucked his phone between his shoulder and ear. After stepping outside, he plopped into a wire chair on the coffee shop’s patio. It was one of the first hot days of the summer, and the chair scorched his hand.

  “Beckett?”

  “I’m here. Shit, my baby brother getting married. That is criminal.”

  “Only you would think so.” A pause. “I’m no baby, and neither are you.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Just sayin’. We’re both getting older, and settling down … Well, I’m looking forward to it. You might want to try it.”

  Beckett snorted. “Funny, little bro. Seriously, man, I’m really happy for you.” He took a sip, burning his tongue in the process. “Fuck!” he hissed.

  “What’s that?”

  “Hot coffee. Ah, what’s her name?”

  “Emily. Emily Stanton.”

  “Have you been dating her—Emily—long?”

  “Eight month
s now.”

  Huh. How did I not know this? “You didn’t mention her last time we talked.”

  “Yeah, well, that was five months ago, and I didn’t know where this thing was going. Besides, you were going through the Minneapolis thing.”

  Still am. “Kinda sudden, isn’t it?”

  Cooper let out a sigh. “I was ready to marry her a week after I met her. I didn’t want her to get away, but I had to work up the courage to ask. She’s ‘the one,’ you know?”

  “Huh.” Beckett didn’t know. He gingerly tried another sip. A woman who looked like a tall Kim Kardashian watched him from another table. He turned away.

  “So, Beck, I, ah, have a special favor to ask.”

  “Sure, anything.” He fingered the napkin on his saucer. The barista, who apparently was called Joanie, had written her name and number on it—with a little heart over the i. Cute.

  “Um, it’s a really small wedding. Her folks are down-to-earth, you know, conservative, and we’re only gonna have about forty people there. Rob’s my best man, ’cause, you know, we’ve been friends since we were kids.”

  That stung. Hell, I’ve known you longer, dickwad.

  “Anyway,” Cooper rushed on, “I want you there, of course. Emily and I both do. We picked mid-June next year, after your season. But, ah, she’s a little worried, what with her folks, so I told her I would ask you … if you could come alone.”

  “What’s that?”

  A sharp breath in. “Well, the women you run with, Beck, I don’t think they’d exactly fit in.”

  “The women I run with?”

  “Not that I mind them. I don’t mind them at all. But the skanky supermodel-types, the look-at-me drama queens might steal the show, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Skanky supermodels?” Beckett reminded himself of a parrot.

  “Unless you’re seeing a nice girl,” Cooper quickly added. “You know, the kind you’d have brought home to meet Mom.”

  Beckett pressed his thumb and finger into his eye sockets. He suddenly felt tired. Old. “So I take it Emily is the type of girl Mom would have wanted to meet?”

  “Oh yeah. Absolutely. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, she’s—”

  “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  “So you’ll come? Alone, I mean?”

  Beckett glanced over his shoulder. Kim Kardashian’s tall twin was still checking him out.

  “Yeah, I’ll come alone. Unless I meet a ‘nice girl’ before then.” Whatever the hell that is. “Hey, look, I gotta go. Congrats again, Coop. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, Beck. Take care, man.”

  Beckett held his phone away and looked at it as if it might explode. Then he eyed the woman eyeing him.

  “You’re a professional athlete, aren’t you?” she said with a wicked smile.

  Long legs. Thin. Tanned. Wearing a top way too small for her, not that she had much to show off. No way was this a “nice girl” Mom would have liked. This girl looked like she wanted to eat Beckett alive.

  “Yeah,” he replied. She seemed to stretch and purr like a sleek cat. She probably didn’t know a damn thing about hockey.

  Beckett fingered the napkin again, then stood and dropped it in a trash can. Walking past the woman’s table, he said, “Have a nice day,” and briskly strode to his new ride, the one he’d replaced his AMG with: a twelve-year-old pickup covered in hail divots. As he slid behind the wheel, he saw the woman turn away, fold her arms, and stick her nose in the air.

  He shook his head.

  Why did he go for that type? The ones whose “check engine” light always came on? The maintenance would begin, and he never wanted to hang in that long. The relationship forever soured, along with the sex, which left nothing else. Over the years, they’d gotten younger. Or had he gotten older? Whatever it was, he found he had less in common with them, which made filling time between fucks unbearable.

  Traffic crawled along South Colorado Boulevard. Another accident or more road construction. He turned on the radio, and “Cool Change” by Little River Band rocked the tinny speakers. The words came back to him with ease, and he cranked up the volume. A blown-out speaker reverberated, so he sang out loud to cut the noise.

  A tight band constricted his chest, and he fought a swell in his throat. He coughed, hummed a few bars until his voice cracked, and swallowed hard. He pressed his knuckle into one eye, then the other. The stab, that unexpected slice he thought had finally dulled, was back, just as sharp, as raw as ever, snatching his breath away.

  “Ah shit,” he whispered aloud when the song finally ended. He swiped the back of his hand across his moist cheeks.

  If Mom were still alive, what would she think of him? He cringed. And then another pang nailed him. God, he missed her. Though it had been a long while, he remembered how she’d smelled, how she’d cheered at his peewee games, and how her chocolate chip cookies would “fix everything,” as she used to say.

  I wish I had some now, Mom.

  Beckett parked the truck in his empty twelve-bay garage. He walked into the house, his footsteps reverberating off the walls. The empty spaces had driven him to pull out old family pictures for something to look at, and as he dropped into a lone recliner, he picked up a gold-framed photo of the four of them in happier days. It was a posed studio picture, but Mom’s broad smile was real. They had gone for ice cream after the session. He remembered her brown hair shimmering, catching the sunlight and reflecting red highlights. He had nearly passed her in height by then. Now he’d probably have to fold over her—twice—to hug her.

  What color had her eyes been? He studied the photo. Brown? Green? Hazel.

  Light green eyes flashed through his mind, startling him. Where the fuck had that come from? He’d seen those eyes before. Paige. What kind of name was that? What kind of name is Beckett? Red hair. No, it’s auburn. Auburn, dark copper.

  Well, fuck me!

  Her last name was Anderson, not Paulson. Andie. From DU.

  The girl who said no.

  The first time he’d met her was at a party his senior year, where she’d drawn him to her like white dog fur is drawn to black pants. Irresistible. He wasn’t sure what it had been about her because she wasn’t the kind of girl he went for. At all. Like now, he’d liked them tall and dark, and she was all about petite and delicate, wavy hair framing fair skin. A pixie.

  As they’d talked, she’d reminded him of a fluffy, cuddly puppy he’d wanted to pick up and hold despite a needle-toothed bite—a bite she obviously hadn’t lost. Her blatant dislike for him hadn’t dissuaded him from trying to discover the intriguing contours beneath the baggy sweatshirt she’d worn that night, though. If anything, her reluctance had spurred him on.

  When the party died down, a group of them went to breakfast, and he elbowed another guy out of the way to claim the seat beside hers. Her gorgeous eyes flashed—with disgust or panic, he’d never been sure—and that’s when he really saw them. And they hadn’t changed. They were still wide, full of spark, light green, and bottomless, just like pools he’d seen at Yellowstone on the rare family vacation before Mom died.

  In the restaurant, Andie only ordered a cup of tea because her “month had run out of money.” So he mentally counted the bills in his wallet and doubled his order.

  Soon platters of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and pancakes the size of dinner plates covered the tabletop. He invited her to eat all she wanted and laughed inwardly at the blush that pinked her cheeks. And like a persistent mouse, she nibbled her way through a surprising amount, which led him to ask about help from home. Turned out she had none. She was on her own, no family in her life—which, oddly enough, touched him. So much so, he wanted to get to know her and asked her to watch a movie or go for a skate sometime.

  He’d never forget her look—like a deer in the crosshairs. She’d turned him down, spewing out more excuses than confetti spilling from a party popper. He hadn’t heard most of them because he’d been stuck on “no.”

  Jesus!
Why hadn’t she said anything in Coach’s office? Because he’d run over her with his big, foul mouth. His heart heaved and sank to his stomach, where it settled.

  Andie. The cute pixie with a feisty side. Now there was someone who fit in the “nice girl” category. She had a way of smiling that said, “Come on in, sit down, and get comfy.” Warm, inviting. A smile that had made him buy her breakfast at four in the morning when she’d been hungry and broke. Such a long time ago. Ten years now? So many changes. Christ, I am one flaming fuckup.

  Everyone had liked the brainy, beautiful-eyed girl; they probably still did. And she probably liked everyone. Except him. And no wonder—he’d been an utter ass.

  More surprising than the fact Paige Anderson was in his head was that he still remembered her name. Especially since she wasn’t his type. And he’d never slept with her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Do You Know Me

  Paige side-eyed Adrian as he drove. He was ignoring her question.

  “So what do you think?” she prodded.

  “About what?”

  She closed her eyes, rolling them under her lids. “About my buying the roofing business? It’s a great opportunity.”

  He turned his head and pulled his sunglasses down. “You really want to know?”

  Did she want to know? She nodded despite her doubts.

  “I think you’re taking a step down when you should be moving up to a more respectable business. I can’t imagine telling people my wife’s a roofer,” he scoffed.

  “But it’s a money-maker.”

  “So you’ve been led to believe. I still have to see the numbers. We’ll talk about it later.”

  Firming her resolve, she put the matter aside and pointed to the next block. “Their house is up ahead.”

  “Lord, it looks like a group of Benz and BMW owners decided to throw a party,” he snorted, nosing his Porsche Cayenne Turbo into the closest parking spot on the crowded street in Denver’s 7th Avenue Historic District.

  Well, that’s kinda what happened. “There’s a dented Chevy pickup,” Paige joked, trying to lighten the mood. She climbed out of the car and waited for him to round the hood as she smoothed her new blue-and-green sleeveless sundress. He didn’t even glance at her. Kinda like the whole lingerie seduction fiasco. A fresh blush crept over her cheeks. He’d made love to her, though nothing about it had been steamy; the heat-o-meter had more closely resembled tepid dishwater.