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

by G. K. Brady

  He looked into her cat eyes. So light, so clear. What a pretty color.

  She surprised him when she said, “You know, he hates you calling me Andie. Maybe he’s jealous.”

  “Serves the prick right.” Beckett paused, and her words sank in. “Did you say something that made him think he should be jealous?”

  “No! I meant jealous that he didn’t come up with a nickname I like.”

  His eyebrows bounced. “You like it? And you told him that?”

  “You never stop, do you?”

  “Stop what?”

  “Fishing, pushing, prodding.” She smirked. “Poking the bear.”

  He brightened with a wicked smile. “That sounds like fun, assuming you’re the bear.” He topped off their wineglasses. “Am I sensing that maybe …?”

  “No!” Her eyes went wide with horror.

  He put his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Okay. Christ, I didn’t realize the idea was so repulsive.” Damn.

  She struggled with a jar of capers. He held out his hand, and she passed it to him. “It’s not … I’m not built the same way as other women you know, Beck,” she said softly.

  He gave her a stunned look and passed back the open jar. “From my perspective, you’re built every bit like other women I know. Only better. Something you want to share before this goes too far?”

  She began to laugh, and the sound warmed him. His shoulders eased.

  “That’s not what I meant. And this is not going ‘too far’ because it’s not going anywhere. I’m not looking for anything with anyone—not a fling, and not a long-term relationship either.”

  “Rebound sex? I hear that can be fun.”

  “Are you serious right now?” She gaped at him with amused exasperation, a ghost of a dimple beside her mouth and a crease between her dark velvet brows.

  “I take it that’s a ‘no.’ Fair enough.” He held up a three-fingered scout salute. “Friends without benefits. I’ll behave, scout’s honor.” I think I can, I think I can.

  Her expression lit with a full-on smile, and it melted something inside him. Leaning forward, she patted his cheek; his skin came alive. “Beckett, you can be very sweet.”

  “I’m working on it. People can change if they want to.”

  CHAPTER 12

  In the Air Tonight

  “I have an upgrade for you tonight. The guest room.” Paige indicated a hallway on the opposite side of the house from her room.

  “Not there?” Beckett pointed to her bedroom and winked. “You sure?”

  She swatted him. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  He laughed. “It wasn’t in the gutter. At all. It was in a far more pleasant place.”

  He followed her and dropped his overnight bag beside a chair as he took in the cozy bedroom. Not overly feminine, it was painted light blue and held quilts and antique pieces that made it feel broken in, like a favorite leather jacket. A queen-sized bed occupied most of the room. Definitely an upgrade from the couch. A photo of a pretty woman with Andie’s coloring caught his eye. Her arm was around a girl, and they both smiled into the camera.

  “Is this you as a kid?” he asked.

  “Yep. Me with my grandma. And that one’s with my mom.” She pointed to a photo of the girl—a teenager, actually—and a younger woman.

  “What about your dad?”

  She shrugged. “I never knew my dad. Mom’s pretty vague with details. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the product of a debauched night at an orgy. Could have been any number of men. It’s a strange feeling, not knowing one half of your family tree.”

  He inspected the picture more closely. The mom looked a little out of it, but Andie’s smile was broad and bright, lifting her cheeks to her eyes—the smile he’d grown to crave, the one that revealed her dimple and seemed to rise from her toes.

  “This is a great picture.”

  She grimaced. “Ugh. My face is fat, and my eyes are squinty.”

  He set the frame down and reached for her, pulling her close. “They are not,” he murmured.

  She didn’t resist, resting her hands lightly on his back. He buried his nose in her silky hair, his breath stirring her strands, tickling him. God, she smelled like vanilla and flowers and fresh sheets all rolled into one. Her fragrance and the feel of her soft breasts against him fired straight to his groin. He was neither drunk nor high, but his thoughts shot into overdrive, and his body suddenly blazed, consumed with a need he couldn’t recall experiencing before, lucid or not. Shit. Does she feel that?

  She stiffened, and he pulled away, stuffing his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t wander, and he could rearrange a few things south of his belt.

  She smoothed her hair and headed for the door. “Um, good night, Beckett.”

  “Sweet dreams,” he croaked.

  A long while later, he lay on his back in the dark, hands laced over his bare stomach, his thumbs tapping out a beat. Confused thoughts bombarded him. Where was this all leading? Was his desire aroused by her or by the fact she was the closest female on his radar? What did she want, and could he give it to her? What the hell did he want? An hour ago, he’d wanted her. Badly. He still wanted her. Badly. To the point he was having this little conversation with himself with no hope of dropping off anytime soon.

  Instead of Andie, he pictured a recent hookup in the bed down the hall, but the thought didn’t stir him. Not surprisingly, he couldn’t even recall that woman’s name. But the thought of Andie in that bed, so close, charged him as though a river of electricity surged in his veins.

  Well, shit! This isn’t helping.

  For not the first time, he considered climbing under Andie’s covers, taking his time exploring her body, discovering what made her moan. Assuming she didn’t throw him out and never speak to him again—a disturbing possibility—then what? A different body in Chicago? In Denver? Where did it end?

  Learning the intricacies of just one body, one woman, held a certain, undeniable appeal. So why had he never done that?

  “Because you’re a fucking moron,” he told himself. “You fuck up everything you touch.”

  So I won’t touch Andie.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Clad in long-sleeved tee and flannel pants, Paige rolled out of bed, the sun beaming in perfectly spaced shafts through her shutters. She stood and stretched and ruffled her hair, then cautiously opened her door and padded into the hallway. The hardwood floor was cool, and it creaked beneath her feet.

  The guest room door stood open.

  “Beck?” No answer. She peeked in. The bed was made, pillows placed in perfect order where they belonged, making her shake her head. How can such a chaotic man arrange girlie pillows just right? She looked for signs he’d been there, but Beckett and his bag had vanished.

  Evidence of his presence lay on the kitchen counter, however, where he’d left his truck keys and a note.

  My truck’s bigger than your truck. Use it whenever and however you want. Hopefully I wasn’t too big an ass last night.

  See you soon,

  B.

  Paige dropped the note on the granite where it slid along the polished top and stuck under the knife block. Oddly disappointed no instructions to “push it good” awaited her on the coffee maker, she prepared herself a cup and plopped down at the kitchen table, chin in palm as she stared outside at orange mums and purple ash leaves.

  She’d half expected to find him in her bed, but in the end, he’d kept his word. She was as much relieved as she was disappointed. Her long, restless tossing about had fired her imagination, and her mind had ventured to dangerous places. Places where Beckett covered her with his big, hard body, his weight pinning her to the mattress; where his skin combusted with hers; where his mouth was on her, possessing her.

  Stop it.

  But she couldn’t stop it. Her thoughts zipped back to Beckett. She sizzled, a lingering reaction to the way he’d looked at her last night, for a few fleeting moments anyway—like a stalking, starving cat sizing
up its prey. And she’d liked it. She’d liked the feel of his muscled body against hers, his spicy masculine smell engulfing her, his warm breath on her hair—and his obvious arousal. At least she still had that effect on a man. Satisfaction oozed through her, warm and delicious.

  Just as quickly, her insides twisted as icy shards sliced her. You’re not special. He looks at all women that way and reacts exactly the same.

  Why did she care? Being around him confused her. He stirred up her emotions like a boat propeller in a silty lake, all murky water obscuring her visibility. Lust, anger, desire, fear, frustration, tenderness. Maybe it was because she wasn’t over Adrian. Or was she? She didn’t even know that much about herself. And if she wasn’t competent enough to figure that out, how on earth could she trust in her ability to navigate the frothy turbulence of a sexual relationship with Beckett? No, her ineptitude in choosing a man had been outed when she fell under Adrian’s spell, and it would be a long time before she could trust herself not to be seduced into more misery by yet another charmer.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hey Nineteen

  Beckett’s few days in Chicago stretched into weeks. Weeks of all-hands-on-deck, gasping-across-the-finish-line intensity. But the effort paid off when they landed contracts with private colleges, several pro teams, and gear cleaners in the US and Canada—and interest pouring in from everywhere, including Europe. DeFunked was proving a bigger hit than either he or Joe had expected. Huh. Who’d have thought that marketing degree would finally pay off?

  When Beckett, who was DeFunked’s entire sales and marketing force, finally returned to Colorado, his former teammate T.J. offered the use of his thirty-fifth-floor luxury condo. T.J. had been traded to San Jose a while back, and the place had sat vacant. “Stay there as long as you need,” he’d said of the furnished one-bedroom with jaw-dropping mountain views. Beckett could have kissed him.

  Though he texted or talked with Andie almost daily, he’d seen little of her after retrieving his truck. And he was okay with that. He’d been consumed with DeFunked, and she’d thrown herself into two new projects. Locking out what she might be doing with Adrian, Beckett welcomed the distance—easier to be oblivious that way. He teetered on the brink of mayhem when it came to her. She muddled his brain. His reactions to her were like a jumble of tangled skate laces he couldn’t separate. His body reacted powerfully when he fantasized about being with her, but the same images evoked inexplicable terror deep in his gut. Understanding the dynamic was just out of his reach, and everything about it unsettled him. Being away from her helped him contain, or ignore, his bewilderment.

  Tonight was the first Friday night in his new place and, coincidentally, his first downtime in a long while. As Beckett looked around the eight-hundred-square-foot space, the walls seemed to compress. He was twitchy. He needed something more than his daily workout.

  “It’s Friday fucking night,” he said to himself. “All work and no play makes Becks a very grumpy boy.”

  Beckett showered and dressed, shoved his phone and wallet in his back pockets, and headed out the door. A few blocks later, he walked into a crowded bar and was submerged in loud chatter. All sharp angles, glass, wood, and stainless, the darkened space was ringed with an unbroken neon blue tube that undulated along the walls like an enormous worm. He liked the vibe. The squiggle was repeated along a bar that spanned forty feet, and it was to an empty stool along the bar’s length that he ambled.

  When his Maker’s arrived, he swirled the amber liquid. He sipped as he swiveled on his perch, his eyes sweeping the crowd. Young professionals, a mix of men and women, clustered around high-top tables and each other. Gamesmanship was everywhere, and he observed, amused. Wonder if Andie does the bar scene? An inner resounding “no” slammed him.

  A statuesque blond approached him with a knowing smile. He glanced over his shoulder, convinced the smile wasn’t for him. But she surprised him a beat later when she put her hand on his arm.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Fuck. “I, uh …”

  She held out her hand for a shake, and he took it as she said, “Jazzlyn. From the courtesy desk?”

  He ransacked his brain. The Courtesy Desk? A club? Restaurant?

  Laughing, she threw back platinum-blond hair that reminded him of Jayne Mansfield, the 1950s sex symbol.

  “The courtesy desk at your building?” she repeated. “The ninth floor? The gym?”

  The gym in his building! A perk of living there that he’d wholly availed himself of.

  “Right! I didn’t recognize you without the desk,” he said smoothly. “Jocelyn?”

  She laughed and tossed her hair again. “No, Jazzlyn.”

  “Jazzlyn,” he repeated. “I’m Beckett.”

  “Beckett Miller. Yes, I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Right.” It’s her job to know. I’m unquestionably a total fucking moron.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  “No. It’s my first time. Hey, can I buy you a drink?”

  Her smile broadened, showing lots of big, straight white teeth. “I’d love one.”

  An hour later, they were settled in a New American Cuisine restaurant a few blocks from the bar. Waiters bustled around them, and clinking glasses and silverware punctuated the din. Beckett stared at the very pretty blond sitting across an intimate table from him. She was talking animatedly about something—what the hell was she saying?—and his eyes traveled from her mouth to her chest. She wouldn’t mind that his gaze continually drifted there—the top she wore broadcast as much.

  The waitress appeared with menus. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

  He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Jayne Mansfield. “Another appletini?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. Beckett ordered a Maker’s and took the wine list the waitress offered.

  “Do you like wine, Jayne—uh, Jasmine?”

  “Jazzlyn,” she giggled, “I only like white wine.” She crinkled her pert nose. “The sweeter, the better.”

  He put the wine menu aside. He couldn’t read it without holding it at arm’s length anyway. “So what do you do for fun? Do you like music?”

  “I’m practicing for the Broncos cheerleading tryouts in March. That’s most of the music I listen to. You?” She flashed him a big TV smile. Ready for her close-ups. He pictured her kicking up a long leg, shaking shiny blue-and-orange pom-poms. Funny. It didn’t do much for him. If he were coked up, would the image get a rise? Had the women always been like this one, and cocaine was the real reason he turned into a horndog around them?

  “Beckett?”

  He snapped back. “Me? I love all types of music. Classical—”

  “Like the Beatles?”

  “No. Like Debussy, Handel, Ravel.” He drummed his fingers on the table. Where’s my damn drink?

  “I haven’t heard of those guys.” She frowned as if the thought hurt her head.

  “Yeah, well, they’re dead.”

  “Oh. Suicide? Like Avicii?”

  His brain froze. A part-grunt, part-snort escaped him, mercifully masked by the shrill laugh of a diner seated at a table alongside theirs.

  “So tell me about working at the building. Do you like it?” Lame, but it was all he could come up with.

  “Uh-huh. I get to meet lots of interesting people.” She smiled coyly before launching into the minutiae of her daily routine.

  While she talked, he pictured her tugging a long, stretchy string of pink bubble gum from the corner of her mouth. Before she told him she was twenty-one—and all about the Jell-O shots she did on her birthday—he’d begun to believe she wasn’t of legal age—of any kind.

  Dinner plates came and went. The conversation also came and went, and Beckett paid it as much attention as he paid the shuffling plates. He was resting his chin in his palm, looking at her with a half-smile. She probably thought it was meant only for her, but it was
just his usual expression when he looked at a woman he thought could scratch his itch. Truth be told, his thoughts were bouncing between sleeping with her, an oil change he needed to schedule, an email he forgot to send, and … Andie’s green eyes. Whoa. Beckett mentally scratched his head over inviting Jayne to dinner. Given what he’d been after, it had seemed a sound move at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure that’s what he wanted.

  Later, when he let himself into his dark apartment, he shucked his clubbing clothes in favor of drawstring pants and T-shirt, grabbed a water from the fridge, and stretched out on the couch. He picked up his phone and thumbed a text to Andie.

  What r u doing?

  Baseball playoffs.

  He reached for the remote and clicked on the TV, searching until he landed on a game.

  Can u talk?

  Only during commercials.

  U alone?

  No answer. His foot jerked repeatedly. The inning ended, and commercials came on. He swiped her number.

  “Hi, Beck. What’s up?”

  “I have, what, two minutes?”

  “Maybe longer if they don’t show my favorite GEICO commercial, so talk fast.”

  A tickle fired his belly. Andie’s sass was the most stimulating conversation he’d had all evening; it was like a shot of adrenaline, counterbalancing the agonizingly slow descent into snooze mode at dinner.

  “So why the hell are you watching this shit when the Rockies are toast?”

  “I love baseball. You know that, you hockey goon,” she countered.

  “Yeah, yeah. Tell me what you’ve been doing,” he prodded.

  “Oh, you know. The usual. Escorting Queen Elizabeth around town, dining with the Sheik of Araby, inspecting my yachts. How’s the new place, and why’re you home on Friday night?”

  “It’s all right. I’m tired after a long week.” He paused. “I didn’t know they inspected yachts in Denver. You alone?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Just wondering.”