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

by G. K. Brady

  “Sore boobs?”

  “What? They’re a little tender, but that’s normal. My period is a few days late.”

  “You sure it’s just late?” Gwenn’s voice was kind, cautious.

  “Oh no! Don’t go there, Gwenn! There’s no way. We used condoms.”

  “The whole time?”

  “No, but there’s my IUD.”

  “Buy a pregnancy test, sweetie. You’ll know right away.”

  Icy needles shot through Paige, rippling chills up and down her spine. “Gwenn, it can’t be,” she whispered.

  .~ * * * ~.

  An hour later, Paige sat on her cold bathroom floor, hugging her knees, staring at three plastic sticks through watery eyes. One stick displayed a plus sign and “Yes.” Another had a deep blue stripe. The final one said, “Pregnant.”

  She was three-for-three. A perfect score. Except this was no game.

  Her heart sank into a bottomless well. Despite her own warning system, with eyes wide open, she’d fallen in love with an irresistible flirt who’d run straight into a vamp’s arms at the first opportunity; a manwhore who didn’t waste his time on women with children; a player who’d never committed to anyone, whose longest relationship could be counted in weeks, not years. A man she shouldn’t have trusted, who’d broken her heart—just like the last one. She hadn’t learned a thing. And now she was bringing a child into the mess.

  Paige swiped at her tears and rocked back and forth. Irony was that in spite of her resolve to never be her mother, she’d followed the same path and become everything that disgusted her: a woman who jumped from one man’s bed to another’s, who was carrying a child whose father’s identity was a question mark.

  Beckett or Adrian?

  CHAPTER 28

  It Was Always You

  “Great game, Miller. That was a sick pass you made.” The forward with the game-winning goal began unlacing his skates in the locker room.

  Beckett looked up from stripping his blade and gave him a chin jerk. “You’re the one who buried it and won us the game. That was a thing of beauty.”

  “Hey, me and some of the guys are gonna grab a few beers and a bite, maybe hit a few clubs. Interested?”

  “Thanks, man. Not tonight.”

  Beckett had a standing date with the trainer to work out his kinks. No amount of training could have prepared him for playing again, and though he’d been sucking wind by the end of the third period, he was improving with each game. Tonight he’d logged fourteen minutes and had been credited with four hits, in addition to the assist on the winning goal when he’d cooked a puck from the blue line. He’d gotten second star of the game. God, it was good to be out there again! If only he had someone special to celebrate with.

  As he worked on the blade, he pictured leaving the locker room and finding Andie waiting for him, all bright-eyed and smiling her gorgeous smile, dimple and all. Or pulling into a garage, walking into a house carrying a fresh bouquet of flowers, and drawing her into his arms and into the bedroom.

  “Stupid fuck,” he muttered to himself. What an exercise in frustration his fantasy was. With no word from her in nearly two weeks, he’d laid off, given it a rest, still clueless as to why she’d dumped him. No, not dumped. A misunderstanding. But what?

  By the time he’d showered and dressed, he was one of a handful of guys left. Despite the late hour, fans still braved the damp cold, waiting for their chance at an autograph, a piece of memorabilia, a fuck. As was his habit, he scanned the puck bunnies—one held a sign for him—and stopped to autograph a few things thrust at him by kids, dads, other devotees. The woman with the sign called out, “Take me home, Beckett!” Another yelled, “Me too!” They were young, pretty, and all looked alike. Not a chance. He offered them a “Have a nice night,” shouldering his way past the small crowd to his car.

  In the apartment provided for him, he reheated takeout chicken parm and threw back a glass of chocolate milk while he packed for tomorrow’s road trip. They were headed out west for a four-game swing. First stop, Denver. He’d arranged tickets for Andie but hadn’t heard a word. His stomach did a quick jitterbug when he imagined seeing her.

  By the time he hit the ice in the Blizzard arena the next night, he knew she wasn’t coming. With no answer from her, he’d let the tickets go. Locking the burn away, he played his ass off, and though they lost, it was the best cure he knew. As he exited the arena, three women screamed that they loved him. You don’t even fucking know me.

  Scrolling through his phone on his way to the team bus, he stopped short. A text from Andie, apologizing for the tickets, saying she needed to talk to him. Could he meet her tomorrow before he flew out? His gut coiled in a series of knots. Hell yes. Wait. She’d treated him like crap, so hell no.

  On the bus, he sent his reply. I’m free after morning skate before the plane leaves. Tell me when and where.

  Jesus! Did he stand a chance of solving this … this, whatever it was?

  That night, his bed was a thrashing ground with him twisting in the sheets, and it wasn’t because of his teammate’s foghorn snores. His mind churned questions—things he wanted to say, things he needed to know—while his stomach churned acid.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him that, for the first time, he was on the other side of a breakup, and like the women he’d discarded, he wasn’t sure why he found himself there. He just wanted Andie back. What did he have to do? The answers would come tomorrow. Was he prepared to hear them? What if it was game over? He was struck by another incongruity: he’d had to hit absolute rock-bottom, lose everything he’d once thought valuable, in order to understand what was truly precious. Her. And now that he had the best part of his old life back, she was gone.

  Why couldn’t he have the game and her?

  The next morning, the Uber driver let him off in front of Dazbog, where he’d had the first of many long conversations with her. He spotted her right away. She stood by the front door, her dark copper hair glinting gold in the sun, and when she locked eyes with him, warmth surged in him. She was dressed like she’d been running errands or crawling over some construction site. No makeup, hair pulled back in a wavy ponytail, her petite frame in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her skin was pale, but she was gorgeous. He swallowed hard. Pulse racing, his palms grew clammy.

  She gave him a wary look as he approached, but he leaned in and kissed her cheek despite her flinch.

  “That bad, huh?” he said.

  “How are you, Beck?” Her voice was clipped, all business. When she bought their drinks, he didn’t argue. Instead, he found the quietest corner, relieved the place was light on customers.

  They sat across from one another, and she dunked a teabag as he slurped his hot brew.

  “I never congratulated you on your contract,” she began. “How does it feel to be running with the big dogs again?”

  “Woof,” he replied.

  She didn’t smile.

  “It feels good being given another shot.” He stared into those beautiful green eyes, hoping for a reaction to his comment, but couldn’t read what whirred behind them. “So, Andie, how have you been? We haven’t talked since Vegas.”

  She shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “And the roofing business? How’s that going?” The conversation was beginning to mimic the first one they’d had here.

  Her shoulders lowered an inch. “Good. I’m on a learning curve, still getting used to climbing around on roofs.”

  Several heartbeats dragged into minutes, feeling like hours.

  “So this is your party. What did you want to talk about?” He took another sip. The coffee didn’t sit well, but he needed time to puzzle out what was happening. He bit back the most important question: What the hell had gone wrong?

  She looked down at a scratch on the tabletop, studying it with an intensity it didn’t warrant. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Yeah? Like why you walked out on me without a word?”

  Eyes lifted to his; a little s
torm brewed there. “I didn’t walk out on you. You walked out when you rekindled an old relationship the first chance you got. You just can’t keep it in your pants, can you?”

  Her words were raw and full of venom, and they stung as if she’d physically slapped him.

  “It’s been in my pants since I last saw you,” he ground out. “What makes you think it hasn’t?”

  “Yamila.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” His confusion was being overtaken by rising alarm. “What about Yamila?”

  “You don’t remember lying next to her when she answered your phone and told me you were too busy fucking her to take my call? How messed up were you?”

  He set his cup down so hard coffee splashed over its sides. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “And the video? She called my cell and sent that revolting piece of trash to my email. Are you denying it, Mr. All-Nighter?”

  “I might if I knew what to deny! What video?”

  “Look. I didn’t invite you here to rehash Yamila. That’s history, just like our … fling. What I needed to tell you is I’m pregnant.”

  If he hadn’t been seated, he’d have fallen over. “How?”

  “You’re not serious.”

  He shook his head and dropped his voice. “I thought you had an IUD?”

  “Which complicates things. The doctor’s not sure she can remove it. And there’s another complication.” She took in a sharp breath. “I’m not sure it’s yours.”

  Bam! Her words were like a double-barreled shotgun blast to his chest. Heat rose inside him, and it wasn’t a good kind of heat. “Who the hell have you been sleeping with?” It came out a little harsher than he intended.

  She arched her eyebrows at him as if she thought he was dumber than dirt. “My ex-husband? That little ‘incident’ with the anniversary wine?”

  A figure appeared at their table. “Excuse me. Are you Beckett Miller?”

  Beckett swung his eyes to a scrawny, dark-haired kid whose big brown eyes danced with hope.

  “He plays peewee for Arvada,” a woman said behind him. “He’s always been a big fan of yours. Me too.”

  “I play defense.” The kid grinned.

  Beckett extended his hand and put on his game face. “Defense, huh? How’s that going?”

  Andie excused herself, and Beckett’s eyes tracked her to the restroom. He chatted a few minutes and signed some piece of paper for the kid even as his mind spun, trying to order everything Andie had just said: pregnant, Yamila, video, fling, history, not sure, Adrian. After he wished the kid good luck, the mom slipped him a business card and winked on her way out. He stuffed it under his saucer before Andie slid back into her seat.

  “Sorry about that. Comes with the territory,” he said.

  “Yes, I know only too well. So are you keeping her card?”

  He slid it back out, ripped it up, and flung the pieces. They fluttered onto the table like the New Year’s confetti that had rained down on them during a happier moment. “That answer your question?”

  She seemed to appraise him.

  “I have questions,” he said. So many. She nodded, so he forged ahead. “What’s the drill? How often are doctor’s visits? I need to work out my schedule.” She gaped at him, horrified. “Right. Moving on. If I get a DNA test, is there a way to compare it to the baby’s before he or she is born? And why the hell are you crawling around on roofs in your condition?”

  “It’s fine to be on roofs; it’s just a zygote at this point.”

  “Technically, it’s an embryo, and I don’t give a shit how fine you think being on a roof is because that’s my embryo you’re carrying.”

  She blew out a breath. “Could be your embryo, and only half, Mr. Biology. And don’t worry your pretty head. I want nothing from you. I won’t be crimping your lifestyle. I just thought you had a right to know.”

  At least three steps behind, he was trying to catch up, feeling for all the world as though he were hanging from a roller coaster car that had tossed him over the side. He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “You’ve held a trial and sentenced me without letting me defend myself. Why? All this time, I’ve been apologizing without a goddamn clue what I was apologizing for. And what if I want you crimping my lifestyle? Hell, I’ll marry you, if that’s what you want.”

  She snorted. “Wow. Mr. Romance. Not interested.”

  “That didn’t come out the way I wanted.” He wiped his hands on his legs. “Look, Andie, humor a clueless bastard here. Can we back up? I want to know everything Yamila did.” She must be at the center of this nightmare.

  “I told you. She answered your phone and said you were … busy. Later, she sent me a video. A video of you screwing her.”

  His jaw clenched. “I want to see it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Did you lose your copy?”

  “I’ve never consented to anything like you’re describing, so I don’t have a copy to lose. I need to know what I’m fighting here, and I want a chance to defend myself. You owe me at least that.” He opened and closed his fists on his thighs.

  She placed her hands on the table and looked at him with an arched, expectant eyebrow.

  He let out a puffed-cheek exhale and straightened in his seat. “Yamila’s been stalking me for months. My attorney told me to keep anything I get from her—voicemails, cards, emails—in case I need evidence against her. I’ve been building a file, and I need to add that video, whatever the hell it is, so my attorney can stop her. You asked about restraining orders once. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to … I didn’t want to scare you off. I guess I’ll have to get one now. She’s gone too far.”

  Silent, Andie cinched her arms over her chest, so he continued.

  “She followed me to Vegas. I found out from the producer that Yamila pulled strings to get herself hired when she got wind of the campaign. I swear, I had no idea until she showed up, or I’d have bailed.”

  Andie stared at him, expressionless. He kept going.

  “I kept my distance, figuring I wouldn’t rock the boat because it was only a couple days. When I was on the phone with you and thought room service was outside my door, it turned out to be Yamila up to her old games. She was making a scene, so I pulled her into the room before her big mouth could get us into the tabloids and ruin my chance with the Flyers. She was totally fucked up. I called the handler and told her what was going on, and Yamila went off. I threatened to call security if she didn’t leave. She started crying and begged me not to. She seemed to calm down, and she asked to use the bathroom.”

  He expelled a large breath. “She was in there a long time, so I banged on the door. When she didn’t answer, I tried opening it, but it was locked, so I called security.”

  On another shuddering breath, he said, “She’d slashed her wrists with a drinking glass. I’ve never seen so much fucking blood. After they carted her off, I had hours of interviews and paperwork, and I’d completely lost track of my phone. When I realized I didn’t have it, I tore the room apart and figured someone grabbed it by accident during the chaos. After I tried calling you from the room, I called Verizon to turn off my phone. It never occurred to me Yamila got hold of it. I don’t know how she did, but that’s what must’ve happened. She must’ve picked up your call before I got the damn thing shut off, which she could’ve done without unlocking it. I bet that’s how she got your number.”

  “How could she manage all that with her injuries?”

  “Turns out she hadn’t gone very deep, and I heard later she was released the next day.” Was he getting through to her? He couldn’t tell. “So this video. You sure it was me?”

  “Positive.”

  “It makes no sense. She must have doctored it somehow. I really need to see it.”

  The barista refilled Andie’s hot water and topped off his coffee. Though it was black, he stirred it, his eyes on Andie.

  He reached across the table, palm up. “Marry me, Andie. We’ll get t
his worked out.”

  Her mouth swung open. In disbelief? Panic? Disgust? It wasn’t delight he saw in those green eyes. His stomach jerked.

  “This isn’t a joke, Beck. How can you even say that? What if it’s not yours?” The pitch of her voice was shrill.

  Not the answer he’d hoped for, and fear slid though his veins in icy slivers that threatened to impale his bared heart.

  “I’m not joking, and I don’t give a shit who the father is. I want to be there. I want to be the guy who goes out at midnight and gets you pickles and ice cream. I want to go to the Le Mans classes and be in the delivery room when the baby comes.” He stared at her, his breathing ragged. “If the paternity test comes back negative, I’ll still raise the kid, even if it means Adrian Fucking Paulson is a festering thorn in my side the rest of my life.”

  She let out a mirthless laugh. “They’re childbirth classes, not driving classes. Lamaze, not Le Mans. But you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Never been more serious in my life. I love you, Andie, and I’ve never said that to anyone but my mom. I’m all in.” Was he making any headway?

  The hard line of her mouth softened for an instant. “Look, Beck, we had a great time, and I let myself be one more notch in your bedpost. I’m a big girl, and I knew what I was getting into. No hard feelings. But I don’t want to be married to someone I can’t trust, someone who’ll be notching more conquests. I’ve done that, and it sucks.”

  “Goddamn it, you’re not a notch! You never were. And that wasn’t just a ‘great time.’ Not to me.”

  As if she didn’t hear him, she prattled on. “The competition’s tight: swimsuit models, actresses, players’ moms, just to name a few.”

  “Please don’t do this. I don’t want them! I want you.”

  She paused a beat. “You think you do, but what about two months from now? Two years? Tigers don’t change their stripes, Beck.”

  “You think so little of me—and yourself—that it’s a foregone conclusion I’ll chase every skirt. What happened to ‘people can change if they want to’?”