But she didn’t want this. Didn’t want the headache of having someone as delicious as Beckett around to constantly tempt her away from her goal. Didn’t want the heartache of wanting someone who had as little time to spend cavorting as she did. Didn’t want the stress of trying to make something so impossible work just for great sex once in a while. And she really, really didn’t want to be worried about someone cheating on her. Or lying to her. Again.
She hadn’t decided whether or not she wanted to start a dialogue with him by the time they’d reached the address of the woman down, so she stuffed her phone away without responding.
Beckett slid toward the bench in the middle of the third period, letting Savage take his place for a few seconds against the San Jose Sharks. He windmilled his burning legs over the half wall and dropped his ass to the bench beside Donovan.
“Hoo-wee,” Donovan said without taking his eyes off the ice. “You are earning every penny of that fat paycheck this run. I’m starting to think you being pissed is worth dealing with your moods if this is the result.”
On the ice, Andre Kristoff intercepted a pass between the Sharks, spun, passed the puck behind his back, and outmaneuvered three Sharks bearing down on him.
“Yeah!” Beckett yelled.
Andre pushed hard into his skates and shot down the ice toward the Sharks’ goal.
Beckett stood, braced his hands on the wall. “All the way. All the way.”
“Fuck, he’s fast,” Donovan said beside Beckett.
One of the Sharks’ defensemen crowded Andre; the other angled directly for him and closed so fast, the kid never had a chance. The Shark smashed Andre up against the boards like a bug on a windshield, the kid came off his feet, then hit the ice on his hands and knees. He rolled back to his feet and reached for the puck, but the other Shark already had it directed down the ice.
Beckett looked to the refs, waiting for a roughing call, but got nothing.
“Fuckers,” Beckett said, body strung tight, stick ready.
“Get in there, Croft,” Tremblay barked.
Beckett was over the wall in a split second, driving directly for the defenseman who’d hit Andre. Building up speed, Beckett threw himself into the smaller player, adding a well-placed elbow during the drive.
The guy hit the ice with a grunt, and a “Fucking A.”
Standing over the defenseman, Beckett said, “I’m protective of the little guys.”
Down the ice, Beckett’s teammates scrambled for a goal. He sprinted that direction, cut in front of the pipes, and shoved a Shark’s wing out of the way. Savage shot and scored. Misery leaked through the stands. The buzzer sounded, ending the game and adding the fourth win in the Rough Riders’ streak.
Beckett celebrated with a group hug on the ice before moving through the standard postgame rituals of the coach’s locker room talk, postgame interviews, and, finally, catching a shower.
Because he took the longest showers of everyone on the team, by the time he’d gotten done warming, steaming, and stretching his sore muscles, Beckett was sitting on his bench with a towel around his waist when all the other guys were almost dressed.
He pulled his phone from his duffel while a bunch of the guys talked about grabbing something to eat at the hotel bar. But when Beckett saw that he’d missed one call from Kim and two calls from his sister, alarm instantly tuned out everything else. It was almost two a.m. back east, but he dialed anyway.
“Hey, there,” Sarah answered. “I’m glad you called. I have someone here who’s having a little trouble sleeping tonight. I think she could use a few minutes of daddy time.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Um…can’t say.”
Which meant they had to play twenty questions. “Did Kim call again?”
“Yes.”
“Did Lily talk to her?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No.”
Beckett’s mind stretched for ways Kim’s call could have upset— “Did she leave a message?”