Reckless on Ice

Spam Message

ASHLEY

"I need to see you. ASAP."

My brows furrow. Spam messages are so persistence these days. I nudge my phone away with my pen, refocusing on slashing through one of my junior's articles with the red pen of death.

Earlier, I really got a suspicious call. Some unknown number. Some guy claiming to be—wait for it— Beckett f*****g Langley.

The audacity.

My Beckett? My Beckett?

Right. And I’m the Queen of England. Next to me, Ryan makes a noise. “You good?”

“Yes,” I say, flipping a page aggressively. “Why?”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The weird, twitchy thing. Like your soul is trying to escape your body.”

Okay. Rude.

I scoff under my breath, eyes locked on the next paragraph. Who actually falls for that kind of scam? “Hi, I’m your hot, famous ex-boyfriend who you absolutely don’t fantasize about in moments of weakness, please call me back.”

Absolutely not.

I take a sip of my coffee, then immediately regret it when I realize I finished it thirty minutes ago. Great. Another tragedy to add to my day.

Ryan watches me, unimpressed. “Who’s the text from?”

I wave a dismissive hand, eyes on the article. “No one important.”

Ryan leans over, squinting at the screen. “ ‘I need to see you. ASAP.’” A pause. Then, “Jesus. Who died?”

“My patience,” I mutter, snatching my phone back.

Ryan tilts his head. “Wait. That number looks familiar—”

I block the screen with my palm. “No, it doesn’t.”

He frowns. “Are you sure? Because I think that’s—”

“It’s not.” I jam my pen onto the paper, underlining redundant word choice like it personally offended me.

Ryan stares. He does that a lot. Which, fair. Ryan is the only reason this paper doesn’t go up in flames every week. Our layout artist, my closest friend in college, and the guy who once stayed up for 36 hours straight to fix a print error because someone (me) miscalculated spacing.

Unfortunately, he also has incredibly bad timing.

His eyes flicked to my phone, then back to me. “You sure?”

I don’t tell him everything. I tell him almost everything—our staff drama, my war crimes against AP style, the time I accidentally left a Starbucks cup in a photo that went to print—but I don’t tell him about Langley.

At least, not the real s**t.

Ryan opens his mouth like he’s about to press further—

Ding-dong.

We both freeze.

Ryan frowns, already pushing himself up from the couch. “You expecting someone?”

“Nope.” I stretched my arms overhead, the hem of my oversized shirt lifting slightly as I let out a yawn. “It must be the chicken and beer we ordered," I snorted, shaking my head, then reaching up to fix my glasses, pushing them higher up my nose. " I’ll get it Ry. You stay here and finish that, or else.”

Ryan sighs, already sinking back into the couch. “I’m being exploited.”

“You’re being fed,” I correct, making my way toward the door, laughing at his misery. “There’s a difference.”

I yank the door open, still laughing, still mid-eyeroll, until I realized whose standing right outside my apartment door.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

“Nice look, Cupcake.”

I scowled, gripping the door tighter and trying to get myself together. "What the actual f**k are you doing here?”

Beckett shifts, and I notice he looks rough. Like he just rolled out of a grueling practice and somehow ended up on my doorstep instead of wherever people like him go. I glance at my watch, 4:52 PM, which means the hockey team had just ended their practice.

“I was busy.” He tilts his head, smirking just enough to make my stomach flip in betrayal. “But now I’m here.”

God, what the f**k is he doing here?

I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder at Ryan—who, thank every deity in existence, is still sprawled on my couch.

Oh, f**k. Oh, f**k. OH, f**k.

“You need to leave. Now.” I hiss, already shoving at his chest, trying to force him back down the hallway.

Beckett does not move. Instead, he plants a hand on the doorframe, the other catching my wrist mid-shove, like he has the f*****g audacity to stop me.

“Aw, Cupcake.” His voice is low, amused, and one-hundred percent designed to make me homicidal. “That’s not a very warm welcome.”

I scowl, pushing harder, but he’s a goddamn brick wall. “Langley, I swear to God—”

“Uh. Who’s this?”

My stomach drops.

I turned toward Ryan with a smile so sweet it could give someone diabetes. “Nothing,” I say, praying to every higher power that Beckett will just f*****g disappear. So much for avoiding scandal. "Mr. Langley here was just asking some questions—”

I don't get to finish my sentence because Ryan moves and suddenly, his arm is slipping around my waist.

My gaze unintentionally finds Beckett's, but his stare is completely locked in Ryan’s arm. “ Uhm…”

Ryan’s voice is casual, so casual it kills me. “ I thought it was the delivery guy, babe.”

Babe.

Babe?!

What. The. f**k.

My head snaps toward Ryan so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. What are you playing at? I tilt my chin, subtle but sharp, a clear warning to stop whatever bullshit game this is.

Ryan just smirks. The asshole. He’s a f*****g gay, that’s why. But no one knows about that except me.

Holy hell.

I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling way too warm despite the AC being on full blast. “Ryan,” I say, ignoring the absolute chaos simmering in the air. “This is Beckett. Beckett, this is Ryan.”

Is he okay?

Beckett looks… off. Weirdly still.

“Hey,” Ryan’s finger tilted my chin up, and I am going to puke later. "Finish it off. We’re still not done with my finger technique.”

Casually, effortlessly, perfectly timed to piss me off, Ryan drops his hand and throws me a wink and turns toward the couch.

My jaw drops. I don’t even have time to process it—to properly absorb what just happened because Beckett is suddenly moving.

I whip around so fast my glasses nearly fly off. “Langley—”

What. The. Hell.

Since when is he this rude?

I hesitate for half a second—half a second too long—because I am not about to let this asshole show up at my place, act like his usual cocky self, get all weird and silent, and then leave before I get an explanation.

Nope. Not happening.

I shoved my glasses up my nose, kick the door shut behind me, and went after him.

"Langley!"

I scowl, jogging to catch up, nearly tripping over my own damn slippers. “Beckett!”

Finally—finally—he slowed just enough to turn his head. His jaw is clenched, his hands fisted, and his eyes—Jesus. They’re practically scorching holes through the concrete.

“What?” It’s sharp. Flat. Unlike him.

I blink. “What?”

He exhales through his nose, like I’m the one being difficult. “You called my name. Twice.”

Oh. Right. I did.

I smooth my shirt down, stalling, because now that I have his attention, I have no clue what the f**k I’m supposed to say. Why are you acting like I just burned down your childhood home? feels a little too dramatic. So does, Why did you look like you were about to punch a hole through my apartment wall when Ryan touched me?

So I settled for, “You left.”

Beckett’s eye twitched. “You noticed.”

I blinked again. “Obviously?”

“Then why are you chasing me?”

“Why are you running?”

“I’m not running.”

“Then why are you walking really fast like you have somewhere to be?”

“Because I have to be somewhere else.”

“Well, so do I.”

Beckett stops walking so abruptly I almost slam into him. I jerk back just in time, hands flying up to my chest as he turns—fully, this time—and glares down at me.

“Where, exactly, do you need to be, Brooke?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Squint up at him, because why does that sound like an accusation?

“My apartment?” I gesture vaguely behind me. “Which, in case you forgot, is where you showed up uninvited.”

His jaw ticks. His fingers flex.

“I shouldn’t have,” he mutters.

Something tightens in my stomach. Something uneasy.

Shouldn’t have?

“What’s wrong with you?” I frowned, watching him carefully. “You’re acting weird. You showed up here all cocky, and now you look like you want to punch something. Anyway, I just want to ask what you need from me for you to show up in my apartment?”

“You call him babe back?”

Weird. Weird.

I snort, crossing my arms. “What is it with you?”

He doesn't answer, instead, he makes a low, frustrated noise, dragging his hand through his hair before pinching the bridge of his nose.

Okay, weirder. He only does that when he is frustrated as f**k. It's a classic Langley Tells Himself to Calm the f**k Down trademark move.

I stare. "Did something happen?" I ask, because this is… a lot.

Beckett huffs a humorless laugh, shaking his head. " I hope nothing happens." What?

I blink. “Okay, what the hell is your problem?” I squint at him. “Are you…” I tilt my head. "Are you...in drugs?"

He exhales through his nose, sharp, annoyed. “I’m leaving.”

“What—wait, no—” I reached for his wrist instinctively, grip firm, because what the f**k is happening?

Beckett stops mid-step, frozen, staring at my hand like it’s the first time I’ve ever touched him. I sigh dramatically because I’m not about to stand here all day while he malfunctions. “Did you bring your car?”

He exhales through his nose. “No.”

My stomach drops. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“I brought my bike.”

Oh, for f**k’s sake.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and count to three. When that doesn’t work, I add two more for safety, “Langley.” I drag his name out, slow and scolding. “You’re not driving that thing in this state.”

His head jerks back, like I just spoke in an ancient, forgotten language.

I rolled my eyes. “You heard me. I’m not letting you drive.”

Beckett lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You’re emotionally compromised.” I gestured at him. “You look like you’re about to run someone over.”

“I am about to run someone over.” His voice is low, dry. “And guess what, Cupcake? If you don’t let me leave, it might be you.”

I open my mouth to fire back, but then he moves. Beckett stepped back, shaking his head, laughing under his breath before I saw where he was going. He was already throwing one leg over his bike when I realized it.

Oh, hell no.

“Langley!” I snap, marching forward, hands on my hips. “We’re not done talking—”

VROOOOOM.

The bike roars to life.

I scowl, stepping closer. “I swear to god, Beckett—”

VROOOOOOOM.

I blink, momentarily blinded by the absolute audacity. He’s revving the damn engine.

Over. My. Words.

I threw up my hands. “Are you serious?”

Beckett tilts his head, feigning innocence. “What’s that, Cupcake?”

“I said—”

VROOOOOOOM.

Oh, this motherfu— I lunge forward, smacking his shoulder. “Stop revving the damn bike and listen to me, you asshole!”

He leans in, resting his forearms on the handles, voice dripping with smug amusement. “Can’t hear you, babe. Too much noise.”

My jaw unhinges. “You’re the noise, Langley.”

He smirks, kicking up the stand.

“You better not—”

He twists the throttle. The bike lurches forward, and I watch in utter rage and disbelief as Beckett Langley—speeds off like a dramatic action hero in a movie.

I clenched my fists. “I hate him. I hate him so much.”

From behind me, Ryan whistles low. “You sure about that?”

I spin around, ready to kill.