Pucking the Beckett Brothers

Chapter 2 The Morning After Everything

SIENNA’S POV

I don’t go home.

I can’t.

Because home is the apartment I share with Damon. His protein powder on the counter. His gear bag by the door. His name on the lease that I pay half of every single month.

So I drive until I find a bar that looks busy enough that nobody will try to talk to me and quiet enough that I can hear myself think. I sit at the counter and order whiskey because I don’t have the energy to be original right now.

The bartender sets the glass down.

I drink it in one go.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Another one,” I say.

He pours it.

I stare at the glass and think about the sound Damon made. That specific sound. The one I spent two years thinking he was just too tired, too stressed, too distracted to make with me.

He wasn’t tired.

He just wasn’t interested. Not in me. Not once. Not ever.

I drink the second glass.

“Bad night?” the bartender asks.

“Found out my boyfriend is gay. He’s been sleeping with his coach for two years while I paid for his entire career.” I set the glass down. “I bought him twelve-hundred-dollar skates for Christmas. Told my mother I couldn’t afford to fly home so I could save up for them. She called three times on Christmas Day and I didn’t pick up because I felt guilty.” I laugh. It doesn’t sound right. “I was saving money for a man who was never going to want me.”

The bartender sets down the glass he’s wiping. “Jesus.”

“And then his coach, the one he’s been f*****g, called me tonight. Used me to deliver a bag to the hotel. Stood there while I fell apart and told me to lower my voice.”

“What did you do?”

“Threatened to report them. Then called the league media office.” I push my glass forward. “They put me on hold for eleven minutes. Then someone picked up and asked me to come in tomorrow morning.”

He pours the third glass without me asking.

Before he can say anything my phone rings.

Mom.

My stomach drops. If she’s calling at ten thirty on a Tuesday it means Damon got there first.

I answer.

“Sienna.” Her voice is already clipped. Already decided. “I just got off the phone with Damon.”

“He called you.”

“He told me everything. That you walked out, that you made threats, that you embarrassed him in front of his coach—”

“He’s been sleeping with his coach,” I say. “For two years.”

Silence.

“Sienna—”

“Two years, Mom. The whole time. I paid for his gear, his physio, his everything. He is gay. He has always been gay. I was a cover story.”

A long pause. Then, "Well. Men are complicated. Relationships are complicated. That doesn’t mean you throw everything away—”

I take the phone from my ear and stare at it.

She is still talking. I can see the timer on the screen counting up.

I put it back.

“—his contract is up for renewal. This is the worst possible time to be causing drama. If you go to the league you will ruin that boy’s career and then where will you be? Alone, with nothing to show for—”

“I already called them,” I say.

Dead silence.

“You what?”

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning.” I pick up my glass. “I’m going to tell them everything.”

“Sienna Marie Calvert.” Her voice goes cold. “If you blow up this relationship over your pride—”

“I’m done, Mom.”

“You’re drunk.”

“A little bit.”

“Go home and sleep it off.”

“I’m not going home. That’s his apartment.”

“Then go to a hotel—”

“I’m already at a bar.”

“Sienna—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hang up.

The bartender is looking at me with the expression of a man who has witnessed too much tonight and doesn’t know where to look.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be.” He refills my glass. “This one’s on the house.”

I finish it. Put my card on the counter. Sign the slip. Stand up and my legs are steadier than they have any right to be.

Outside, the night air hits me clean and cold. The Meridian is two blocks down exactly like he said. Marble lobby, quiet, one receptionist who looks up when I walk in.

“I need a room,” I say.

“Of course.” He smiles, fingers on the keyboard. “Can I get your name?”

“Sienna Calvert.”

He types. “We have a deluxe suite available, or a standard room on the sixth floor.”

“Cheapest one.”

He puts a key card on the counter.

I reach for it.

A hand reaches past me from the right and picks up the other key card sitting beside mine. I look up. Tall. Dark suit. On his phone, not looking at me, saying something about a press conference tomorrow and the words Beckett brothers and I go completely still.

He walks away without looking at me once.

I look at the receptionist. “Did he just say Beckett brothers?”

His smile goes professional. “I’m not able to comment on our guests, miss.”

I look at the key card in my hand. Room 604.

I look at the direction the man walked.

I get in the elevator and press six.

The room is nicer than I expected. Big bed, clean white sheets, window over the street. I sit on the edge and put my face in my hands.

Tomorrow I have a meeting with the league media office. Damon’s contract renewal is in three weeks. Reid’s career is attached to the same franchise the Beckett brothers just bought.

My phone buzzes.

Damon.

*Sienna please. Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t. This will destroy both of us. Just come home and we can talk.*

I read it twice. Then I open my browser and pull up everything I can find on Rhett, Cole and Blake Beckett.

Three brothers. Majority stakeholders in six sports franchises across two continents. A reputation for walking into organizations and cleaning house within sixty days.

Rhett is the oldest. Thirty-six. The strategist. The one who does the talking.

Cole is the middle. Thirty-four. The enforcer. According to a 2023 profile, he had an entire coaching staff removed in forty-eight hours after a single player complaint.

Blake is the youngest. Thirty-two. The gossip sites photograph him at charity galas with a different woman every month. He looks like trouble.

I put my phone down.

Then I pick it up and type the name of their new franchise into the search bar.

Third article. Pre-season press conference. Yesterday. The Beckett brothers at a podium in matching dark suits, and there, just over Rhett Beckett’s shoulder—

Coach Harlan Reid.

Smiling for the camera.

I screenshot it. Save it. Put my phone down.

I fall asleep with my shoes on.

I don’t dream about Damon.

I dream about three brothers in dark suits.

I wake up at six to someone knocking hard in the hallway. I sit up, heart already pounding.

The knocking stops.

Then a voice. Low, sharp, the kind that doesn’t ask. It tells.

“Open the door, Reid. We need to talk about what the hell happened last night.”

I am on my feet before I decide to stand.

That voice is not at my door.

It’s at the door directly across the hall.

I press my ear against the door and I don’t breathe.