“Perfect.”
I pull the video up as Beckett shoves his coffee table to the side. As soon as I hit play, I move to the center of the room as the opening strains of “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” start playing.
Beckett walks toward me, and my body buzzes in anticipation. This performance is making me more nervous than I’d like. Wrapping his arms around me, we both do our best to maintain an appropriate distance, nothing like the embrace on the screen in front of us.
We move cautiously at first, finding our footing together. He gracefully spins me out, and I laugh at the sudden movement, a giddy feeling like when you lose your stomach on a roller coaster bubbling up within me. Beckett’s hand tightens on my waist, almost as if he’s going to pull me in close.
Beckett steps on my foot, and he curses.
“My bad,” I mumble, my gaze laser-focused on my laptop. I can’t ever seem to remember these steps, which frustrates me to no end.
We muddle through the part with the quick steps, finding our groove as he spins me again before pulling me close once more. Our gazes land anywhere but on each other.
“Where’s the hair flip?” he asks, as I move side to side, his hands two hot irons on my waist.
Beckett twirls me around as I mumble, “It’ll be a cold day… in hell… when I do that. “
“Ah, come on, Queenie.”
“So many sprints,” I threaten, as I place my hand back down on his shoulder, and he laughs like he knows I’m joking.
We move through the more traditional dance portion, our movements more rigid, less… thrust-y, than the couple on screen. We both pause, not sure what to do as the couple on the screen stares lovingly into each other’s eyes. Thankfully, it’s only moments before we’re dancing again, our bodies slowly finding the rhythm.
Finally, Beckett lets go of me, and I quickly say, “No hand kiss.” He shrugs before turning away, and I’m amused when he does a limited version of the male solo, hamming it up as he reaches the part where he’s down on his knees.
“You’re supposed to be laughing at me adoringly,” he teases.
“Isthisnot an adoring look?” I ask, careful to keep my expression blank.
“I think we might’ve discovered why you’re single,” Beckett teases without missing a step.
“And here I was thinking it was the fact I’m already married to my job,” I banter. We get to the section where I’m supposed to hop off the stage, preparing for the big lift, so I press pause on the laptop. We’ll have to go out to the hall for that.
“Is that why?” Beckett asks, not even breathing heavily.
I shrug. “I don’t honestly know at this point. There aren’t a lot of men interested in dating me, and the ones who are… tend to like a strong woman in theory, not practice. My last boyfriend said he loved my drive, until I worked enough late nights in a row that he started calling me cold. It’s probably for the best, anyway. My schedule is a lot for anyone to have to put up with.”
“I don’t believe that. Any man would be lucky to have you,” Beckett says softly, his right hand tightening into a fist by his side.
“The only one who ever might’ve agreed got scared off the first time he met my dad. Apparently, Hal Blake is too much, even for those who worship him as a coach.”
“It must be hard having him for a dad.”
I consider my answer. “He’s the reason I am who I am today. Some people think he puts too much pressure on me, but he just wants to make sure I achieve my goals.”
“I get that.”
“Did your dad pressure you to play hockey like him?” I ask, though I immediately regret the decision, remembering the sentence that always follows that one in the articles. Beckett’s dad played AAA hockey until he died in a car wreck.
“He did. And yeah, he’s a big reason I’ve pushed myself as hard as I have.”
There’s a pause, just a second or two, where neither of us says anything. He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but closes it, his gaze snapping away from my face.
Regret twists low in my belly. I shouldn’t have said anything. Shouldn’t have opened up like that with a player, shouldn’t have tried to connect—especially nothim. I bite the inside of my cheek, holding the emotions threatening to spill over at bay. I want to take it back, but instead, I turn my attention to the laptop screen, hoping we can move on.
Beckett nods, his gaze seeming to pick up everything I’m not saying, though I know my face is expressionless. “Well, that was good for a first try.”
“Youwere good,” I say, forcing myself back to the light banter we’d fallen into earlier. “I can’t believe you remember that much from college. That was ages ago.”
