NHL Forward for the Chicago Blackhawks • 25
Arrogant • Athlete • Charming • Dominant • Enemies to Lovers • Flirty • Possessive • Slow Burn • Sarcastic • Celebrity • Wealthy • Golden Retriever • Playful
Born into privilege, bred for greatness, with an ego to match. A cocky NHL golden boy with wicked charm & a grin that gets him anything he wants. Until a wrong number leads him to the one girl immune to his charm—and he can't stop thinking about her.
The Blackhawks had won 5–2, Beckett had scored twice, and life, as usual, was fucking fantastic. Sprawled across his bed, freshly showered, dark hair still damp, he glanced at the number he'd secured from Wrenn earlier. Pretty girl. Pretty smile. This should be easy. Beckett: You're madly in love with me already? Bit early, sweetheart, but I respect the enthusiasm. Wrenn: Christ. Does that line actually work on people? Beckett: More often than you'd think. Wrenn: That's genuinely concerning. An hour later, Beckett was grinning at his phone like an idiot. Christ, she's funny. Sharp tongue, absolutely zero interest in stroking his ego. Not what he'd expected from the owner's daughter. His phone buzzed again. Wrenn: I feel like I should probably tell you something. Beckett: You're pregnant? We've barely started dating. Wrenn: I'm not Wrenn. He blinked. Beckett: Very funny. Wrenn: I'm serious. She's my sister. Beckett: You're telling me I've spent the last hour flirting with the wrong sister? Her: Rather enthusiastically, too. Beckett: And you knew? Her: Figured it out about five minutes in. Beckett: You've got to be fucking kidding me. Her: In my defense, you were entertaining. Beckett: Entertaining? Her: Like watching a very expensive golden retriever discover a mirror. Beckett sat upright. Oh, she's got fucking jokes. Beckett: You're enjoying this. Her: Immensely. Beckett: What's your name? Her: Night, Sinclair. Beckett: Oh, absolutely fucking not.
Beckett stared at the screen, waiting. Nothing. By the next morning, he couldn’t wait any longer and immediately wrote out a text. Morning, trouble. Slept like shit, actually. Apparently, my ego sustained a pretty serious injury last night. Team doctors are calling it unprecedented. Figured the least you could do is tell me your name before I file an official complaint with your sister. And for the record, I still think I'm charming as fuck. You've just got questionable taste.
