Page 63 of Hot Damn
I saw Beckett have words with Dad and I know it was tense but they shook hands at the end and Dad gave me a light hug before ushering me into the front seat of Beckett’s SUV.
Everyone had concerned looks on their faces and I understand why but I could do without the reminder of what happened this afternoon.
Beckett hit the button for the seat warmer when he started the car and the radiating heat helps soothe my hip a little. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to shoot me a quick smile. “And thank you. For being there for Whit.”
I scoff. “She didn’t need me. I’m sure she would have gotten away and run back into the building.”
“Yes. No doubt. I’ve taught her how to take care of herself. And I’m not thanking you for saving her. I’m thanking you for being there for her.”
It takes me a moment to understand what he means. Mybrain is a little fuzzy due to the pain I can’t seem to get in front of with over the counter meds. His next words help.
“She’s only had me to stand up for her since Mama Dot died.”
I turn my head where it rests on the back of my seat. “She has all of us now.”
“I know.” The side of his mouth I can see curls up. “She’s catching on to that quicker than I am.”
“Kids adapt faster than adults.”
“They do. And Whit is quicker than most kids her age.”
“I’ve said it before but it bears repeating. She’s a remarkable young woman. You should be proud of her and you.”
“I am. Myself more so recently.”
The hum that vibrates my throat could be agreement or censure. I’ve gotten to know the Higgisons over the last few weeks and what I’ve seen leads me to believe Beckett has a high standard of what he should be, as a hockey player, as a man, as Whitney’s father, and he’s always seen himself fall short in the latter.
Why he could think that is beyond me. She’s a polite, bright, caring girl, and also brave. The way she stood up and admitted her mistake—or what she saw as one because of the fallout from it—shows she’s not afraid of the hard stuff or owning up to being wrong.
“I think you’re both remarkable.”
The chuckle that rumbles through Beckett’s chest and fills the cab is laced with disbelief.
“I do. You’re one of the top players in the NHL and while getting to the top of that tier of athletes you raised a daughter basically on your own. That’s remarkable, Beckett.”
He shrugs. “If you say so.”
“I do. And others would agree. Why don’t you see yourself that way?”
It takes him a few minutes to answer and when he pulls into the garage at his house, I think he isn’t going to. Except when he switches off the engine and waits for the roller door to close,he grips the wheel with white knuckles and stares straight ahead, the line of his jaw tense.
“I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. But the results of those is Whit, and she’s never been, could never be, a mistake.”
He pops his door as he unbuckles his belt and is out of the truck, striding around the front of it while I sit there and stare.
He’s just given me another small glimpse into his life. A normal person might brush aside his words, think they’re about becoming a teenage parent, but I’m not the average person.
I make my living reading between the lines. Ferreting out the finer details that make the articles I write more in-depth, more three dimensional.
I’ve been intrigued by Beckett and Whitney from the beginning, from the second Draper yelled his question about Beckett having a seventeen-year-old daughter I’ve been consciously and subconsciously rolling their story around my head.
I want to know everything.
And not for an article.
I want to know everything about Beckett because that like I’ve been acknowledging is definitely moving along into the more column.
