Chapter 1
Beckham
THREE YEARS LATER
Stepping out of my SUV, I adjust my tie with one hand while the other grabs my bag.
The Monarch Hotel towers in front of me looking like a gleaming pretentious altar to the holiday season.
Giant wreaths hang in every window, and a massive Christmas tree dominates the circular driveway, dripping with ornaments larger than my head.
“Welcome to the First Annual North American Collegiate Hockey Conference,” reads a banner stretched across the entrance. Inaugural year, well lucky fucking me.
I hand my keys to the valet, ignoring his cheerful “Happy holidays, sir!” My shoulders are knotted from the five-hour drive, and my mood matches the steel-gray sky threatening snow.
I’ve got three days of this bullshit ahead of me.
Panel discussions, networking events, and keeping my assistant coaches from embarrassing the program sound like so much damn fun.
I haven't slept properly in weeks, my team's inconsistency eating at me. Two losses in our last three games is just unacceptable.
“Kingston!” a voice booms from the hotel entrance. Maris, one of my assistant coaches, is waving at me like I’m a long-lost friend instead of someone who sees me every goddamn day.
I nod once, striding past the decorative ice sculptures flanking the entrance. The lobby hits me with a wall of heat.
“Cutting it close,” Maris says, checking his watch. “Registration closes in twenty minutes, and the welcome reception starts at seven.”
“I'm here, aren't I?” I mutter, scanning the room. Already I can spot two of my other assistant coaches by the bar, laughing too loudly with coaches from rival programs. “Where's the check-in?”
He points toward a table swarming with people in matching conference polo shirts. “I took the liberty of getting you a suite on the upper floor. Quieter up there.”
I give my thanks, already moving toward the registration table.
The sooner I get my credentials, the sooner I can disappear to my room before the forced mingling begins.
My number one priority while I’m here is making sure my players don’t embarrass the program.
I’ve got a couple of juniors who think an out-of-state conference means party time.
The elevator is mercifully empty. I press the button for the fourteenth floor, leaning against the mirrored wall and closing my eyes briefly. Just three days. Seventy-two hours of handshaking and bullshitting. I can survive that.
The suite is impressive; I'll give them that. King bed, separate sitting area, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The bathroom's bigger than my first apartment. The university spared no expense, and I’m not about to ask any additional questions.
I toss my bag onto the bed, splash some water on my face, and check my watch. Fifteen minutes until the reception. I fucking hate being late, so I better get my ass down there.
The elevator feels like a steel cage as it descends. I loosen my tie slightly, already dreading the small talk and political posturing waiting for me downstairs. Every coach is trying to one-up each other with recruiting stories and season stats. It’s fucking exhausting.
The doors slide open with a soft ping, and my heart stops dead in my chest.
Hennessy Vega stands directly in front of me, her caramel hair falling in loose curls past her shoulders.
She's wearing a gold sweater and denim jeans that hug every dangerous curve of her body and make my mouth go dry.
Gold hoops glint on her ears, matching the delicate chain around her neck that disappears beneath the soft material of her top.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Her deep brown eyes widen slightly when she sees me, lips curving into a smile that's haunted my dreams for years. The one that says she knows exactly what she does to me.
“Hey, Coach King,” she says, her voice like honey as I step out of the elevator.
But she doesn't move to get in, just stands there looking up at me through her thick lashes.
Her gaze travels slowly up my body, lingering on my tie, my jaw, before meeting my own with a look that burns hotter than the fireplace roaring in the lobby behind her.
I should keep walking. I should nod and move past her. I should do anything except stand here breathing in the scent of her.
“Vega,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intended and trying to assert some fucking control over myself. No way in hell am I going to say her name.
Her eyes flick upward, and that's when I notice the small sprig of mistletoe hanging from the elevator doorframe. Her smile turns wicked.
“Well, tradition is tradition,” she murmurs, rising on her tiptoes and leaning forward.
Before I can process what's happening, she presses those soft lips against my cheek, lingering just a second too long to be innocent.
Something inside me snaps. It’s like I’m no longer in control of my body.
My fingers thread through her hair before I can stop myself, gripping the soft curls at the nape of her neck. I jerk her face to mine, watching her eyes darken with desire.
I crush my mouth against hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise.
She melts against me instantly, her small hands clutching at my jacket as I back her against the wall beside the elevator. I kiss her like a drowning man finding air, deep and desperate, my tongue claiming her mouth without permission or apology.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her lipstick smeared, showing evidence of my loss of control.
I glance up to see the sprig of green and white hanging from the ceiling, then back to her flushed face. “That was not a mistletoe kiss.”
“No,” she agrees, running her tongue over her bottom lip. “It wasn't.”
Taking a step back, reality crashes over me like ice water. What the fuck am I doing? In the middle of a hotel lobby like I’m no better than one of my players.
A smirk plays across her lips as she straightens her sweater, completely unfazed by what just happened. She leans against the elevator door to keep it from closing, studying me with those dark eyes that see too much.
“Well, it was good seeing you again, Coach King,” she says, her voice dripping with suggestion. “I look forward to seeing much more of you this weekend.”
She steps backward into the elevator, her gaze locked with mine until the doors slide shut between us. Just like that, she's gone.
I stand frozen for several seconds, my heart hammering against my ribs. My eyes dart around the lobby, searching for the one person who would make this situation infinitely worse.
No sign of him. Thank fuck.
I straighten my tie and run a hand through my hair, trying to regain some semblance of control. The taste of her still lingers on my lips, and I swipe my thumb across my mouth, half-expecting to find traces of her lipstick.
The ballroom is already half-full when I arrive, a sea of suits and laughter. Christmas music plays at a volume just loud enough to be annoying. I grab water from a passing server and scan the room, mentally cataloging who I need to acknowledge and who I can avoid.
“Beckham Kingston, you miserable bastard.”
I turn to find Roman Calloway grinning at me, hand extended. His St. James University tie is loosened, glass already half-empty.
“Roman,” I say, shaking his hand firmly. “Didn't expect to see you here. Thought you'd be busy trying to salvage your defense after that embarrassment against Westlake.”
He laughs, clapping my shoulder. “Still an asshole, I see. Some things never change.”
“Why fix what isn't broken?”
“You hear they're changing the overtime rules next season?” Roman launches into shop talk, and I find myself actually engaged in the conversation.
We came up together as assistants at Michigan before we were offered positions elsewhere.
He's one of the few people in this industry I can tolerate for more than five minutes.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand at attention. My body knows she's here before my mind does, like some primal radar that only responds to her.
I casually shift my position, angling myself toward the entrance while maintaining my conversation with Roman. “The committee's full of shit if they think—”
The gold sweater is gone, replaced by a deep red dress that clings to every curve as if it was painted on her skin.
It dips low in the front, revealing the delicate gold chain I noticed earlier now nestled between the soft swells of her breasts.
Her hair is swept to one side, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
She's surrounded by a group of men—assistant coaches from Northern Tech and that prick from Eastwood who was suspended last season for recruiting violations. One of them leans in close, whispering something in her ear.
My fingers tighten around my glass so hard I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.
“Careful there, Beck,” Roman says, eyeing my white-knuckled grip. “What did that drink ever do to you?”
“Nothing at all, Rome. You know much I hate these fucking things.”
Roman follows my gaze across the room, his eyes narrowing as they land on Hennessy. “Uh-huh. And I'm the fucking tooth fairy.”
“Drop it, Roman.”
“Vega's daughter, right? She's grown up since the last time I saw her.”
“She's a fucking menace,” I mutter, taking a long swallow of water.
She laughs then; the sound carries across the room like music. Her head tips back, exposing her throat as she places a hand on the arm of the Eastwood coach. The smug bastard preens under her attention, straightening his ugly paisley tie.
I imagine wrapping that tie around his throat and pulling until his eyes bulge.
“You look like you're contemplating murder,” Roman says conversationally. “Should I be concerned?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're many things, Beckham, but 'fine' has never been one of them.” He sips his drink, studying me. “What's the story there?”
“There is no story.”
“Bullshit. I've known you for fifteen years. You've got the same look you had before you broke Sanderson's nose in that bar in Detroit.”
I tear my eyes away from Hennessy, focusing on Roman. “I said drop it.”
“She's what, twenty-two now?”
“Twenty-three,” I correct automatically, then curse myself.
Roman's eyebrows shoot up. “Interesting that you know that.”
“I know a lot of things about a lot of people, Roman. It's my job.”
He snorts, clearly not buying my bullshit. “Right. And I'm sure you know the exact ages of all your rivals' daughters.”
Her eyes lock with mine across the crowded ballroom, dark and knowing. The fucking coach is still talking in her ear, oblivious to the fact that she's no longer listening. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches for a glass of red wine from a passing server.
Time slows as she raises the glass in my direction. A mocking toast. Her lips curve into a dangerous smile that promises things I have no business wanting. She takes a deliberate sip, leaving a crimson stain on the rim that matches her dress.
My jaw clenches so hard I feel a muscle jump in my cheek. The room suddenly feels too hot, too crowded, the Christmas music too fucking cheerful.
“I need some air,” I mutter to Roman, already moving toward the exit.
“Beck—” he starts, but I'm gone, cutting through the crowd with only one purpose.
I push through the double doors and into the mercifully empty hallway, my breath coming too fast. The wall is cool against my palm as I lean into it, trying to get my shit together.
This is a fucking mistake. All of it. That kiss by the elevator. The way I can't stop staring at her. The fact that I want to go back in there and drag her away from those vultures circling her.
I loosen my tie further, feeling like it's choking me.
I’m not going to make it through the weekend with her here.