Chapter 2
Hennessy
Iwatch him storm through those double doors like the big bad wolf he is—running from Little Red Riding Me.
My lips are still tingling from that elevator kiss, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm sure everyone in this ballroom can hear it. The wine tastes bitter compared to him, but I take another sip anyway, my eyes still fixed on the door he just disappeared through.
“So anyway, our defense has really stepped up this season,” the Eastwood coach drones on beside me. Gary? Gerard? I honestly can't remember his name and don't particularly care to.
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, not bothering to look at him.
God, he's so fucking easy to read once you know what to look for. All that control, that discipline, and I'm the thing that makes him lose it.
“We're projected to make the final four this year,” whatever-his-name-is continues, leaning closer. His cologne is too strong, nothing like Beckham's subtle spicy orange scent that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.
“That's nice,” I say absently, swirling my wine.
Six years. Six fucking years, I've been watching Beckham Kingston from afar. Since I was seventeen and he came to that first game after taking over as head coach at St. Charles. I remember sitting in the stands, watching him prowl behind the bench, barking orders at his players.
My dad hated him.
I was fascinated.
“Would you like to grab dinner after this?” the coach asks, his hand brushing my arm.
I barely register the touch. “Hmm?”
Beckham's lips were softer than I expected. Gentle at first, then demanding. Like he couldn't help himself. Like I broke something in him.
“Hennessy? Did you hear me?” The voice sounds far away, annoying.
“I'm sorry, what?” I finally turn to face the man beside me, plastering on a smile I don't feel.
“Dinner? Tonight? After this wraps up?” His eyes drop to my neckline, lingering a beat too long.
“Oh, I can't tonight. I have plans.” The lie comes easily. My only plan is to drive Beckham Kingston absolutely out of his mind.
“Tomorrow then?”
I take another sip of wine, already bored with this conversation. “Maybe.”
My phone buzzes in my clutch. I excuse myself, stepping away from the group to check it.
Call me when you get in. I want to know you made it safely. I’ll be there tomorrow once I’m sure your abuela is taken care of.
My father finally convinced my grandmother to leave California and move to New Haven, and he acts like she won’t still run circles around him with her chancla. I giggle to myself thinking about when I was eight and saw her do just that when he got a little bit of an attitude with her.
“Would you like another drink?” The guy who can’t take a hint is still talking, gesturing to my nearly empty glass.
“No, thank you. I think I need some fresh air.” I hand him my glass, not waiting for a response before slipping away.
The hallway stretches empty before me with no sign of him. I push through a set of glass doors leading to a small terrace overlooking the hotel gardens. The early December air hits me hard, raising goosebumps along my bare arms, but I barely notice the cold.
There he is, leaning against the stone railing, his back to me. Snowflakes drift lazily around him, catching in his dark curly hair. He looks powerful even in stillness, like a statue carved from something unyielding.
I've never wanted anyone the way I want him. It's a constant, unrelenting ache that hasn't faded despite the years or however many dates I’ve been on. They're all just pale substitutes for what I really want.
“Running away, Coach Kingston?”
He spins around, and snowflakes catch on his eyelashes, melting against the heat of his skin. For a moment, he just stares at me, jaw tight, hands gripping the railing behind him.
“You shouldn't be out here,” he says, voice low and gruff. “It's cold.”
I take a step closer, letting the door swing shut behind me. “I don't mind the cold.”
“What are you doing here, Hennessy?” He practically growls my name, and the sound of it on his lips sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
“I'm covering the conference for the NACHC media team. I work in the marketing department now.” I step closer, savoring the way his shoulders tense. “Didn't you get the memo?”
His eyes darken, that dangerous look I've been chasing for years. “You work for the conference?”
“Started three months ago. Social media, press releases, player spotlights.” I shrug, letting the movement draw his attention to the neckline of my dress. “Someone has to make hockey look sexy because the hockey stench after a game isn’t helping anything.”
“Your father know about this?” His voice is tight, controlled.
“I can keep a secret, but you don’t really think my dad wouldn’t know where I’m working.” I close the distance between us, my heels clicking against the stone terrace. “I'll be interviewing all the head coaches. One-on-one.”
The muscles in his jaw twitch. “And you didn't think to mention this little career development when you had your tongue down my throat?”
“You didn't exactly give me a chance to talk, Coach.” I reach out, brushing a snowflake from his shoulder, feeling him go rigid under my touch. “Besides, I thought it might be more fun to surprise you.”
“You should go inside before you freeze.”
“My interview schedule says I have you tomorrow at two,” I continue, ignoring his dismissal. “Your suite. The conference is filming all the head coach interviews for its channel.”
He runs a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “Christ.”
“Don't worry, I'll be professional.” I smile sweetly. “On camera.”
“Hennessy—”
“Beckham.” His first name feels forbidden on my tongue, intimate in a way that makes his eyes flash.
Before I can take another breath, his hand clamps around my wrist. In one fluid motion, he pulls me across the terrace and into a shadowed alcove carved into the hotel's stone exterior, hidden from the windows by a massive decorative pillar.
My back hits the cold wall as he crowds into my space, his body radiating heat that makes the December air feel like nothing.
“You think this is a game?” His voice is dangerously low as one large hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of his strength, his control.
His other hand slides up my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress higher.
“You show up here, wearing this, baiting me in front of a room full of people who'd love nothing more than to see me crash and burn?”
I should be intimidated. I should be pushing him away. Instead, I'm melting, my body betraying me as heat pools between my thighs.
“Maybe I am playing games,” I whisper, tilting my chin up defiantly. “The question is, are you going to play too, or just stand on the sidelines looking grumpy?”
His fingers tighten slightly around my throat, his thumb brushing over my racing pulse. “I'm too fucking old for games, Hennessy.”
“Really? Because from where I'm standing, you seem to be enjoying this one.” I press my hips forward, feeling the unmistakable evidence of his arousal against my stomach.
“You have no idea what you're asking for,” he growls, his hand sliding higher up my inner thigh, fingers tracing maddening circles on my sensitive skin.
I arch into his touch, my breath coming faster. “I know exactly what I'm asking for. I've known for years.”
His eyes are almost black in the dim light, pupils blown wide with want. His hand on my thigh pauses, hesitating at the edge of my panties.
“Either touch me and mean it, Beckham,” I challenge, my voice breathy but determined, “or I'll go back inside and let that Eastman coach finish what you can't seem to start.”
Something feral flashes in his eyes. In an instant, his fingers push past the barrier of my underwear, finding me embarrassingly wet and ready. I gasp as he slides one thick finger inside me, his thumb circling my clit.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “You want me to fuck you right here where anyone could walk out and see you coming on my hand?”
I can barely form words, my hips rocking against his hand of their own accord. “Yes,” I manage, clutching at his shoulders for support.
“You think that Eastman prick could make you feel like this?” He adds a second finger, curling them in a way that makes my knees buckle. “You think anyone else knows exactly how to touch you?”
“Maybe he could,” I taunt, even as pleasure spikes through me with each stroke of his fingers. “I'll never know unless I try, right?”
His hand immediately tightens around my throat, not enough to hurt but enough to make his point. His eyes are wild, possessive, a look I've never seen on his face before.
“If any of those fucking vultures in there so much as touches your hand,” he growls against my ear, “I'll break every goddamn finger they have. You understand me?”
My core clenches around his fingers at his words, my breath coming in short gasps.
“What if I want them to touch me?” I challenge, even as my body betrays me by responding to his possessiveness.
His thumb circles my clit, almost punishing.
“Then I'll knock them unconscious before they get the chance,” he promises darkly.
“Every single one of them and use them all for goal practice.
You think I'm joking? I've spent the last three years thinking about you no matter how hard I fucking tried not to.
Three fucking years of torture. And now you're here, and you're mine.”
“Yours?” I manage to whisper, my voice breaking as his fingers curl inside me.
“Mine right now at this moment,” he confirms, pushing my dress up further around my waist. “Say it.”
Instead, I bite my lip, refusing to give in so easily.
His fingers still inside me, waiting. The silence between us stretches taut.
“Say it,” he repeats, his voice rougher now.
“Make me,” I challenge, arching an eyebrow even as my body trembles around his fingers.