Chapter 4
Hennessy
There's a fine line between professional and fuckable, and I'm walking it in four-inch heels.
I twist in front of the hotel mirror, checking my ass in the tight pencil skirt I've paired with a crisp white button-up.
The top three buttons are undone just enough to show the edge of my black lace bra when I lean forward.
Professional enough for the camera, but designed to make Beckham lose his damn mind.
My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders, but a few pieces look limp and lifeless. I grab my curling iron, wrapping a strand around the barrel.
An hour until I'm alone with him in his suite. One hour until I can see if the hunger in his eyes last night was just a momentary lapse or something deeper.
The memory of his fingers inside me makes heat pool between my thighs. I've gotten myself off twice since last night—once in the shower and once this morning—and I'm still fucking aching for him.
I need to focus and get my job done. The one that pays me and then the one that hopefully gets me laid.
That job being Beckham Kingston. On his knees. Between my legs. Or maybe the other way around or both. Definitely both.
I laugh at my own thoughts as I reach for my makeup bag.
I've already applied foundation and contour, but my eyes need that extra punch.
I brush on a smoky shadow that makes my dark eyes look bigger, more intense.
A coat of mascara, a swipe of my favorite YSL lipstick that looks almost innocent until you notice how it emphasizes the fullness of my lips.
My phone buzzes on the vanity.
Dad
Leaving now so I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Dinner tonight?
I sigh, setting down my lipstick. The last thing I need is my father hovering while I'm trying to seduce the man he hates most in the world.
Sure, Dad. Text me when you check in.
He doesn't know about my job. Well, he knows I work for the conference, but he doesn't know I'll be interviewing Beckham specifically.
I conveniently left that detail out of our conversations, and the conference director was happy to keep my assignment list private when I explained the complicated history between the two men.
I spray a light mist of Tom Ford’s Spicy Vanilla perfume on my neck and wrists, then a quick spritz between my breasts.
The scent is subtle but effective. Last night, Beckham couldn't stop inhaling when he was close to me, his nose brushing against my neck as his fingers worked magic between my legs.
My thighs squeeze together involuntarily at the memory.
I need to get my act together before this interview. The cameraman will be here soon to set up in Beckham's suite.
I press my lips together, then gently dab them with a tissue, making sure the color is set but won't smear off on anything or anyone. Can't have lipstick marks screaming evidence all over him.
I grab my purse, making sure I’ve got everything I need before texting Miguel.
Room 1408. I’ll meet you there in fifteen.
He responds with a thumbs-up emoji, which is only slightly irritating, but he’s been a cameraman for years and damn good at it.
The elevator ride feels eternal. I check my phone, scrolling through the list of standard questions I'm supposed to ask, the ones about recruitment strategies and championship expectations. Boring as fuck, but necessary.
The hallway is quiet, plush carpet muffling my footsteps as I make my way down the long hall. I pause outside his room, my heart hammering so hard I swear it's trying to punch through my ribs.
I knock three times, sharply and in time with my pulse.
The door swings open, and there is Beckham Kingston in all his brooding glory. He's wearing dark slacks and a navy button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off the corded muscles of his forearms. His beard is freshly trimmed, his hair still slightly damp like he just showered.
He smells like citrus and clean skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to lean in and inhale deeply.
“Ms. Vega,” he says formally, his voice neutral but his eyes anything but. They rake over me, lingering on the V of my blouse.
I know he’s my father’s rival. I know he’s was too old, too off-limits. But every time Beckham looks at me like I’m already his, I want to sin harder.
“Coach Kingston,” I reply, matching his professional tone. “May I come in? The cameraman will be here shortly.”
He steps aside, holding the door. As I pass him, I make sure to brush against his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt. His sharp intake of breath is barely audible, but I catch it.
“Nice suite,” I comment, setting my purse down on the small table by the window. “They spared no expense it seems, for one of their top coaches.”
“Where's your crew?” he asks, ignoring my small talk.
“Miguel will be here any minute.” I turn to face him, leaning against the table. “You look tense. The camera will pick that up. Relax a little bit.”
His jaw tightens. “I don't like interviews.”
“I couldn't tell,” I say dryly. “Look, this is a fluff piece. Conference promotion, holiday spirit, blah blah blah. All you have to do is not look like you're planning to murder someone.”
“I'm planning to murder someone,” he mutters.
I laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of his suite. “At least you're honest. Here, let me help you.”
Before he can protest, I reach up and adjust his collar, my fingers deliberately brushing against the warm skin of his neck. I feel his pulse jump beneath my touch.
“Relax your shoulders,” I instruct, pressing my palms against them and pushing down slightly. “Jesus, you're wound tighter than my abuela's yarn ball. Take a deep breath.”
“Hennessy,” he warns, but there's no real heat behind it. Just so much tension.
“I know, I know. Don't touch you. Don't breathe near you. Don't exist in your general vicinity.” I roll my eyes, stepping back. “But if you go on camera looking like you're about to snap someone's spine, the PR team will have my ass.”
“Your ass is not my concern,” he says, but his eyes drop to it anyway.
“Liar,” I say, offering him a knowing smile. “Just try to look slightly less murderous, okay? Think about…I don't know, winning championships or whatever gets you off besides me.”
A knock at the door saves him from responding. I flash him a wink before opening it to reveal Miguel and his assistant, arms loaded with equipment.
“Hey, CiCi,” Miguel says, already scanning the room for the best setup. “This the coach?”
“Miguel, this is Coach Kingston from St. Charles University,” I say, slipping effortlessly into professional mode. “Coach, this is Miguel Reyes, our lead videographer.”
Beckham nods stiffly as Miguel and his assistant start unpacking cameras, lights, and microphones.
“We'll need to set up by the window,” Miguel says. “Natural light is good, but we'll supplement. Twenty minutes, tops.”
As they work, I turn back to Beckham, who's watching the process with thinly veiled impatience.
“So here's what's going to happen,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “We'll sit facing each other, about three feet apart. I'll ask the standard questions first—season outlook, recruitment strategy, conference competition. Then we'll do some quick holiday-themed questions for social media clips.”
“Holiday-themed?” He looks like I just suggested he dress as an elf.
“Relax, it's not that deep. Favorite Christmas traditions, that kind of thing.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I've done interviews before, ya know.”
“Yeah, and you always look like you'd rather be getting a root canal.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Look at the camera like you're looking at me when no one else is around. That intensity works when it's not murderous.”
His eyes darken, dropping to my lips before snapping back up. “That would be inappropriate.”
“Not that intense,” I clarify, smirking. “Just…engaged. Present.”
Miguel calls over his shoulder, “We need to mic you both up. Coach, if you could take a seat in that chair by the window?”
Brandon the assistant attaches a small lavalier mic to Beckham's shirt, his fingers fumbling slightly under the coach's intense stare. I suppress a smile as the poor guy practically scurries away afterward.
“You're scaring the crew,” I whisper as Miguel approaches me next.
“I'm not doing anything,” Beckham mutters, adjusting in his seat.
I tilt my chin up so Miguel can clip the mic to my blouse. “Just here,” I guide his hand, purposely letting my fingers brush against my cleavage. From the corner of my eye, I see Beckham's jaw clench.
“Okay, we're all set,” Miguel announces, stepping behind the camera. “Sound levels are good. We'll roll on three.”
I cross my legs slowly, letting my skirt ride up just enough to show a hint of thigh. Beckham's eyes track the movement before snapping back to my face.
“Three, two, one,” Miguel counts down silently with his fingers.
“I'm Hennessy Vega with NACHC Media, sitting down with St. Charles University head coach Beckham Kingston,” I begin, my voice smooth and professional. “Coach Kingston, thanks for joining us today.”
“Thank you for having me,” he replies stiffly, like the words physically pain him.
“Let's start with the obvious. St. Charles sits in the top three of the conference standings for the third consecutive year. What's been the key to maintaining that level of consistency?”
He shifts in his seat, hands resting on his knees. “Discipline. We recruit players who understand our system and buy into our culture. There are no shortcuts to success.”
“Your defensive numbers are particularly impressive this season. You've allowed the fewest goals in the conference. What's working so well on that end of the ice?”
As he answers, I uncross and recross my legs, letting the movement draw his attention. His response falters for just a second before he recovers.
“Our blue line has really...stepped up. We emphasize positioning and sacrifice. Every player has to be willing to block shots and backcheck hard.”