Chapter 4 #2
I lean forward slightly, making sure my blouse gapes just enough. “Some critics say your coaching style is too rigid, too old-school. How do you respond to that?”
His eyes darken. “Results speak for themselves.”
“They certainly do,” I agree, licking my lips subtly. “You've sent an impressive number of players to the professional ranks. What's your philosophy on developing NHL talent while still prioritizing team success?”
The interview continues, and I keep my questions professional while my body language is anything but. Every time I shift in my seat or touch my hair or lean forward, his eyes follow the movement before snapping back to my face with almost military discipline.
“Now, let's shift to some holiday questions,” I say after covering all the required hockey topics. “The conference has scheduled this event during the holiday season. Do you have a favorite Christmas tradition?”
Something changes in his expression. A hardening around the eyes, a tightening of his jaw that wasn't there before. It's subtle, but I've spent too long studying his face not to notice.
“No,” he says flatly. His fingers curl into a loose fist on his knee. “I don't really have one.”
The pain that flashes across his face is so raw, so unexpected, that I almost reach for him before remembering the cameras. Whatever memory I've just stumbled into isn't something he wants to share with an audience. Like I poked an old wound he likes to ignore.
“What about a favorite seasonal treat? Everyone’s got a sweet tooth for something, right? So cookies, candy canes, eggnog?”
The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, relief flickering across his face at the change of subject.
“Peppermint bark,” he admits after a moment, his voice softening just a fraction. “Dark chocolate on the bottom, white on top. The good kind with actual chunks of candy cane, not that cheap shit, uh I mean stuff they sell at gas stations.”
“I wouldn't have pegged you for a chocolate guy,” I say, leaning forward just enough to give him another glimpse of lace. “I was thinking more…protein bars and black coffee.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“That you do, Coach Kingston.” I let my gaze linger on his mouth before turning back to the camera. “Any holiday messages for the St. Charles fans out there?”
“Support the team. Come to the games. Don't drink and drive.” His response is so perfectly Beckham.
“And with that heartwarming holiday message,” I say with a laugh, “we'll wrap up. Thanks for watching, and from all of us at NACHC Media, happy holidays.”
Miguel gives me the signal that we're clear, and I relax in my chair.
“That wasn't so bad, was it?” I ask Beckham as Miguel and his assistant start packing up equipment.
“Torture,” he mutters, but there's no real bite to it.
I stand, smoothing my skirt. “You did great. The fans will eat it up. The big bad coach has a sweet tooth.”
“You're enjoying this too much,” he says, eyes narrowing as he watches me gather my notecards.
“Always.” I wink at him, making sure Miguel isn't looking. “Thanks for the interview, Coach. Very informative.”
Miguel packs up the last of his equipment, his assistant already hauling the bags toward the door.
“Got everything I need,” Miguel says, tapping his memory card. “Should have this edited by next weekend. You coming, CiCi?”
“Right behind you,” I say, grabbing my purse and notebook.
I'm halfway to the door when warm fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me back.
“Hey guys, go ahead without me,” I call out to Miguel and Brandon. “I need to clarify a few things with Coach Kingston for the piece.”
Miguel gives me a knowing look that I pretend not to see as he disappears into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.
I turn to face Beckham, quirking an eyebrow at him. His hand is still circled around my wrist, his thumb absently stroking the sensitive skin there.
“I'm s—” he starts, then stops abruptly, his jaw working. “No, that's bullshit. I'm not sorry.”
“Not sorry about what?” I ask, enjoying the conflict playing across his face.
He drops my wrist, running a hand through his hair. “Who else are you seeing today?”
So that's what this is about. Jealousy looks good on him.
“Let's see,” I say, tapping my finger against my lips. “Coach Daniels from Western Tech at four, Coach Thompson from Eastlake at six. Oh, and I've got two interviews with players—Jackson from Northern and Martinez from St. James in between the coach meetings.”
His eyes darken with each name I list.
“And my dad,” at the mention of my father, Beckham’s entire body goes rigid.
“I haven’t seen him, and I’m hoping like hell to avoid him.”
“He’s not here yet,” I explain, watching his reaction carefully. “He’s driving in now.”
Beckham drops my wrist and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”
“So what? You scared of my daddy, Coach King?”
“I'm not scared of your father,” he growls, stepping closer.
“I think you're overthinking it.” I shrug, adjusting my purse strap. “I'm not his property.”
Beckham's jaw tightens. “This isn't about property, Hennessy. This is about history.”
“Ancient history.”
“Not to me.” His voice drops, becoming something raw and honest. “Not to him either and I doubt he knows you’ve just interviewed me.”
I turn toward the door, suddenly needing space. His intensity is suffocating, making it hard to think clearly. “Well, I should get going. Those other coaches won't interview themselves.”
His hand shoots out, grabbing my arm again. “Don't.”
“Don't what? Do my job?”
“You know what I mean.”
I yank my arm free, irritation flaring. “Actually, I don't. You finger-fucked me against a wall last night and now you're acting like I've got the plague. Make up your mind, Kingston.”