Chapter 5
Beckham
Make up your mind, Kingston.
It plays over and over in my head on a loop since Hennessy stormed out of my room earlier.
I've spent the entire rest of the day going through the motions—sitting through panels about recruitment strategies and player development while my thoughts revolve around her like a planet trapped in orbit.
I barely heard a word that was said, nodding along to questions and giving answers on autopilot.
She’s right, though. I’m a fucking mess of contradictions when it comes to her. One minute I’m all over her and the next I’m pushing her away.
The schedule for today is done, and I’ve managed to avoid both Vegas since that damn interview. I should be grabbing dinner offsite or ordering room service and reviewing game footage.
Instead, I’m looking around, telling myself I want to find Roman and see if he wants to grab dinner or drinks.
It’s bullshit. I’m looking for her, but I don’t see her anywhere. It’s not like I have her phone number now and can simply text her. That would be too fucking easy, and those damn masochist tendencies are rearing their head.
I’m about to check the hotel restaurant when I spot Vega-pain-in-my-ass-one by the concierge desk. He’s talking to Carter from Western Tech, looking relaxed in a way I’ve never known.
“…long day,” Javier is saying, running a hand through his hair. “These conferences get longer every year.”
Carter laughs. “At least the hotel bar is decent.”
“Too decent,” Javier replies. “I'm exhausted. Heading up to my room for the night.” He checks his watch. “Just hope nobody gets too handsy with my daughter up at that rooftop bar. She texted that she'd be there with some of the media team.”
My blood runs cold, then hot. The thought of Hennessy surrounded by drunk coaches, administrators, players—every piece of shit in collegiate hockey who thinks they can impress the pretty media girl.
Western Tech chuckles. “Your girl can handle herself, Jav. She's got your fire.”
“That's what worries me,” Javier mutters, clapping him on the shoulder before walking toward the elevators.
I wait about thirty seconds before I grab the next elevator. Purposely ignoring the voice in my head screaming at me to take my ass to my room and to leave well enough alone.
The rooftop bar is packed with conference attendees, all the big names in college hockey drinking and networking under the guise of unwinding.
Christmas lights are strung across the open-air space, reflecting off the glass barriers that keep drunk coaches from tumbling fourteen stories to their deaths.
A massive decorated tree stands in one corner, and some asshole DJ is playing remixed Christmas carols that make me want to throw him off said roof.
Hennessy is leaning against the bartop, her head thrown back in laughter at something Mitch Connors is saying. Connors, my former assistant who jumped ship to Westlake two seasons ago. He's standing too close to her, his hand casually resting on the bar behind her like he's trying to cage her in.
She's changed out of her earlier outfit into a tight black dress that hugs every curve and shows off those legs that were wrapped around my waist just last night. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she's wearing dark lipstick that makes her mouth look sinful.
She’s literally every man’s dream girl, and I’m the only one here who’s had her. At least I better fucking be.
I freeze mid-step, unable to tear my eyes away as she laughs again, placing her hand on Connors’ arm.
I’ve played thousands of games of hockey in my life. But nothing has ever made my blood surge like the sound of her laugh.
Didn’t I fucking tell her I better not see her touch a single person here? I know I fucking did, and here she is getting a one-way ticket to the fucking bad girl list.
His eyes are on her cleavage, not even trying to hide it. Something animalistic claws its way up my throat. I really do think I could rip his fucking arm off right now or shatter his entire kneecap and not feel an ounce of remorse.
Connors leans in closer, whispering something in her ear that makes her smile and flip her hair over one shoulder. His hand slides to her waist, fingers splaying across the fabric of her dress.
I grab Connors' wrist, peeling it off Hennessy's waist with a twist that makes his knuckles go white. "Conference doesn't cover sexual harassment claims," I say, my voice low so no one else can hear, applying just enough pressure to make his tendons strain. "You might want to back off."
Connors' head snaps up. The color drains from his face when he realizes it's me.
"Kingston," he stammers, wincing as I release his hand with a final warning squeeze. He takes a step backward, cradling his wrist. "I was just—"
"Leaving," I finish for him, not bothering to hide the threat in my voice.
He glances between us, confusion turning to understanding as he sees the way Hennessy's watching me. Like I'm a predator she's been baiting.
“Right,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I should check in with my guys, anyway. Nice talking to you, Hennessy.”
He scurries away like the fucking coward he is, disappearing into the crowd without looking back.
Hennessy turns to face me, those dark eyes glittering with mischief. Her lips curve into a knowing smile that makes me want to either kiss her or strangle her. Maybe both.
“Jealous, Coach?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.
I step closer, invading her space the way Connors was just doing. The difference is I belong here. “You should leave before I do something stupid.”
“You already did,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper.
She picks up her wineglass, maintaining eye contact as she runs her tongue slowly along the rim, collecting a drop of red that's clinging there. My cock hardens instantly, imagining those lips wrapped around me instead, that tongue licking away the evidence of what she does to me.
“I warned you,” I growl, fighting the urge to grab her right here in front of everyone. “I told you not to let anyone touch you.”
She sets down her glass, eyes never leaving mine. “And I told you that you need to make up your mind. You can't push me away one minute and get territorial the next.”
I glance around the crowded rooftop. Too many eyes, too many people who could report back to her father. To the university. To the NCAA. My career balanced on the knife-edge of her smile.
“It's time to call it a night,” I say, my voice low enough that only she can hear me. “Go back to your room.”
She arches an eyebrow, defiance flashing in those dark eyes. “Last time I checked, Coach Kingston,” she says, emphasizing my title like it's a joke between us, “you aren't my dad.”
Something inside me snaps at the mention of her father, at her casual dismissal of my authority. I step closer, crowding her against the bar until there's barely an inch between us.
“Do not fucking test me right now, Hennessy,” I growl, gripping the bar on either side of her, caging her in. “I'm about five seconds from throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you out of here. And do you really want to deal with your dad when he hears about it?”
Her eyes widen slightly, that smug smile faltering for the first time tonight. I've finally found the chink in her armor. For all her boldness, all her provocations, she doesn't want to face Javier's questions about us.
“You wouldn't dare,” she whispers, but there's uncertainty in her voice now.
“Try me.” I lean in closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “Your father is downstairs right now. One text from any of these assholes, and he'll be up here faster than you can say 'daddy issues.'”
She swallows hard, glancing around at the crowded rooftop. I can see the wheels turning in her head, calculating the risk of calling my bluff.
“Fine,” she mutters, pushing against my chest. “I'll go. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” I deadpan, stepping back just enough to let her slip past me.
But as she moves to leave, I catch her wrist. “I'll walk you to your room.”
“I don't need an escort,” she snaps, trying to pull away.
“It wasn't a suggestion.” My fingers tighten slightly around her delicate wrist, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch.
The elevator is crowded with drunk coaches and administrators, forcing us to stand pressed together in the back corner. I keep my hand on the small of her back, a possessive gesture that isn't lost on her. She stiffens under my touch but doesn't move away.
The elevator lurches downward, and Hennessy shifts against me. The small movement sends need down my spine as her ass brushes against my front. I tighten my grip on her waist, both steadying her and warning her not to push me any further.
“Floor?” A drunk asshole from Michigan slurs, his finger hovering over the panel.
“Eight,” Hennessy answers, her voice clipped.
I don't say a word, just focus on my breathing and try to ignore the scent of her hair. Every inhale fills my lungs with her, making it harder to remember why I shouldn’t bend her over any moment I can.
The elevator stops on twelve, then ten, people filtering out in pairs and groups until it's just us and some kid wearing conference credentials who's staring at his phone.
I maintain my grip on Hennessy's waist, my thumb absently stroking the curve where her hip meets her ribs.
Her breathing quickens, and I know she feels it too.
This is all I get, all I will allow myself, and so I’m going to touch her for however long I can in this damn steel box.
The kid gets off at nine, and finally, we're alone.
“You're an asshole,” she hisses the moment the doors close, but she doesn't move away from my touch.
“And you're a fucking tease,” I growl back, watching the elevator lights blink. “Letting Connors paw at you like that.”
“Jealous?” She turns in my grip, facing me with those defiant dark eyes. “You don't get to be jealous when you can't decide if you want me or not.”