Chapter 7
Beckham
The door closes in my face, and I'm left staring at the wood grain like it might give me answers to questions I'm too fucked up to ask myself.
My tie is still inside her. My cum is still inside her.
And I just walked her to her door like a goddamn gentleman after fucking her senseless on a table in a room off the corridor.
I press my forehead against the door, breathing in the lingering scent of her. My cock is already hardening again at the thought of her on the other side, still filled with me. Marked. Claimed.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing away from the door.
I need to get back to my room before I do something even stupider, like knock on her door and beg to be let in. The hallway stretches before me, empty and quiet except for the sound of my own footsteps and the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. It's probably Roman wanting to know where I disappeared to again. Or worse, Morrison with some new bullshit task for me to handle. Either way, it can wait until I'm back in my room with a drink in my hand.
The elevator ride is mercifully empty. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls and barely recognize myself. My hair is disheveled, my shirt wrinkled where she gripped it. There's a faint smudge of her lipstick on my collar.
I look like a man who's lost control. And I fucking hate it. But I also fucking love it. The hypocrisy of it is not lost on me.
The doors open on my floor, and I step out, already fishing for my key card. I'm halfway down the hall when I hear it laughter, male voices, and the unmistakable sound of glass clinking against glass.
Three of my players—Smith, Avila, and Reid—are stumbling down the hallway toward the elevators, arms slung around each other's shoulders. Thompson's carrying what looks like a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.
“Hey, it's Coach!” Smith slurs, his face lighting up like he's spotted his best friend instead of the man about to make his life a living hell.
I step out of the elevator, my earlier frustration finding a perfect target. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”
The smiles drop from their faces as I advance on them. Reid tries to hide the bottle behind his back, which only pisses me off more.
“We were just—” Avila starts.
“Save it,” I snap, snatching the bottle from Reid’s hand. Jack Daniel's and it’s half empty. “Did I or did I not make myself perfectly fucking clear at practice yesterday?”
They exchange nervous glances, suddenly looking a lot more sober.
“No drinking at the conference,” Smith mumbles, staring at his shoes.
“No drinking at the conference,” I repeat, my voice dangerously low.
“And yet here you are, wasted in the hallway of a hotel full of NCAA officials, opposing coaches, and media personnel. Are you trying to get suspended? Or maybe you just want to run suicides until you puke for the rest of the season?”
Avila winces. “Coach, we just—”
“I don't want to hear it,” I cut him off. “Room. Now. All of you.”
They shuffle down the hallway like scolded puppies, Avila fumbling with the key card three times before the door finally opens. I follow them inside, slamming the door behind me. The room reeks of cheap cologne and cheaper booze.
“Sit,” I order, pointing to the edge of the beds. They drop like stones, shoulders slumped. “What part of 'no drinking' was fucking unclear to you? You're representing St. Charles. You're representing me.”
I pace in front of them, the bottle still gripped in my hand. Reid’s eyes are fixed on it like he's mourning a lost friend.
Smith opens his mouth, probably to offer some half-assed excuse, but I cut him off with a glare that could freeze hell.
“Where the fuck are Blackwood and Astor?” I demand suddenly realizing two of my biggest troublemakers are missing from this little drinking party.
The three exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Reid clears his throat.
“Stalking girls and causing general fucking mayhem, probably, Coach,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes.
My blood pressure spikes.
“You're telling me those two fucking idiots are out there right now?” I roar, making all three of them flinch. “While you're in here getting shitfaced, they're out there making my life even more difficult?”
I grab Avila by the front of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. “Call them. Now. Get their asses back here immediately.”
He fumbles for his phone, hands shaking as he scrolls through his contacts.
“Tell them I said their asses better be back in this fucking room when I come get you all at five a.m. for suicides.” I check my watch. It's just past midnight. “That gives them less than five hours to sober the fuck up and prepare for the worst morning of their lives.”
Smith groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Five a.m.?”
“You think this is bad?” I snarl, rounding on him. “This is nothing compared to what I'm going to put you through tomorrow. And if Blackwood and Astor aren't here when I come back, all of you will be running until your fucking legs fall off.”
They nod miserably, and I storm out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Fucking kids. I recruited them for their talent, not their brains, but Jesus Christ, sometimes I wonder if they have two functioning brain cells between them.
I stalk toward my room, digging in my pocket for my wallet to grab my key card. My fingers brush against another card. I pull it out and stare at it, my anger momentarily forgotten.
Hennessy's room key.
I must have grabbed it when I took her card to open her door. She was shaking so much from what I'd done to her that she couldn't get the damn thing in the slot. And now I'm holding her key in my hand like some kind of fucking sign from the universe.
I should go back and return it.
Instead, I find myself turning around, heading back toward the elevators. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, to go to my room, to drink myself into oblivion and forget about her until morning. But my feet keep moving, carrying me back to her.
The elevator doors open and I step inside, pressing the button for her floor. As the car descends, I stare at my reflection again, at the evidence of her still on me. I should at least try to look less like I fucked someone senseless.
I run a hand through my hair, straightening my shirt as best I can. It doesn't help much.
The doors slide open, and I step out into the quiet hallway.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare at the key card in my palm. This is fucking insane. I'm a grown man, not some lovesick teenager. I should slip this under her door and walk away.
I crouch down, holding the card between my fingers, ready to slide it into the narrow gap beneath her door. My hand freezes there, suspended in the moment of decision.
“Just put it under the door and leave,” I mutter to myself.
But I don't.
Instead, I stand back up, rolling the key card between my fingers. I could just use it, open the door, toss it inside where she'll find it in the morning. In and out in five seconds. She'd never know I was there.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I swipe the card through the reader. The light flashes green, and the lock clicks open with a soft electronic whir.
I push the door open just enough to slip inside, planning to drop the card on the entryway table and leave.
The room is dark except for the silver-blue glow of moonlight filtering through the open curtains. Of course, she wouldn't close them. Hennessy Vega has never met a rule or convention she wouldn't challenge.
My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I see her.
She's sprawled across the bed, one leg kicked free of the covers, her honey-colored hair spread across the pillow. She's wearing what looks like a St. Charles University t-shirt and the sight of the logo stretched across her breasts hits me like a punch to the gut.
I should leave. No, I need to leave. But my body betrays me, taking another step into her room instead of retreating.
The door clicks shut behind me with a soft thud.
She stirs slightly, murmuring something in her sleep, but doesn't wake. Her breathing remains deep and even, her chest rising and falling.
My fists clench at my sides as I stare at her wearing that fucking shirt. My school. My fucking colors. Where the hell did she get it? Did one of my players give it to her? The thought makes my blood boil. Which one of my fucking guys is it?
My phone vibrates in my pocket, the buzz loud in the silent room. I freeze, afraid the sound will wake her, but she just shifts slightly, the shirt riding up to reveal more of her smooth thighs. I pull the phone out quickly, silencing it before it can go off again.
I see one unread message from thirty minutes ago. From “DANGER DO NOT RESPOND.”
I open it, and my throat goes dry.
So...do you want your tie back, or can I keep it? Fair's fair since you kept my panties.
My phone trembles in my hand, and a sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. Something primal—half-growl, half-moan and the burgeoning hard-on I was trying to avoid is now fully fucking trying to get my attention.
Hennessy stirs at the noise, rolling over onto her stomach, and her legs fall open as she settles back in.
In the light streaming in from the window and across her body, I can see the end of my tie peeking out from my own personal nirvana.
She kept it in. She fucking kept it in.
My good fucking girl.
I take a step closer to the bed, then another. I shouldn't be here. I should turn around and leave. But I can't. My body moves of its own accord, drawn to her like a magnet. I need to see it up close, need to touch it.
I'm at the edge of the bed now, looking down at her sleeping form. My fingers itch to touch it, to tug on it gently and watch her squirm in her sleep.