Chapter 8
Beckham
The taste of Hennessy's cunt is still on my tongue at five in the morning when I push through the doors of the arena. I've had exactly one hour of sleep, but my body is humming with energy that has nothing to do with the three cups of black coffee I've already downed.
The scrape of blades and echo of pucks hitting the boards tells me my boys are already here—probably thinking they're being proactive by starting early.
The ice doesn't give a fuck about your excuses. Neither do I.
Maris and Johnson, my assistant coaches, stand off to the side with clipboards, looking like they got about as much sleep as I did. Which is to say, none at all.
“Morning, sunshine,” Maris mutters as I approach, handing me a steaming cup of black coffee. “They've been here since 4:45. Thompson looked like he was about to puke in the locker room.”
“Good,” I growl, taking a sip of the scalding liquid. It burns all the way down, exactly what I need to wake up the parts of me still dreaming of Hennessy's body wrapped around mine. “He's lucky puking is all he'll be doing today.”
My eyes scan the line of players. Avila, Smith, Reid, Blackwood, and Astor—all looking various shades of hungover. Blackwood's eyes are bloodshot. Astor keeps swallowing like he's fighting to keep down whatever poison he consumed last night.
“Gentlemen,” I say, my voice echoing across the empty rink. “I hope you enjoyed your evening, because your morning is going to be absolute fucking hell.”
I drop my bag on the bench and step onto the rubber mat, my boots making heavy thuds against the surface.
“Suicides,” I announce, watching their faces fall. “Goal line to blue line and back. Blue line to center ice and back. Center ice to far blue line and back. Far blue line to far goal line and back. Twenty of them.”
“Coach—” Blackwood starts, but I cut him off with a look that could freeze hell.
“Did I fucking stutter?” I bark, my voice bouncing off the rafters. “Twenty suicides. Now. And if I see anyone slacking, we'll make it thirty.”
They scramble onto the ice, skates scraping against the freshly cleaned surface. Maris flips his stopwatch around his finger, a small smirk playing at his lips.
“You're in a mood,” he observes, keeping his voice low. “Something happen last night besides catching these idiots?”
I ignore the question, my eyes fixed on my players as they line up at the goal line. “On my whistle,” I call out, bringing the metal to my lips.
The shrill sound pierces the air, and they take off, blades carving into the ice.
They're sluggish and sloppy. Even Blackwood, my star forward, can barely keep his edges on the turns. I stand with my arms crossed, watching them suffer through the first five suicides. By number seven, Smith is bent over at the boards, dry heaving.
“Did I say stop, Smith?” I yell across the ice. “Get your ass moving!”
He straightens up, face pale as death, and pushes off again. Beside me, Maris shifts uncomfortably.
“You're going to kill them,” he mutters.
“They won't die,” I respond, eyes tracking Avila’s increasingly wobbly crossovers. “They'll wish they were dead, but they won't die.”
By the tenth suicide, they're all gasping for air, legs trembling with each push. Astor stumbles at the centerline, nearly face-planting before catching himself.
“Pathetic,” I call out. “My grandmother could skate faster, and she's been dead for fifteen years.”
The boys drag themselves through five more, their faces twisted in agony. Sweat pours down their foreheads despite the freezing temperature of the rink. Blackwood's jersey is soaked through, clinging to his heaving chest.
“This is fucking embarrassing,” I announce, dropping my clipboard on the bench. “Maris, get my skates.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't question me, retrieving my skates from my bag. I sit down heavily on the bench, unlacing my boots.
“What are you doing?” my assistant, Johnson asks.
“Showing these lazy fucks how it's done,” I growl, yanking off my left boot. “Since they apparently forgot how to skate overnight.”
I pull on my skates with practiced efficiency, muscle memory from thousands of repetitions. The familiar bite of the laces against my fingers is almost comforting. I stand, rolling my shoulders before stepping onto the ice.
The boys are still struggling through suicide number sixteen, their movements growing more desperate as their bodies fail them. I push off hard, joining them at the goal line for number seventeen.
“Let's go, ladies,” I bark, exploding off the line with a powerful first stride. At forty-three, I'm still faster than most of them on a good day. Today, hungover and exhausted, they don't stand a chance.
I blow past Blackwood, cutting hard at the blue line and racing back to the goal line before he's even made the turn. The ice feels good beneath my blades, the familiar burn in my thighs as I push harder, faster.
“Move your ass, Avila!” I shout as I lap him on the next sprint. “You're skating like you've got cinder blocks tied to your ankles!”
Maris and Johnson have joined us on the ice now, adding their voices to the chorus of demands.
“Somebody get Reid a bucket,” I shout, not breaking stride as I finish the final sprint. “The rest of you—line up.”
They drag themselves to the red line, doubled over, gasping for air. Blackwood's legs are visibly shaking. Astor looks like he might pass out. Good, maybe next time they'll think twice before making my life more difficult.
“Listen up,” I say, skating a slow circle around them as they struggle to stay upright.
“I don't give a fuck what you do at home as long as you make it on time and play like the athletes you are.
But when you're at a conference representing St. Charles, you keep your noses clean. No drinking. No drugs. No stupid shit that reflects poorly on this program.”
Avila nods miserably, unable to speak through his ragged breathing.
“Next time I catch any of you pulling this kind of stunt, twenty suicides will feel like a warm-up. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Coach,” they mumble in unison.
“I can't hear you,” I bark.
“YES, COACH!” They shout with what little breath they have left.
I’m about to dismiss them when I feel her eyes on me from somewhere in the rink.
I turn my head slowly toward the stands, scanning the empty rows until I spot her.
Hennessy, sitting alone in the third row, her legs crossed at the ankle.
She's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun.
Even from this distance, I can see the amused curve of her lips.
“Hit the showers,” I tell my players, not taking my eyes off her. “And remember, if I catch you drinking again, I'll make today look like a fucking day at the spa.”
They don't need to be told twice, practically crawling off the ice toward the locker room.
“You too,” I tell Maris and Johnson. “I need a few minutes alone.”
Johnson looks like he wants to argue, but Maris grabs his arm, steering him toward the bench. “We'll meet you at the strategy panel at ten,” Maris says.
I nod, waiting until they've all disappeared down the tunnel before I allow myself to look at her again. She's still there, watching me with eyes that see too fucking much.
I push off, skating a lazy figure eight in the center of the ice, pretending I don't care that she's there. Pretending my heart isn't hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free. Pretending I don't still taste her.
I execute a few sharp crossovers, feeling the burn in my thighs as I carve deep edges into the ice. With no one else around, I can finally let loose—the way I used to before my career ended. My body remembers what to do even after all these years. Cut, push, glide. The rhythm is in my bones.
She's still watching. I can feel her gaze like a physical touch sliding over my body.
I wonder if she knows what I did. If she woke up this morning feeling sore, feeling claimed, feeling the evidence of me leaking down her thighs.
Did she notice her key card on the nightstand where I left it?
Did she find my tie on the floor beside her bed?
Or does she think she dreamed the whole fucking thing—my mouth between her legs, my cock filling her up while she slept?
I execute one final tight turn and head toward the bench, my breath coming harder than it should.
As I sit to unlace my skates, she stands and makes her way down the stairs toward the glass. She stops at the boards, resting her forearms on top as she watches me change.
I pull on my boots, lacing them quickly. I need to get away from her before I do something stupid. Again.
Walking toward the exit, I force myself to keep a steady pace even though every instinct screams at me to go to her. As I pass where she’s standing, I finally let myself really look at her.
She's fucking gorgeous in the morning light streaming through the arena windows. No makeup, hair pulled back, dressed in chill clothes. There's something raw and real about her like this, something that makes my chest ache in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
“Good to see you skate, Coach,” she says softly, those dark eyes holding mine.
I nod once, unable to trust my voice, and push through the exit doors.
The hotel restaurant is already packed with conference attendees when I arrive thirty minutes later, showered and changed into fresh clothes. I scan the room for an empty table, but they're all taken. Roman waves from a corner booth, gesturing to the empty seat across from him.
“You look like shit,” he says cheerfully as I slide into the booth. “Rough morning with the delinquents?”
“They'll live,” I grunt, grabbing a menu. “Barely.”
The waitress appears with a pot of coffee, filling the mug in front of me without asking. Smart woman.
“I ordered you the protein breakfast,” Roman says.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking a long pull from my coffee mug. The caffeine hits my system like a lifeline, momentarily clearing the fog of exhaustion. “I need about ten more of these.”
“That bad, huh?” Roman chuckles, stirring cream into his own cup. “I heard you had those kids out on the ice at the ass-crack of dawn. Reid looked like death warmed over at the goalie development session.”
“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” I say, shrugging. “They're lucky I didn't—”
The words die in my throat as she walks in.
She smiles at the hostess, says something that makes the woman laugh, and follows her to the table.
“Earth to Beckham,” Roman says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, forcing myself to look away from her. “Just thinking about the panel later.”
Roman turns to follow my gaze, his eyebrows shooting up when he spots Hennessy. “Ah. I see what's got your attention.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, grabbing my coffee again. “It's not like that.”
“Sure it isn't,” he snorts. “That's why you're staring at her like you want to eat her alive.”
I kick him under the table, hard enough to make him wince.
Our food arrives, giving me an excuse to focus on something besides Hennessy. I cut into my steak with more force than necessary; the knife scraping against the plate with a sound that sets my teeth on edge.
I'm about to take a bite when the restaurant doors open again, and Javier fucking Vega walks in.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth as I watch him scan the room, his eyes landing on his daughter. He raises a hand in greeting, weaving through the tables toward her.
I haven't thought about him once in the last twelve hours. Not when I had his daughter bent over that table. Not when I filled her with my cum. Not when I plugged her up with my tie to keep it inside her. Not when I ate her out while she slept, or when I came inside her again.
Not once during all of that did I consider that the man who ended my playing career, the man whose hatred for me is only matched by my hatred for him, is also the father of the woman I've been obsessively thinking about.
Talk about a slap in the fucking face.
I’m so fucking glad tomorrow is the last day.