Chapter 10
Beckham
Iwatch the last of my players pile into the team van, slapping backs and making sure Avila has enough Gatorade to combat his lingering nausea. The snow's been falling since dawn, fat flakes that melt as soon as they hit the ground.
“Try not to kill anyone on the drive back,” I tell Maris as he slides into the driver's seat of the van. “I'd hate to have to break in a new assistant coach mid-season.”
“You're not coming?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“I'll head out in a couple hours. Want to get some ice time with Roman before I go.” It's not entirely a lie.
“Sounds good, Coach.”
“Drive safe,” I tell him, stepping back from the van. “Text me when you get there.”
The snow is falling harder now, swirling around my head as I watch them pull away. I should be leading the convoy back to campus. But the thought of skating, of clearing my head on the ice where everything makes sense, is too tempting.
Roman's already on the ice when I get to the rink, lazily circling the center logo like he's been doing it his whole life. Which I guess, he has.
“Took you long enough,” he calls out as I lace up my skates. “Thought maybe you got a better offer.”
I snort, pulling my laces tight. “From who? The NCAA compliance officer who cornered me at breakfast?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a certain media rep,” he says with a knowing smirk.
I ignore him, stepping onto the ice and feeling that familiar rush as my blades cut into the surface. This is where I belong. Where everything makes sense. Just me and the ice and the burn in my legs as I push harder, faster.
Roman falls into step beside me, our strides matching like they did twenty years ago when we were linemates.
“You're in your head again,” he says after we've circled the rink a few times. “Spill it.”
“Nothing to spill,” I mutter, cutting hard to the left.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, easily keeping pace.
“Fuck off,” I growl, but there's no heat behind it. Roman's one of the few people I can trust.
We skate for an hour, talking shit and just letting the pressures of our jobs be lifted off our shoulders before Roman tells me he’s got to go.
“You’ve still got it, Beck,” Roman tells me, calling me on the shoulder before getting in his car and driving away.
My muscles ache, but in a pleasant way as I shower and pack up the rest of my things.
Rolling my shoulders, I sling my duffel bag over one arm as I approach the front desk.
The lobby is mostly empty now, with just a few stragglers checking out or waiting for rides.
I glance at my watch—if I leave now, I can be back at my apartment by dinner, maybe even catch the Bruins game while I review game tape.
“Checking out of room 1408,” I tell the clerk, sliding my key card across the marble counter.
She smiles professionally as she takes it. “Of course, Mr. Kingston. Did you enjoy your stay?”
Before I can answer, the muted television behind her catches my attention. The weather map is lit up like a Christmas tree, red and purple blotches swirling across the screen. The caption at the bottom reads:
WINTER STORM WARNING: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS EXPECTED.
“Shit,” I mutter, nodding toward the screen. “How bad is that going to be?”
The clerk turns to look, her professional smile faltering.
“Oh, they've been talking about it all morning.
They're saying we could get up to eighteen inches in the next twelve hours, with wind gusts up to fifty miles per hour.” She turns back to me.
“The highway department is already advising no travel after one p.m.”
I check my watch again. It's already twelve-thirty. “Are the roads bad now?”
“Not yet, but they're saying it's moving in fast.” She pulls something up on her computer. “The first band of heavy snow should hit in less than an hour.” She looks up at me apologetically. “If you're planning to drive back to campus, you might want to leave now.”
I glance out the glass doors at the swirling snow. It's coming down heavier now, the flakes no longer melting when they hit the ground. Already, a thin white blanket covers the parking lot.
I pull out my phone to check on the boys. A text from Maris flashes on the screen.
Almost back. Roads getting bad. Passing exit 146 now.
At least they'll make it before the worst hits. I fire back a quick “drive safe” before turning back to the clerk.
“I think I'll need to extend my stay,” I tell her, setting my duffel back down. “At least for tonight, maybe tomorrow depending on how this plays out.”
“Of course, Mr. Kingston,” she says, typing rapidly on her keyboard. “We actually have several guests extending due to the weather. Would you like to keep the same room?”
“That's fine,” I say, pulling out my credit card. Expensing that right back to SCU.
As she processes the extension, movement at the hotel bar catches my eye.
I turn my head and immediately wish I hadn't.
Hennessy is perched on a barstool, laughing at something the bartender is saying as he mixes her drink.
She's wearing tight jeans and a cream-colored top that slips off one shoulder, exposing skin that I've had my mouth on.
Of course she's still here. The universe clearly has it out for me.
“Your room is all set, Mr. Kingston,” the clerk says, handing back my card. “We've extended your stay through tomorrow, though you're welcome to check out earlier if the roads clear. You can also extend again if needed.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off Hennessy. She hasn't noticed me yet, too busy charming the pants off the bartender who's looking at her like she's his next meal.
I should go to my room. Order room service and watch game tape. Anything but stand here staring at her like some lovesick teenager.
Instead, I find myself walking toward the bar, my feet moving of their own accord. The bartender spots me first, his smile faltering slightly as I approach. Hennessy turns to follow his gaze, and the smile that spreads across her face is pure sin.
“Coach King,” she says, raising her glass in greeting. “Looks like we're both stuck here for the duration.”
The bartender glances between us, clearly sensing the tension. “Can I get you something, sir?”
“Whiskey,” I say, not taking my eyes off Hennessy. “Neat.”
“Celebrating the end of the conference?” Hennessy asks innocently, taking a sip of her brightly colored cocktail. “Or drowning your sorrows because you have to spend another night in this hotel?”
“Neither,” I growl, sliding onto the stool next to her. The bartender places my drink in front of me, and I take a long swallow, welcoming the burn. “Just trying not to freeze to death on the highway.”
“Smart man,” she says, twirling the straw in her drink. “My dad left just before the advisory. Hopefully, he makes it back before the worst hits.”
The bartender leans across the counter toward Hennessy. “Can I get you another?” His eyes linger on her exposed shoulder, and I feel my fingers tighten around my glass.
“She's fine,” I answer for her, earning a raised eyebrow from Hennessy and a confused look from the bartender.
“I think I can speak for myself, Coach,” she says, but there's amusement dancing in her eyes. She turns to the bartender. “I'm good for now, thanks.”
He nods reluctantly, moving away to serve another customer.
“Jealous?” she asks, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Of that kid? Please.” I take another sip of whiskey. “He looks like he still gets carded for lottery tickets.”
She laughs, the sound sliding down my spine like warm honey. “He's twenty-six, actually. We were chatting earlier. He's working here while getting his MBA.”
“Fascinating,” I deadpan, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder to make sure the little shit isn't still staring at her. “You always get bartenders' life stories within five minutes of meeting them?”
“Only the cute ones,” she says with a wicked smile.
My jaw clenches. The thought of her flirting with this guy, maybe even taking him back to her room, makes something dark and violent stir in my chest. I'm not a fucking teenager. I shouldn't give a shit who she talks to.
But I do. God help me, I fucking do.
“You know,” she continues, leaning closer, “if you wanted my attention, you could just ask for it instead of glaring at poor Chad like you're planning his murder.”
Chad. Of course, his name is fucking Chad.
“I'm not planning his murder,” I mutter, though the thought had crossed my mind. “That would be messy. Especially during a blizzard.”
“Fair point,” she concedes, eyes twinkling. “Hard to dispose of a body in eighteen inches of snow.”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth rise. “Not if you know what you're doing.”
She laughs again, and I find myself wanting to make her do it more. It's a dangerous feeling.
“So,” she says, shifting on her stool so her knee brushes against mine. “Looks like we're trapped together for at least another night. Any thoughts on how to pass the time?”
The images that flash through my mind would make a porn star blush.
The bartender clears his throat, still hovering. “We're showing the Bruins game in the lounge later, if you're interested.”
I turn slowly to face him, letting him see exactly how much I don't appreciate his interruption. “Do I look like I give a fuck about the Bruins right now?”
His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “I'll just…check on my other customers.”
Hennessy laughs as he scurries away. “Was that necessary? He's just doing his job.”
“His job isn't staring at your tits while he does it,” I growl, taking another swallow of whiskey.
“Because you should know by now, you're the only one who gets to do more than look.” She leans even closer, her breath warm against my ear.
“You shouldn't say shit like that,” I mutter, knocking back the rest of my whiskey and signaling for another.
“Why not?” She runs her finger around the rim of her glass, eyes locked on mine. “It's the truth.”
Hennessy glances at her watch and sighs. “Shit, I've got to go.” She slips off the barstool, gathering her purse. “I have an appointment at the spa in five minutes. Massage and facial package. Can't be late or they'll give my spot away.”
“The spa,” I repeat flatly. “In the middle of a blizzard.”
She shrugs, the cream-colored top slipping further down her shoulder. “If I'm stuck here, might as well make the most of it. Besides,” she leans down, her lips brushing against my ear, “after what you did to me, my muscles could use some attention.”
Before I can respond, she straightens up and leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. The innocent gesture feels more intimate than it should, her lips lingering just long enough to leave the ghost of her warmth on my skin. The scent of her, sugar and cinnamon floods my senses.
“See you later, Beck,” she whispers, then turns and walks away.
I watch her go, unable to tear my eyes away until she disappears around the corner toward the spa.
“Man, you are one lucky fucking guy,” Chad says, shaking his head as he wipes down the bar. “She's something else.”
I turn to look at him, my jaw clenched. “Fuck,” I mutter, then down my second whiskey in one burning swallow. I slam the glass down harder than necessary and stand up. “Put it on my room.”
My room feels emptier than it did this morning. I toss my duffel on the bed and stare out the window at the snow, which is coming down in thick, angry sheets now. The parking lot is already covered, the cars looking like white lumps under the accumulating powder.
I'm officially trapped here. With her. In this hotel. For at least another twenty-four hours.
Pulling out my phone, I check for updates from Maris. A text confirms they made it back safely, just before the worst of the storm hit. At least I don't have to worry about my players. Campus might be a shitshow of drunk hockey players by tomorrow, but at least they're not dead on the highway.
Maybe I can just stay in my room for the rest of the time, and it’ll be like I don’t even know she’s here.
Best idea I’ve had in a while.