Chapter 15
Beckham
“Fucking pathetic! Do it again!” I slam my clipboard against the boards, the crack echoing through the rink as twenty players flinch. “You call that a power play? The dean could move the puck faster than that!”
I've been back for three days, and I'm already losing my goddamn mind. Every drill is a disaster. Every player is incompetent. Every second that ticks by is another second I'm not buried inside Hennessy Vega.
“Reset!” I bark, watching my team scramble back to position. “And this time, try not to look like you've never held a hockey stick before.”
Ramsey skates by, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Again.”
“Fuck off, Blackwood,” I growl. “Unless you want to do suicides until you puke again.”
He flashes that shit-eating grin that's made him the darling of college hockey and the bane of my existence. “Just saying, Coach. You've been a raging dick since you got back from the conference. What happened in the two days you had to yourself?”
I ignore him, blowing my whistle to start the next drill. My eyes track the puck as it moves across the ice, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. In a hotel room with snow falling outside the window. With her in front of me, begging for more as I slam into her from behind.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout as the puck sails wide of the net for the fifth time. “Wilson, what the fuck was that?”
The sophomore hangs his head, skating back to position without a word. I know I'm being an asshole. I know I'm taking out my frustration on these kids. I don't care.
“Again!” I blow the whistle, watching them go through the motions like they're skating through mud.
Copeland Astor glides to a stop beside me, leaning against the boards. “You know, most people come back from conferences relaxed. You look like you're about to murder someone.”
“Maybe I am,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off the ice. “Starting with you if you don't get your ass back in line.”
He chuckles, completely unfazed by my threat. “Come on, Coach. What's got you so wound up? Bad weather? Shitty hotel? Or...” he lowers his voice, “did you finally get laid, and it wasn't good enough to take the edge off?”
My head snaps toward him so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Copeland raises his hands, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Just asking! You've been walking around like you've got a stick up your ass. Figured maybe you needed to get—”
“Suicides,” I cut him off, my voice deadly calm. “Now.”
“You can't be serious.”
“Do I look like I'm joking?” I step closer, towering over him despite his own impressive height. “Suicides. Until I say stop.”
He holds my gaze for a beat too long before shaking his head. “Whatever you say, Coach.” He pushes off the boards, muttering under his breath as he skates to the goal line.
I turn back to the rest of the team, who are all staring like they've just witnessed a public execution. “What are you looking at? Keep going!”
They snap back into action; the drill resuming with slightly more urgency than before. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to focus on the play unfolding in front of me instead of the memory of Hennessy's lips wrapped around my cock.
It's not working.
Nothing is fucking working. I thought getting her out of my system would help. One weekend of debauchery to scratch the itch that's been driving me insane for years. But all it did was make it worse. So much worse.
Now I know exactly what she tastes like. I know the sounds she makes when she comes. I know how perfectly she fits against me, how her body responds to my touch like it was made for me.
And I can't have her again.
“Coach!” Ramsey's voice snaps me back to reality. “You want us to run it again or move on?”
I blink, realizing I've been staring into space. “Move on. Defense drill.”
The team transitions smoothly, used to my commands even when I'm being a temperamental asshole. I watch as they set up, trying to force my brain back into coaching mode.
“Astor!” I shout across the ice where Copeland is still doing suicides, his face red with exertion. “That's enough. Get in the drill.”
He skates over, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face. “Thanks for the cardio, Coach. Really needed that today.”
“Shut up and get in position.”
The rest of practice is a blur of whistles, shouted instructions, and growing frustration—both with my team and myself. By the time I call it a day, everyone looks relieved to escape my wrath.
“Hit the showers,” I dismiss them with a wave. “And be ready to work tomorrow. Today was garbage.”
The players file off the ice, a few shooting me concerned glances. I ignore them, gathering my notes and equipment with jerky movements.
“Hey.” Blackwood appears at my side, his helmet tucked under his arm. “You good?”
“I'm fine,” I snap, not looking up.
“Bullshit, Coach. No offense.” He leans against the boards, blocking my path. “You've been a complete psycho since you got back. What happened?”
I finally meet his eyes, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “Nothing happened. I'm just not impressed with how soft you all got.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Holy shit. You did get laid.”
“Fuck off, Blackwood.”
“You did!” His eyes widen with delight. “That's what this is about! You're all twisted up over some hookup.”
I step closer, lowering my voice to a dangerous whisper. “You're on thin fucking ice. We are not friends and I will bench you and Astor for the rest of the season.”
Instead of backing down, he laughs. “Man, she must have been something special to get you this worked up. What was she, a puck bunny? Sports journalist? Please tell me it wasn't one of those equipment reps with the fake tits.”
My hand shoots out before I can stop myself, grabbing the front of his jersey and yanking him forward. “I said, fuck off.”
Something in my eyes must finally get through to him because the amusement fades from his face. “Alright, alright. Jesus.” I release him, and he straightens his jersey. “But seriously, Coach. You need to get your shit together. The team can't handle another practice like this.”
I know he's right, which only pisses me off more. “Go shower. You smell like ass, and your ‘bestie’ just walked in with some guy.”
He stiffens, his entire body locking up before skating away, leaving me alone on the ice. I stand there for a moment, the cold seeping through my clothes, the familiar scent of the rink—ice and sweat and rubber—filling my lungs.
This is my sanctuary. My domain. The one place where I've always been in complete control.
Until now.
Now all I can think about is her. Hennessy fucking Vega, with her perfect breasts and that smart mouth that tastes like candy canes and sin. The way she pushed and pushed until I snapped. The way she took everything I gave her and begged for more.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand over my face. I need to get her out of my head before I lose my goddamn mind.
In the locker room, the players are already showered and changing, the usual post-practice chatter subdued. I head straight for my office, not in the mood to deal with any of them.
I slam the door behind me, tossing my clipboard onto the desk and dropping into my chair. The silence is a relief after the chaos of practice, but it also leaves room for my thoughts to wander.
Three days. It's been three days since I last saw her, since I last touched her. Three days of trying to convince myself it was a one time thing, a mistake I won't repeat.
But even as I tell myself this, I'm checking my phone for the twentieth time today, hoping to see her name on the screen.
Because why would she text me when I made it clear what it was between us?
I had her, could have had her longer, and I choose some kind of fucking fake moral high ground? Too many concussions is the only logical fucking answer.
A knock on the door interrupts my pathetic spiral. “What?” I bark.
The door opens, and my top team captain for next year, Astor sticks his head in. “Team meeting still on for tonight?”
I'd completely forgotten about the strategy session I'd scheduled. “Yeah. Seven o'clock. Don't be late.”