Chapter 16
Beckham
My lungs are fucking burning.
Five miles on the treadmill, and I still can't outrun the memory of her. I push harder, cranking the speed up another notch as sweat pours down my face. The gym is nearly empty at half-past five in the morning, just a few dedicated masochists and me, trying to punish my body into submission.
Three hundred push-ups. Enough weight on the squat rack to make my knee scream. And still, all I can think about is Hennessy.
“Motherfucker,” I grunt, slamming the stop button on the treadmill. The belt slows, and I bend over, hands on my knees, gasping for air. My t-shirt clings to my body, soaked through with sweat.
This isn't working. Nothing's working. Four days and I'm losing my fucking mind.
My legs feel like jelly, my back and knee yell in protest, and my cock is still rock hard at the mere thought of her.
Moving to the deadlift platform, I load more weight than I should. My form is shit and I know it, but I don't care. The pain is the point. Pain is the only thing that might distract me from the constant ache of wanting something I can't have.
By the time I finish, the sun is starting to rise, casting shadows through the gym's windows. My breathing is ragged as I finally admit defeat. No amount of physical torture is going to purge Hennessy Vega from my system.
I grab my towel, wiping my face roughly before heading to the showers. The hot water does nothing to ease the tension coiled tight in my muscles. If anything, it makes it worse—steam rising around me, reminding me of the hotel bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed and heading toward my car, muscles sore and mind still racing. My phone buzzes with an early text from my assistant coach about practice schedules. I need coffee before I can deal with any of that shit.
I pull into the lot of a local place near campus—not my usual spot, but it's on the way, and I need caffeine in my system before I kill someone. The bell above the door jingles as I walk in, scanning the room out of habit.
And Hennessy fucking Vega is sitting at a corner table with a laptop open in front of her. Her hair is pulled back, with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She hasn't seen me yet, too focused on whatever she's typing.
My first instinct is to turn around and walk out. My second is to march over, grab her by the wrist, and drag her to the nearest bathroom to fuck her against the wall.
I do neither. Instead, I freeze like a goddamn idiot, staring at her until she finally looks up.
Her eyes widen for a split second before her lips curve into that smile—the one that's haunted my dreams for four nights straight. “Coach Kingston,” she says, voice carrying across the half-empty cafe.
I should keep walking. Order my coffee and leave. Instead, I find myself standing in front of her, hands shoved in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“Hi, Beckham.”
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out harsher than I intended.
She raises an eyebrow, closing her laptop. “Studying. Drinking coffee. Living my life.” Her eyes travel down my body, lingering on the way my t-shirt clings to my still-damp chest. “You look like you've been torturing yourself.”
“Gym,” I grunt, shifting my weight. “You're a bit away from home.”
“Actually,” she says, gesturing to the empty chair across from her, “I live about ten minutes from here. Got an apartment near SCU a few months ago.”
I stare at her, processing this information. “You live near my campus? What about—”
“My dad's school?” She shrugs, playing with the straw in her iced coffee.
“It's almost an hour away. I was tired of the commute, so I got my own place. Been trying to familiarize myself with everything around here.” She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping.
“This is my first time at this coffee shop, though.
I usually don't come to this part of campus.”
While I’ve been stewing, fantasizing about her and she’s been in my backyard.
“Sit down,” she says. “You're looming.”
I should say no. I should walk away. Instead, I drop into the chair across from her, my knees bumping against hers under the small table.
“How's your team?” she asks, like we're old friends catching up. Like I don’t still have the phantom taste of her on my tongue.
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “They're fine.”
“You sure?” Her lips twitch. “Because I heard you've been a raging asshole at practice.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who told you that?”
“Does it matter?” She takes a sip of her coffee, leaving a smudge of lip gloss on the straw. “Word gets around. Especially when the mighty Beckham Kingston starts losing his shit.”
“I haven't been losing my shit,” I lie.
She actually laughs at that, the sound hitting me right in the chest. “Sure, Coach. Whatever you say.”
Before I can respond, a barista appears at our table, setting down a large black coffee in front of me.
“Just pay before you leave,” she says, tucking a strand of blue hair behind her ear.
I stare at the steaming cup. “I didn't order this.”
She shrugs. “You look like a plain black coffee guy. Figured I'd save you the trouble.” She glances between Hennessy and me with barely concealed curiosity before heading back to the counter.
“Oh, she pulled your card and nailed it.” Hennessy's eyes dance with amusement.
I wrap my hands around the mug, grateful for something to do besides stare at her mouth. “I like what I like.”
“So I've noticed.” She leans forward, elbows on the table. “Let me guess. No sugar, no cream, no joy.”
“There's nothing wrong with black coffee.”
“There's nothing right with it either.” She reaches across the table and pulls my mug toward her, taking a sip before I can stop her. Her nose wrinkles immediately. “God, that's awful. How do you drink this?”
I snatch the mug back, ignoring the lipstick mark she's left on the rim. “Not everyone needs their coffee to taste like a fucking dessert.”
She gestures to her own drink, which is more cream than coffee. “This is practically a meal. Breakfast of champions.”
“That's not breakfast. That's diabetes in a cup.”
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest I don't want to examine too closely. “You sound like my father. He's always on my case about my sugar intake.”
“Smart man,” I say before I can stop myself, and immediately regret bringing up her dad.
But Hennessy just rolls her eyes. “Please. You two agree on exactly one thing in the universe, and it happens to be my coffee preferences? The simulation is glitching.”
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “I'm not exactly known for agreeing with Vega.”
“That's the understatement of the century.” She takes another sip of her sugary monstrosity. “You two practically foam at the mouth when you see each other. It's like watching two rabid wolves fight over territory.”
“He started it,” I mutter, then immediately feel like a petulant child.
“Very mature.” She twirls her straw between her fingers. “Next you'll tell me he gave you cooties.”
“I'm too fucking tired for this,” I say, but there's no heat behind it. Something about her pulls the tension from my body, even as she creates a different kind of tension altogether.
“Poor baby,” she coos, mock sympathy dripping from her voice. “Did you have a rough morning? All those muscles must be exhausted from your little workout.”
My eyes narrow. “There was nothing little about my workout.”
“I'm sure.” Her gaze drops to my arms, lingering on the veins visible beneath my skin. “You do look…stressed.”
The way she says it makes my cock quake in my sweats. “I'm fine.”
“Are you?” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Because you look like a man who hasn't slept in days.”
She's not wrong. I've been surviving on catnaps between obsessive thoughts of her thighs wrapped around my waist. “I've been busy.”
“Mmm.” She doesn't believe me for a second. “Well, at least this isn't awkward.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What isn't?”
“This.” She gestures between us. “You and me, sitting here like normal people having coffee. I was worried things might be weird after, you know...” She trails off, a small smile playing on her lips. “Our little fling.”
Something inside me goes cold, then hot. Little fling. Like it was nothing. Like I haven't been losing my goddamn mind for four days straight.
“Little,” I repeat, my voice flat.
“Well, yeah.” She shrugs one shoulder, oblivious to the way my hands have tightened around my mug. “It was just a weekend thing, right? Snow-bound hook-up, no strings attached.”
I stare at her, jaw clenched so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. Little fling. Just a weekend thing. The words echo in my head, each one like a fucking knife.
“I'm glad we can be mature about it,” she continues, stirring her drink. “It would suck if things were weird between us now that it's over.”
Over. The word hits me like a physical blow. Nothing about what happened between us felt over to me. Nothing about the way I've been obsessing over her for days feels like closure.
“So it's over,” I say flatly.
She tilts her head, studying me. “Well, yeah. Isn't that what you wanted? You made it pretty clear when you left.”
I did. I fucking did. I told her it was a one time thing, that it couldn't happen again. And now she's sitting here, accepting that like it's no big deal.
“Right,” I manage to say. “That's what I wanted.”
“So we're good.” She smiles, but there's something off about it.
“Good.” I nod, but the word tastes like acid. “We're good.”
I take a sip of my coffee, feeling it burn all the way down. Something about the casual way she dismissed what happened between us has my blood boiling. Like it was nothing. Like I haven't been fucking wrecked since I left her.
“You hungry?” The question bursts out of me before I can stop it.
She blinks, surprised. “What?”
“Hungry,” I repeat, already regretting the impulse but unable to stop. “That sugar bomb isn't breakfast. There's a place about ten minutes from here. Best breakfast you've ever had.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Are you…asking me to breakfast, Coach Kingston?”
“Don't call me that,” I growl. “And yeah, I guess I am.”
She studies me for a moment, those dark eyes seeing way too fucking much. “What happened to 'this can't happen again'?”
“It's pancakes, not my dick. You need actual food.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Wow. Such a charming invitation. How could a girl resist?”
I should back out now. I should make an excuse and leave. Instead, I find myself saying, “Place is off the beaten path. Students don't know about it. Quiet.”
“Hidden gem?” She taps her fingers against her laptop. “I do like discovering new places.”
“So that's a yes?”
She closes her laptop with a decisive click. “That's a yes. But only because I'm starving and you're buying.”
“Fine.” I drain the rest of my coffee, standing up before I can change my mind. “Let's go.”
She gathers her things, slipping her laptop into a bag that looks too heavy for her small frame.
Her phone gets tucked into her back pocket, the movement so casual it's almost like we're not about to walk out together. I watch her every move, waiting for her to change her mind. I grab her bag and then walk to the front counter as she watches.
At the counter, I pull out my wallet while she waits by the door, scrolling through her phone. The barista gives me a knowing look as she takes my card.
“Friend of yours?” she asks, nodding toward Hennessy.
“Something like that,” I mutter, signing the receipt.
“My car or yours?” she asks as we step outside, the morning air cool against my skin.
“Mine,” I say without hesitation. “I'm not riding in whatever death trap you call transportation.”
She rolls her eyes. “My car is perfectly safe.”
“Let me guess. Some tiny little piece of shit that's more rust than metal?”
“It's a Honda, thank you very much. Practical and reliable.”
“Like I said, a piece of shit.” I nod toward my truck parked in the lot. “We're taking mine.”
“So bossy,” she mutters, but follows me anyway. “Some things never change.”
I unlock the car, watching as she slides into the passenger seat like she belongs there. Her scent immediately fills the space, and I inhale deeply, half desperate to have the smell of her burned into my senses.
“Nice ride,” she says, running her hand over the dashboard. “Very masculine.”
The way she says it, like she's teasing me about compensating for something, should piss me off. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile.
“Very observant,” I deadpan, watching her fidget with the seat adjustment. She's too small for this truck, but something about seeing her here, surrounded by my space is doing things to me I can't explain.
“Seatbelt,” I remind her, but she's already scrolling through her phone, distracted.
“One sec,” she murmurs, thumbs flying across the screen.
I wait, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, watching the curve of her neck as she bends over her phone. Her hair falls forward, exposing the spot where I left a mark days ago. It's faded now, just the barest hint of a bruise where my mouth claimed her.
“Okay, done.” She tosses her phone into her bag and turns to me with that smile that's been haunting my dreams. “Ready when you—”
I don't think about it. I just move, leaning across the console, my body crowding into her space. Her words cut off, eyes widening as I reach for her seatbelt. My face is inches from hers, close enough to feel her breath catch.
“Safety first,” I murmur, grabbing the belt and pulling it across her body. My knuckles brush against her chest, and I hear the smallest intake of breath. I click the buckle into place, letting my hand linger on her hip for a heartbeat too long.
Her pupils dilate, dark eyes searching mine as I hover there, neither of us moving.
“Beckham,” she whispers, and it's both a question and something else entirely.
I pull back slowly, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like kiss her in broad daylight in a coffee shop parking lot.