Chapter 18
Beckham
Islam the door to my apartment, tossing my keys onto the counter where they skid across the granite and nearly fall to the floor.
My muscles ache, tension knotted between my shoulder blades from spending the whole day pretending I'm not obsessed with a woman I can't have.
Heading to the bathroom, I want to shower this day off me.
The hot water does little to ease the tightness in my body. Nothing does these days. Not workouts, not whiskey, not even jerking off in the shower while thinking about her mouth. The release is temporary at best, followed by a hollow feeling that pisses me off even more.
I'm toweling off when my phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. I ignore it, wrapping the towel around my waist and padding to the kitchen for a beer. The phone buzzes again. And again.
My heart rate spikes when I see the contact name.
DO NOT RESPOND.
Hey, weird question but did I leave my laptop charger in your truck? I think it might have slipped out when we went to breakfast. Black MacBook one. I've torn my place apart looking for it.
I know you're probably busy, but I really need it
I can just buy a new one if it's too much trouble
I'll check
Thank you! You're a lifesaver
I toss the phone onto my bed and grab a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. It's just a quick trip to the parking garage.
The interior light flicks on, illuminating the empty seats. I lean in, checking the passenger side floor first. Nothing. The center console. Nothing. The back seat. Nothing.
“Fuck,” I grunt, climbing in to check under the seats.
I reach behind the driver's seat, feeling around blindly. My fingers brush against something soft—my old SCU hoodie that I keep in here for cold mornings. I pull it out, and sure enough, there's her charger, tangled in the fabric.
I sit there for a minute, staring at it, debating my next move. The smart thing would be to text her that I found it and arrange a drop-off somewhere public. Neutral territory. Maybe have someone else deliver it.
But I'm not feeling particularly smart tonight.
I pull my phone out, typing a quick message.
Found it. Behind the seat under my hoodie.
I stare at the message for a second before adding my address.
1420 Riverside Drive, Apt 303.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I make my way back to my apartment. What the fuck am I doing? This is exactly the kind of shit I swore I wouldn't do. Yet here I am, inviting temptation right to my doorstep.
I toss the charger onto the kitchen counter and look around my place. It's not messy, but it's not exactly visitor-ready either. Not that it matters. She's coming for her charger, not a fucking house tour.
Still, I find myself shoving gym clothes into the hamper and stacking the coaching manuals scattered across my coffee table. I'm contemplating putting on a shirt when there's a knock at the door.
Another knock, more insistent this time, has me striding over to pull it open.
Hennessy stands there in a cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes immediately drop to my bare chest, lingering on the tattoos across my ribs before slowly trailing back up to my face.
“Hi,” she says, a small smile playing at her lips. “That was fast.”
Instead of handing her the charger, I step back and open the door wider. An invitation. A mistake. A fucking inevitability.
She doesn't hesitate, walking past me into my apartment like she's been here a hundred times before.
“Nice place,” she says, glancing around. “Very...minimalist.”
I close the door, leaning against it as I watch her explore my space. She moves with the same confident grace she always has, trailing her fingers along my bookshelf, examining the few framed photos I keep.
“Your charger's on the counter,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She turns, eyeing me with that look that sees too much. “Thanks for finding it. I was starting to think I'd hallucinated leaving it somewhere.”
“No hallucination. Just buried under my shit.”
She nods, but makes no move toward the kitchen. Instead, she takes another step into my living room, looking at the hockey memorabilia displayed on the wall.
“College championship,” she says, nodding at one of the framed jerseys. “My dad never shuts up about how robbed they were that year.”
“They weren't robbed. They were outplayed.”
She laughs, the sound warming something cold inside me. “God, you two are like broken records.”
I push off from the door, crossing to the kitchen. “You want a drink?”
“Sure.” She follows me, perching on one of the barstools.
My hands move to her hair before my brain can stop them, fingers sliding through those soft waves, gripping just tight enough to tilt her head back. Her lips part in surprise as I step between her legs, the barstool putting her at the perfect height.
“Beckham—” she starts, but I swallow my name with my mouth.
I kiss her like I'm drowning and she's oxygen. Like I've been wandering the desert for days, and she's water. My tongue slides against hers, desperate and demanding.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half surprise, half pleasure. My hands tighten in her hair as I angle her head, deepening the kiss until there's nothing but her taste, her scent, her warmth surrounding me.
When I finally break the kiss, we're both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, lips swollen from my assault.
“So,” she says, voice husky and breathless, “no drink then?”
“No damn drink,” I growl, pulling her off the stool and into my arms. Her legs wrap tighter around my waist as I carry her to the couch, our mouths crashing together again in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and need.
I lay her down on the couch, my body covering hers as I devour her mouth. My hand slides under her sweater, finding the warm skin of her stomach, inching higher toward her bra when she suddenly plants her palms against my chest.
“Beckham, wait.” Her voice is firm despite the breathlessness.
I freeze, pulling back to look at her. “What's wrong?”
She wiggles out from under me, putting some distance between us as she straightens her sweater. “I didn't come here for this. I literally just came for my charger.”
She’s tucking her hair behind her ear, not meeting my eyes, and the rejection hits me like a punch to the gut. “Right.”
“Look, I know we have...whatever this is between us.” She gestures between our bodies. “But we can't keep doing this back and forth thing where you want me one minute and push me away the next.”
I run a hand over my face, reality crashing back in. What the fuck am I doing? Two days ago I was telling myself to stay away from her, and now I'm practically mauling her on my couch.
“You're right,” I admit, standing up and putting some distance between us.
An awkward silence stretches between us as she puts the charger in her bag. I should let her go. I should open the door and watch her walk out. Instead, I find myself stepping closer.
“Hennessy.”
She looks up at me, those dark eyes wary.
“I'm sorry.” The words feel foreign on my tongue. “I shouldn't have jumped you like that.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “It's not like I didn't enjoy it.”
“Still.” I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve better than me losing control every time I see you.”
“Maybe I like when you lose control,” she says softly.
“Maybe.” I cup her face, my thumb tracing her bottom lip. “But not like this. Not when we're both confused about what the hell we're doing.”
She leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “So what do we do?”
“I don't know.” I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers. “But I'm going to walk you to your car like a fucking gentleman.”
The elevator ride down to the parking garage is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Her shoulder brushes against mine, and I fight the urge to pin her against the wall. I need to prove—to her and myself—that I can be around her without losing my shit.
I walk her to her car, that practical Honda she was so defensive about earlier. It's cleaner than I expected, but still a far cry from what she should be driving.
“Text me when you get home,” I say as she unlocks the door.
She raises an eyebrow. “Worried about me, Coach?”
“Just do it, troublemaker.”
“Fine.” She slides into the driver's seat, looking up at me through the open door. “Goodnight, Beckham.”
“Goodnight.”
I watch her drive away, standing in the garage long after her tail lights disappear. The emptiness hits me harder than it should, like I've lost something I never really had.
It's almost three in the morning, and I'm still staring at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The way she looked in my home, the feel of her beneath me on the couch, the taste of her lips.
I've tried everything. Pushups until my arms burned. A cold shower. Even put on one of those boring documentaries that usually knock me out within minutes. Nothing works.
The blue light of my phone illuminates the darkness as I check it for the hundredth time. Her last message came hours ago.
Home safe. Thanks for finding my charger.
I've been deleting responses ever since. Nothing feels right. Everything feels too much or not enough.
You awake?
The three dots appear almost immediately, making my heart race like a fucking teenager.
Yeah. Can't sleep.
Me either.
I stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What the hell am I doing? It's the middle of the night. I should put the phone down and try to sleep. Instead, I find myself typing again.
I keep thinking about you.
Same.
I want to see you. Not for sex. Just to talk.
Tomorrow. Dinner maybe?
Like a date?
Call it whatever you want. I just want to spend time with you. Outside the bedroom. Try to figure this shit out.
It's a date then. Goodnight, Beckham
Goodnight troublemaker.