Chapter 19 #2
“Fourteen. Stole a bottle of Jack from my uncle's cabinet. Puked all night and had practice the next morning.” He grimaces at the memory. “You?”
“Sixteen. My little cousin’s quinceanera after-party. Tequila shots with my cousins. Dad found me passed out in the bathtub.”
Beckham actually laughs at that, the sound deep and rich.
“Your laugh,” I blurt out. “It's nice.”
“That's not a question.”
“Fine. Why don't you laugh more often?”
He studies me for a moment. “Not much to laugh about in my line of work.”
“Bullshit. You're surrounded by college boys who probably do stupid shit constantly.”
“True,” he concedes. “But laughing undermines my authority.”
“God forbid the scary coach show he's human.” I roll my eyes. “Your turn.”
“Why marketing?”
“I like figuring out what makes people tick. What they want, how to give it to them.” I meet his eyes directly. “I'm good at reading people.”
“Are you?” His voice drops lower. “What am I thinking right now?”
I lean forward, close enough that I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. “You're thinking about how much you want to take this dress off me.”
His pupils dilate. “Lucky guess.”
“Not luck. Skill.” I sit back, satisfied with the heat in his gaze. “Your first kiss?”
“Thirteen,” he answers with a hint of a smile. “Sarah Thompson. Behind the bleachers after a junior hockey game. She tasted like bubble gum and braces.”
“Cute. Was she your first girlfriend too?”
“No. That came later. Fifteen. Jessica Miller. Lasted about three months before she dumped me for the baseball captain.” He takes another sip of wine. “What about you? First boyfriend?”
“Miguel Santos. Sophomore year of high school. Dad hated him because he rode a motorcycle.” I grin at the memory. “Which of course, only made him more appealing.”
“Of course,” Beckham mutters, shaking his head. “How long did that last?”
“Six months until I caught him making out with my lab partner.” I shrug. “Your first time?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Getting personal now, aren't we?”
“That's the point of the game, Kingston. Answer the question.”
“Seventeen. Summer before senior year. Girl from my neighborhood.” He holds my gaze. “Yours?”
“Eighteen. Prom night. Super cliché, I know.” I lean forward. “First serious relationship?”
“College. Lasted two years until she decided she couldn't handle my schedule with hockey.” He runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “You?”
“Junior year of college. Jensen. Marketing major like me. We dated for almost a year before I realized I was more in love with the idea of him than the actual person.” I tilt my head. “Biggest turn-on?”
His eyebrow raises. “You really want to go there?”
“I asked, didn't I?”
He leans in, voice dropping to that rumble that makes heat pool between my legs. “Confidence. Someone who knows what they want and isn't afraid to ask for it.” His eyes burn into mine. “Someone who pushes back.”
I swallow hard. “Good answer.”
“And yours?”
“Control,” I say without hesitation. “Not having it—someone taking it from me. Someone who can make me stop thinking and just feel.”
“Noted.”
I take another sip of wine to steady myself.
“Favorite place you've ever traveled?” I ask deliberately steering us back to safer territory.
“Switzerland. Spent a summer there training with a European team. Mountains, clean air, incredible food.” He refills our glasses. “You?”
“Barcelona. Went with my mom for her research sabbatical when I was nineteen. The architecture, the food, the beaches...” I sigh. “I'd move there in a heartbeat if I could.”
The waiter appears with our food, interrupting our conversation. My salmon looks amazing, perfectly seared with some kind of herb crust on top. Beckham's steak is massive, because of course it is. Everything about this man screams big appetite.
“This looks incredible,” I say, picking up my fork. The first bite practically melts in my mouth, and I can't help the little moan that escapes me.
Beckham's eyes darken as he watches me. “Good?”
“Fucking amazing.” I take another bite, savoring the flavors. “You weren't kidding about this place.”
“I don't kid about food.” He cuts into his steak, the inside perfectly pink. “Or much of anything else.”
“I've noticed.” I steal a mushroom from the side of his plate, popping it into my mouth before he can protest. “You should try lightening up sometimes.”
“Says the woman who just stole food off my plate.”
I grin completely unrepentant. “Sharing is caring, Coach.”
“Is that what we're doing? Sharing?” His voice drops lower, sending a shiver down my spine. “Because there are a lot of things I'd like to share with you right now, and none of them involve food.”
Heat flushes through my body, pooling between my thighs. “Careful. We're supposed to be talking, remember?”
“We've been talking for an hour.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes never leaving mine. “I think I've earned the right to tell you how fucking incredible you look in that dress and how much I want to stab everyone in the eye with my fork who’s looked at you.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the conversation pausing as we enjoy our food. I catch him watching me several times, his eyes darkening when I lick sauce from my lips.
“What?” I finally ask, setting down my fork.
“Nothing.” He takes a sip of wine. “Just like watching you eat.”
“That's...weirdly specific.”
“You enjoy things,” he says simply. “Most people just consume. You savor.”
The observation catches me off guard. It's strangely intimate, like he's been paying more attention to me than I realized.
“What else have you noticed about me, Coach Kingston?”
“Everything,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble. “I notice everything about you, Hennessy.”
The way he says my name—like its something precious and filthy at the same time—makes my skin flush hot.
“Like what?” I challenge.
“Like how your eyes get darker when you're turned on.” He leans in, matching my posture. “Like how you bite your lip when you're trying not to smile. Like how you're doing it right now.”
I release my lip, not even realizing I'd been biting it. “You're observant.”
“I'm obsessed,” he corrects, the admission hanging between us, raw and honest.
I take a shaky breath, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze. “Good. Because I'm obsessed too.”
Instead, he picks up his fork and takes another bite of steak, breaking the spell. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”
I roll my eyes but comply, spearing a piece of asparagus. “Yes, sir.”
His eyes flash when I say “sir,” the muscle in his jaw working overtime. I can't help but smirk, knowing exactly what buttons I'm pushing.
Part of me wants to climb across the table and into his lap right here in the restaurant.
“Dessert?” The waiter appears, startling both of us.
Beckham glances at me, eyebrow raised in question.
“I'm stuffed,” I admit, pushing my empty plate away. “But I wouldn't mind a walk to digest.”
“Just the check,” Beckham tells the waiter, who nods and disappears.
After he pays the bill—refusing my offer to split it with a look that could melt steel—we step outside into the cool night air. The restaurant sits near a small park that runs along the river, lights twinkling along the walking path.
A cool breeze blows off the water, and I can't help the little shiver that runs through me. My dress might be sexy as hell, but it's not exactly made for nighttime strolls in early winter.
“Cold?” Beckham asks, his eyes sharp and observant as always.
“No, I'm fine,” I lie, even as another shiver betrays me.
He gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me for a second. “Wait here,” he says, his voice brooking no argument.
Before I can protest, he's jogging back toward the parking lot where his truck is parked. I watch him go, admiring the way his jeans hug his ass as he moves.
He returns a minute later with a dark blue hoodie in his hands. “Arms up,” he commands.
“I told you I'm not cold,” I argue, even as my body betrays me with another shiver.
“Arms. Up.” His voice drops into that coach tone that makes my knees weak.
I roll my eyes but comply, lifting my arms so he can slide the hoodie over my head. It's huge on me, the sleeves falling past my fingertips; the hem hitting mid-thigh. It smells just like him.
“This looks ridiculous with my dress,” I complain, though I'm already snuggling into the warmth of it.
“You look perfect,” he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with surprising gentleness.
I hook my arm through his, leaning into his warmth as we continue our walk. “You're not getting this back, by the way. It's mine now.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I don’t want it back.”
“Good, because this one's officially been claimed.” I nestle closer to his side, feeling oddly content despite how weird I must look—designer dress, fuck-me heels, and a men's athletic hoodie.
For once in my life, I don't care how I look. I just care how I feel. And right now, with Beckham's arm and hoodie wrapped around me, I feel pretty damn perfect.