Chapter 22
Finley
“Okay,” I muse, tapping my key against the door to my hotel room, “this is starting to get weird. Did you request to room on the coaches’ floor or something?”
Beckett shakes his head. “No. And I’m wondering if I should be insulted.”
“Worried they saw your age and assumed you were a coach?” I ask.
“You’re kind of a bully, you know that, right?”
I smile. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, leaning against the wall rather than scanning his card to go into his room.
“High school boys don’t like to be outplayed by a girl. And not every man thinks a woman should be coaching a professional men’s hockey team. I’ve been called a four-letter word or two.”
“There are a lot of stupid people in this world.”
“That there are,” I agree.
We stand there, staring at each other for what is certainly an inappropriate length of time.
“I’m not sure how I feel about you being next to me, rather than across the hall,” I say finally. “It’s going to force me to reorient myself.”
“Do you think about where I am often?” Beckett asks, a smug smile playing on his face.
Constantly. Even when I’m not thinking about it, I somehow know where he is. It’s like he’s magnetic north, and I’m a compass. My soul has shifted, so it’s always trying to align with him.
It’s terrible.
“I’m a hockey coach. It’s my job to be aware of everything and everyone around me.”
His smile grows, as if he’s aware of the truth beneath my lies.
“If you want to discuss film later…” I know it’s risky when we spend time together on away trips. But I also hate the idea of missing out on the time we get to be Finley and Beckett rather than Coach Blake and Kane.
He nods. “Right. That would work… to go over that play from tonight.”
“Okay.”
I’m not sure exactly when it started, but we always do this when we’re outside the safety of one of our apartments. We act. Pretend we’re not doing anything wrong. Even though we aren’t.
Probably.
I’m still not sure where exactly the line is between coach and friend. And how will I know when I’m crossing it?
I walk into my room, and my heart leaps when I hear a knock. Glancing at the source of the sound, I realize there is a connecting door between our rooms. The way my heart speeds up is definitely crossing the line between coach and… more than friends.
Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be able to control my reaction to the man anymore. I’ve never been as physically attracted to someone in my life, and now that I know how great he is as a person, it’s starting to wear on me.
“Hey.” I open the door to reveal Beckett, his dark eyes dancing with mirth.
“Hey right back,” he replies. “What are the odds?”
“I didn’t realize hotels like this even had rooms with connecting doors.”
“Just lucky, I guess,” he says on an exhale.
Standing here on either side of the doorway, my body responds to his nearness. We might sit by each other frequently, but I’m almost never looking at him from the front, and so have not built up my immunity to the sight that is Beckett Kane, in a hotel room, mere inches from me.
He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants with a black Yeti shirt pulling across his broad chest. His dark hair is hidden under a black backward Yeti cap, and fuck. It’s the exact same thing I’ve seen men wear for almost twenty years. But somehow, tonight, with him, it’s setting me on fire.
I want to jump into his arms. To wrap my legs around his waist. To kiss him so deeply, it’s impossible to tell where I end and he begins.
I don’t know what he sees on my face, but his body reacts, going taut, as his pupils expand.
“You’ve got…” He leans forward to brush a strand of hair back behind my ear. The path his finger traces tingles at the sensation, and I have to bite my cheek to keep a purr from escaping.
He keeps his hand there, and I lean ever so slightly into his touch, my eyes closing of their own volition.
Pull away! Fuck. He is your player!
“Fin,” Beckett murmurs, and I snap my gaze to his.
He’s even closer now, the warmth of his body seeping through the inches of space between us.
“You look… so beautiful tonight.” His breath hitches slightly, and he pulls his hand from my face like it’s on fire. “I mean, just like, you know, good. In the way a friend would say to another friend. You look good, pal. Looking good, buddy.”
A shiver flows down my body, leaving small shudders as aftershocks in its wake. I pull my lower lip into my mouth, fascinated by the way Beckett’s gaze tracks it, not looking away.
I swallow hard. “Thank you.”
Every inch of my body is desperate for him to touch me again. “You look… good… too, pal.” I try to smile, but I’m not sure it’s worked. My ability to convince myself this is a bad idea seems to be broken.
I don’t know whether it’s the adrenaline from the overtime win or the fact that I can move in and out of Beckett’s room freely without anyone seeing us, but suddenly, I want nothing more than to see where this can go.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever had a coach call me pal before,” Beckett admits. His eyes are still on my lips, and he says it as if he’s almost in a trance.
But the word coach is enough to pull me from mine.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I am his coach.
I can’t do this.
“I’ve got to… bed,” I manage to get out. “Super tired. Sorry. No film tonight.”
I jump back, shutting the door, not waiting for him to say anything else.
Unfortunately, the closed door does nothing to help settle the need raging through me.
I force myself to get ready for bed, and instead of turning on film, like I normally do, I lie there, unable to think about anything except what would’ve happened if I hadn’t shut that door. If Beckett had kept his beautiful mouth closed and had leaned in and kissed me instead.
Would I have stepped into him, closing those last breaths of space between us? Would he have tipped my chin up and run his thumb over my lip before kissing me?
I fight the desire to slip my hand into my sleep shorts, knowing I shouldn’t get off to images of Beckett Kane.
A low sound comes from the other side of the wall, and I still. It was quiet, but something about the deep sound feels… needy. And what if he needs help? I slip from my bed and tiptoe to the wall, placing my ear against it.
There’s a rhythmic sound I can’t quite place, and after listening for another moment, I’m suddenly hit with the fact that it’s sexual. Did Beckett pop down to the bar to pick up one of the puck bunnies loitering there after I slammed the door in his face?
My stomach twists into a knot as I bite the inside of my cheek. I know I should stop, but instead, I move a few paces forward, right where I imagine his bed would be.
I listen for a few seconds, jealousy and need warring within me, before I realize he’s alone. That he must be fucking his own hand.
The jealous part of my brain now fully appeased, the need takes over, and I lean back against the wall, licking my index and middle fingers before sliding them into my shorts.
My fingers slide around my clit before dipping into the wetness between my legs. Listening to Beckett on the other side of the wall, I match his rhythm as I let my mind wander… What would it be like to be there with him?
The hunger in his eyes as he stared down at me, spread wide on his bed. The slow way he would prowl toward me before dropping to his knees, his hands sliding up my thighs before slipping a finger inside my pussy.
There’s a low groan on the other side of the wall, and in my mind, it’s the sound he makes the first time he tastes my core.
I increase my tempo as I imagine him feasting on me.
“Fuck, Beckett,” I moan lightly, and the sound from his room stops.
Oh, shit. He heard me. Oh, God. Not only does he know I was fucking listening to him like some kind of pervert, but now he knows I was getting off to the sound of him masturbating.
I want to stop, but I can’t. My body demands release.
Then, as if nothing happened, the sound of him stroking himself starts again. Possibly even slightly louder than before.
“Fin.” The sound is low and anguished.
Oh fuck. He… We… We’re doing this.
I slide my fingers across my clit again, and when a moan slips out, I don’t even try to keep it quiet. “Mmmm. Yes,” I whisper. Hoping he hears me. Praying he doesn’t.
“Fin. God. Yes. So good.” His deep voice is a rumble.
I work myself with my fingers, no longer imagining what could be, but instead, living in this moment. Knowing Beckett is on the other side of the wall, his hand wrapped tightly around his cock as he pumps to the image of me.
It’s the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done, yet I can’t stop myself.
The pressure builds, and my head drops against the wall, a dull thud echoing as I quietly chant, “Yes, yes, yes.”
There’s movement, and then a thud on the other side of the wall, right where I am, and I tell myself he’s moved. He changed position, so he could be here, as close to me as possible, as I unravel.
“Fin,” he chokes out, and the sound of his hand sliding over his dick slows, becoming inaudible over the blood pumping in my ears.
I don’t know how long I stay there, leaning against the wall, but when I’m fully back inside my own body, I press my hand against the wall and say, “Goodnight, Beckett.” I can barely hear it, so there’s no way he can, but I needed to say something.
To commemorate what just happened—what can never happen again.
“Goodnight, Fin,” I swear I hear as I move back toward my bed.