Prologue
BECKHAM
My college coaching career peaked the moment I decided to strangle a man with a string of Christmas lights.
I stand at the bench, jaw locked tight enough to crack a walnut, watching my players skate lazy figure-eights during warm-ups. The rink is bathed in that sickening glow of twinkle lights strung across the rafters—red, green, and gold reflecting off the ice like some kind of winter wonderland horseshit. Every scrape of blade against ice echoes through the arena, mixing with distant laughter and holiday music pumped through tiny speakers.
The university decided a “holiday charity exhibition” would boost morale and community engagement. What it's boosting is my blood pressure. Talk about a complete waste of my fucking time.
“Looking festive, Kingston,” Dean Morrison appears at my side, dressed in a hideous sweater with actual jingle bells sewn into the fabric. “The alumni donors love this kind of thing. Good for recruitment, good for the program.”
I grunt, arms crossed over my chest. My all-black coaching gear—the only concession being the small embroidered twenty-seven on my jacket—stands out like a declaration of protest among all the seasonal cheer.
“Could've had us run drills instead,” I mutter, cracking my knuckles one by one. “Exhibition game against Vega's team is a recipe for disaster.”
“It's Christmas, Beckham. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.” Morrison chuckles, clapping my shoulder. I shrug his hand off as if it burns. “Even toward Coach Vega.”
The mention of his name sends a familiar spike of hatred through every part of me. Javier Vega. The man who ended my professional career with a dirty hit eighteen years ago is now coaching our biggest rival. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
“You've got that look again,” Morrison sighs. “Remember, this is for the children's hospital. Cameras are watching. Try to smile.”
“I am smiling,” I growl.
“The board is pleased with your results this season,” he continues, oblivious to my disinterest. “Though they were hoping you'd wear the Santa hat, the PR department left in your office.”
I turn my head slowly, fixing him with a look that has made grown men piss themselves on the ice.
Morrison walks away shaking his head, bells jingling with each step. I turn my attention back to the ice, where my defensemen are laughing instead of working on their transitions. Pathetic.
“Blackwood! Astor! You want to share what's so fucking funny with the rest of us?” I bark.
They straighten immediately, faces dropping. “No, Coach.”
“Then move your asses like you give a shit.”
The charity crowd gasps at my language, but I couldn't care less. I've built this program from nothing over the last four years. We don't win by playing nice, especially not against Vega's team.
I track Blackwood's sloppy crossovers, mentally noting the extra drills I'll put him through tomorrow. These kids are soft. Too caught up in the jingling bullshit and the crowds to remember what matters.
Rivera's back-checking is for shit, and Jensen's stick handling looks like he's trying to swat a fly rather than control the puck. They're all distracted, eyes drifting to the stands between drills, checking out the holiday crowd instead of focusing on their fundamentals. Fucking Christmas. Every year it's the same story—progress derailed by twinkle lights and eggnog.
“Four minutes till puck drop,” my assistant coach mutters beside me.
I nod, already calculating line combinations that might salvage this disaster.
Something moves at the edge of my vision, and my focus snaps, attention diverted like a compass finding north.
She's standing by the visitor's entrance, wearing a cream oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder, a short burgundy skirt that makes my mouth go dry, and knee-high boots.
Hennessy fucking Vega. The one person in this entire fucking arena I should be ignoring.
My grip tightens on the clipboard until the plastic cracksagainst my palm. Twenty years old. My rival's daughter and absolutely forbidden.
And staring right at me with those dark eyes that have haunted me since the moment I first saw her at a conference dinner two years ago.
She smiles, a slow curve of her lips that feels like a direct punch to my gut, and toys with the gold necklace at her throat. The overhead lights catch on it, making it sparkle, drawing my eyes to the delicate slope of her neck, the hollow of her throat.
“Coach?” Rivera's voice barely registers. “Coach, you need to sign off.”
