His response is immediate.
Bullshit. This have anything to do with Vega's daughter?
My jaw clenches.
Like I said it’s a migraine.
You’re playing with fire Beck. Your ass always did like being right above the fucking fire. Well have a good night with your “migraine” but I expect you not to leave me to own my shit the entire weekend.
I stare at the text for a minute. He’s seen me spiral before. He’s the only one who covered for me when I nearly lost my assistant position over a bar fight in Vegas. The only one who’s seen what I look like when I snap.
And I can feel it again now. The same low burn in my chest, spiraling and coiling like a snake. I’ve got to be careful because I didn’t spend years working on restraint to be in my forties acting like I’m in my damn twenties again.
A ping hits my ears as an urgent email comes through on my university account.
I should avoid it because whatever it is will probably annoy the fuck out of me. I don’t know how many times I have to tell people to stop marking shit urgent that’s not urgent. No one gives a fuck about any of that shit. They only care if I’m getting the boys ready to beat the next team, win the next trophy, get the next kid drafted.
Opening the email, I can feel my eye start to twitch.
URGENT: Mandatory Interview
2:00 p.m. - Interview w/ Hennessy Vega & Beckham Kingston for St. Charles University
Beckham,
Please do try and make it to this interview as a professional and represent our school well. No, you cannot get out of it, nor can you make any of your assistant coaches do it.
Merry Christmas,
Dean Morrison
Fucking Morrison. His tagline might as well be stamped on the email in blinking neon letters: DO THIS OR ELSE. The subtext isn't even subtle. My job depends on playing nice for the cameras, pretending I'm thrilled to be interviewed.
I toss the phone onto the bed and run a hand through my damp hair. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since that shitty sandwich at noon.
I grab the room service menu from the desk and scan it quickly. Overpriced as hell, but I'm too hungry to care. I dial the number.
“Room service.”
“Yeah, I need a steak. Medium rare. Fries. And whatevervegetables you have that aren't drowning in butter.” I pause. “And a Dr. Pepper Zero.”
“Will that be all, Mr. Kingston?”
“That's it.”
I hang up and eye the minibar. The whiskey is calling my name, tiny bottles lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. Ah fuck it, the university can bill me later. I grab one, twist the cap off, and down it in one swallow. The burn feels good, settling some of the restlessness in my chest.
It's not enough. I grab a second bottle. It’s not lost on my I was bitching about room service being overpriced but I’m throwing back mini bottles like I got them from a gumball machine.
I'm a fucking masochist. Always have been. Known for playing with danger even when I know I'll get burned.
Dropping into the armchair by the window, I stare out at the city lights. Snow is falling softly and starting to blanket things in a fine powdery layer. I wonder if it will stick or if it will melt quickly.
I have fifteen hours give or take to get my head on straight because I can’t be acting a fucking fool on camera about her. But how the fuck am I supposed to act normal about the one girl, no woman I’ve been obsessively thinking about? How the fuck does one just not give in to their obsession especially when she’s like a siren calling out to me?
My phone buzzes. I think about ignoring it. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I check the screen.
Unknown Number
