Room 1408. I’ll meet you there in fifteen.
He responds with a thumbs-up emoji, which is only slightly irritating, but he’s been a cameraman for years and damn good at it.
The elevator ride feels eternal. I check my phone, scrolling through the list of standard questions I'm supposed to ask, the ones about recruitment strategies and championship expectations. Boring as fuck, but necessary.
The hallway is quiet, plush carpet muffling my footsteps as I make my way down the long hall. I pause outside his room, my heart hammering so hard I swear it's trying to punch through my ribs.
I knock three times, sharply and in time with my pulse.
The door swings open, and there is Beckham Kingston in all his brooding glory. He's wearing dark slacks and a navy button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off the corded muscles of his forearms. His beard isfreshly trimmed, his hair still slightly damp like he just showered.
He smells like citrus and clean skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to lean in and inhale deeply.
“Ms. Vega,” he says formally, his voice neutral but his eyes anything but. They rake over me, lingering on the V of my blouse.
I know he’s my father’s rival. I know he’s was too old, too off-limits. But every time Beckham looks at me like I’m already his, I want to sin harder.
“Coach Kingston,” I reply, matching his professional tone. “May I come in? The cameraman will be here shortly.”
He steps aside, holding the door. As I pass him, I make sure to brush against his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt. His sharp intake of breath is barely audible, but I catch it.
“Nice suite,” I comment, setting my purse down on the small table by the window. “They spared no expense it seems, for one of their top coaches.”
“Where's your crew?” he asks, ignoring my small talk.
“Miguel will be here any minute.” I turn to face him, leaning against the table. “You look tense. The camera will pick that up. Relax a little bit.”
His jaw tightens. “I don't like interviews.”
“I couldn't tell,” I say dryly. “Look, this is a fluff piece. Conference promotion, holiday spirit, blah blah blah. All you have to do is not look like you're planning to murder someone.”
“I'm planning to murder someone,” he mutters.
I laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of his suite. “At least you're honest. Here, let me help you.”
Before he can protest, I reach up and adjust his collar,my fingers deliberately brushing against the warm skin of his neck. I feel his pulse jump beneath my touch.
“Relax your shoulders,” I instruct, pressing my palms against them and pushing down slightly. “Jesus, you're wound tighter than my abuela's yarn ball. Take a deep breath.”
“Hennessy,” he warns, but there's no real heat behind it. Just so much tension.
“I know, I know. Don't touch you. Don't breathe near you. Don't exist in your general vicinity.” I roll my eyes, stepping back. “But if you go on camera looking like you're about to snap someone's spine, the PR team will have my ass.”
“Your ass is not my concern,” he says, but his eyes drop to it anyway.
“Liar,” I say, offering him a knowing smile. “Just try to look slightly less murderous, okay? Think about…I don't know, winning championships or whatever gets you off besides me.”
A knock at the door saves him from responding. I flash him a wink before opening it to reveal Miguel and his assistant, arms loaded with equipment.
“Hey, CiCi,” Miguel says, already scanning the room for the best setup. “This the coach?”
“Miguel, this is Coach Kingston from St. Charles University,” I say, slipping effortlessly into professional mode. “Coach, this is Miguel Reyes, our lead videographer.”
Beckham nods stiffly as Miguel and his assistant start unpacking cameras, lights, and microphones.
“We'll need to set up by the window,” Miguel says. “Natural light is good, but we'll supplement. Twenty minutes, tops.”
As they work, I turn back to Beckham, who's watching the process with thinly veiled impatience.
