“So here's what's going to happen,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “We'll sit facing each other, about three feet apart. I'll ask the standard questions first—season outlook, recruitment strategy, conference competition. Then we'll do some quick holiday-themed questions for social media clips.”
“Holiday-themed?” He looks like I just suggested he dress as an elf.
“Relax, it's not that deep. Favorite Christmas traditions, that kind of thing.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I've done interviews before, ya know.”
“Yeah, and you always look like you'd rather be getting a root canal.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Look at the camera like you're looking at me when no one else is around. That intensity works when it's not murderous.”
His eyes darken, dropping to my lips before snapping back up. “That would be inappropriate.”
“Not that intense,” I clarify, smirking. “Just…engaged. Present.”
Miguel calls over his shoulder, “We need to mic you both up. Coach, if you could take a seat in that chair by the window?”
Brandon the assistant attaches a small lavalier mic to Beckham's shirt, his fingers fumbling slightly under the coach's intense stare. I suppress a smile as the poor guy practically scurries away afterward.
“You're scaring the crew,” I whisper as Miguel approaches me next.
“I'm not doing anything,” Beckham mutters, adjusting in his seat.
I tilt my chin up so Miguel can clip the mic to my blouse. “Just here,” I guide his hand, purposely letting my fingers brush against my cleavage. From the corner of my eye, I see Beckham's jaw clench.
“Okay, we're all set,” Miguel announces, stepping behind the camera. “Sound levels are good. We'll roll on three.”
I cross my legs slowly, letting my skirt ride up just enough to show a hint of thigh. Beckham's eyes track the movement before snapping back to my face.
“Three, two, one,” Miguel counts down silently with his fingers.
“I'm Hennessy Vega with NACHC Media, sitting down with St. Charles University head coach Beckham Kingston,” I begin, my voice smooth and professional. “Coach Kingston, thanks for joining us today.”
“Thank you for having me,” he replies stiffly, like the words physically pain him.
“Let's start with the obvious. St. Charles sits in the top three of the conference standings for the third consecutive year. What's been the key to maintaining that level of consistency?”
He shifts in his seat, hands resting on his knees. “Discipline. We recruit players who understand our system and buy into our culture. There are no shortcuts to success.”
“Your defensive numbers are particularly impressive this season. You've allowed the fewest goals in the conference. What's working so well on that end of the ice?”
As he answers, I uncross and recross my legs, letting themovement draw his attention. His response falters for just a second before he recovers.
“Our blue line has really...stepped up. We emphasize positioning and sacrifice. Every player has to be willing to block shots and backcheck hard.”
I lean forward slightly, making sure my blouse gapes just enough. “Some critics say your coaching style is too rigid, too old-school. How do you respond to that?”
His eyes darken. “Results speak for themselves.”
“They certainly do,” I agree, licking my lips subtly. “You've sent an impressive number of players to the professional ranks. What's your philosophy on developing NHL talent while still prioritizing team success?”
The interview continues, and I keep my questions professional while my body language is anything but. Every time I shift in my seat or touch my hair or lean forward, his eyes follow the movement before snapping back to my face with almost military discipline.
“Now, let's shift to some holiday questions,” I say after covering all the required hockey topics. “The conference has scheduled this event during the holiday season. Do you have a favorite Christmas tradition?”
Something changes in his expression. A hardening around the eyes, a tightening of his jaw that wasn't there before. It's subtle, but I've spent too long studying his face not to notice.
“No,” he says flatly. His fingers curl into a loose fist on his knee. “I don't really have one.”
The pain that flashes across his face is so raw, so unexpected, that I almost reach for him before remembering the cameras. Whatever memory I've just stumbled into isn'tsomething he wants to share with an audience. Like I poked an old wound he likes to ignore.
