“What about a favorite seasonal treat? Everyone’s got a sweet tooth for something, right? So cookies, candy canes, eggnog?”
The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, relief flickering across his face at the change of subject.
“Peppermint bark,” he admits after a moment, his voice softening just a fraction. “Dark chocolate on the bottom, white on top. The good kind with actual chunks of candy cane, not that cheap shit, uh I mean stuff they sell at gas stations.”
“I wouldn't have pegged you for a chocolate guy,” I say, leaning forward just enough to give him another glimpse of lace. “I was thinking more…protein bars and black coffee.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“That you do, Coach Kingston.” I let my gaze linger on his mouth before turning back to the camera. “Any holiday messages for the St. Charles fans out there?”
“Support the team. Come to the games. Don't drink and drive.” His response is so perfectly Beckham.
“And with that heartwarming holiday message,” I say with a laugh, “we'll wrap up. Thanks for watching, and from all of us at NACHC Media, happy holidays.”
Miguel gives me the signal that we're clear, and I relax in my chair.
“That wasn't so bad, was it?” I ask Beckham as Miguel and his assistant start packing up equipment.
“Torture,” he mutters, but there's no real bite to it.
I stand, smoothing my skirt. “You did great. The fans will eat it up. The big bad coach has a sweet tooth.”
“You're enjoying this too much,” he says, eyes narrowing as he watches me gather my notecards.
“Always.” I wink at him, making sure Miguel isn't looking. “Thanks for the interview, Coach. Very informative.”
Miguel packs up the last of his equipment, his assistant already hauling the bags toward the door.
“Got everything I need,” Miguel says, tapping his memory card. “Should have this edited by next weekend. You coming, CiCi?”
“Right behind you,” I say, grabbing my purse and notebook.
I'm halfway to the door when warm fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me back.
“Hey guys, go ahead without me,” I call out to Miguel and Brandon. “I need to clarify a few things with Coach Kingston for the piece.”
Miguel gives me a knowing look that I pretend not to see as he disappears into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.
I turn to face Beckham, quirking an eyebrow at him. His hand is still circled around my wrist, his thumb absently stroking the sensitive skin there.
“I'm s—” he starts, then stops abruptly, his jaw working. “No, that's bullshit. I'm not sorry.”
“Not sorry about what?” I ask, enjoying the conflict playing across his face.
He drops my wrist, running a hand through his hair. “Who else are you seeing today?”
So that's what this is about. Jealousy looks good on him.
“Let's see,” I say, tapping my finger against my lips. “Coach Daniels fromWestern Tech at four, Coach Thompson from Eastlake at six. Oh, and I've got two interviews with players—Jackson from Northern and Martinez from St. James in between the coach meetings.”
His eyes darken with each name I list.
“And my dad,” at the mention of my father, Beckham’s entire body goes rigid.
“I haven’t seen him, and I’m hoping like hell to avoid him.”
“He’s not here yet,” I explain, watching his reaction carefully. “He’s driving in now.”
