Beckham drops my wrist and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”
“So what? You scared of my daddy, Coach King?”
“I'm not scared of your father,” he growls, stepping closer.
“I think you're overthinking it.” I shrug, adjusting my purse strap. “I'm not his property.”
Beckham's jaw tightens. “This isn't about property, Hennessy. This is about history.”
“Ancient history.”
“Not to me.” His voice drops, becoming something raw and honest. “Not to him either and I doubt he knows you’ve just interviewed me.”
I turn toward the door, suddenly needing space. His intensity is suffocating, making it hard to think clearly. “Well, I should get going. Those other coaches won't interview themselves.”
His hand shoots out, grabbing my arm again. “Don't.”
“Don't what? Do my job?”
“You know what I mean.”
I yank my arm free, irritation flaring. “Actually,I don't. You finger-fucked me against a wall last night and now you're acting like I've got the plague. Make up your mind, Kingston.”
Chapter 5
Beckham
Make up your mind, Kingston.
It plays over and over in my head on a loop since Hennessy stormed out of my room earlier.
I've spent the entire rest of the day going through the motions—sitting through panels about recruitment strategies and player development while my thoughts revolve around her like a planet trapped in orbit. I barely heard a word that was said, nodding along to questions and giving answers on autopilot.
She’s right, though. I’m a fucking mess of contradictions when it comes to her. One minute I’m all over her and the next I’m pushing her away.
The schedule for today is done, and I’ve managed to avoid both Vegas since that damn interview. I should be grabbing dinner offsite or ordering room service and reviewing game footage.
Instead, I’m looking around, telling myself I want to find Roman and see if he wants to grab dinner or drinks.
It’s bullshit. I’m looking for her, but I don’t see her anywhere. It’s not like I have her phone number now and can simply text her. That would be too fucking easy, and those damn masochist tendencies are rearing their head.
I’m about to check the hotel restaurant when I spot Vega-pain-in-my-ass-one by the concierge desk. He’s talking to Carter from Western Tech, looking relaxed in a way I’ve never known.
“…long day,” Javier is saying, running a hand through his hair. “These conferences get longer every year.”
Carter laughs. “At least the hotel bar is decent.”
“Too decent,” Javier replies. “I'm exhausted. Heading up to my room for the night.” He checks his watch. “Just hope nobody gets too handsy with my daughter up at that rooftop bar. She texted that she'd be there with some of the media team.”
My blood runs cold, then hot. The thought of Hennessy surrounded by drunk coaches, administrators, players—every piece of shit in collegiate hockey who thinks they can impress the pretty media girl.
Western Tech chuckles. “Your girl can handle herself, Jav. She's got your fire.”
“That's what worries me,” Javier mutters, clapping him on the shoulder before walking toward the elevators.
I wait about thirty seconds before I grab the next elevator. Purposely ignoring the voice in my head screaming at me to take my ass to my room and to leave well enough alone.
The rooftop bar is packed with conference attendees, all the big names in college hockey drinking and networking under the guise of unwinding. Christmas lights are strungacross the open-air space, reflecting off the glass barriers that keep drunk coaches from tumbling fourteen stories to their deaths. A massive decorated tree stands in one corner, and some asshole DJ is playing remixed Christmas carols that make me want to throw him off said roof.
