I wrench my gaze away, jaw clenched so tight my teeth might shatter. “What? Yeah.”
I scribble my signature without looking, still feeling her presence like a physical weight against my skin. When I chance another glance, she's talking to someone I can't see, laughing with her head tilted back, exposing the vulnerable line of her neck.
What the fuck am I doing?
She turns, and our eyes lock across the crowded rink. The background noise fades to nothing.
Her face transforms, eyes widening before her lips part in a smile that hits me like a crosscheck to the chest.
That smile isn’t innocent. It’s a fucking invitation I have no business accepting.
Or maybe I’m projecting. Maybe she’s really just being polite because I’m her father’s competition. That possibility is somehow worse.
She starts walking, her path taking her directly past my bench. My players part around her like water around a stone.
“Merry Christmas, Coach Kingston.”
Her voice is honey and sin, playful and sweet all at once. My name in her mouth sounds like a fucking prayer, and the way she says “coach” should be illegal. I watch her lips form each syllable, mesmerized by the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth.
It’s bad enough I can smell her, vanilla and cinnamon. Like a goddamn snickerdoodle.
I open my mouth to respond, but my throat constricts. Nothing emerges but a rough grunt.
“It's not Christmas yet,” I finally manage, the words scraping out like gravel.
Her laugh floats back to me, light and dangerous, as she continues on her path. I stand frozen, watching her walk away.
I should look away. There are a dozen reasons I should look anywhere else. My team. The scoreboard. The fucking ceiling.
But I don't.
“Beckham Kingston.” Javier materializes beside me, wearing his team colors with that smug ass smile that I hate.
I straighten, squaring my shoulders. Even after all this time, his presence sends a surge of adrenaline through my system. It’s fight or flight and I've always chosen fight.
“Vega.” I acknowledge him with a curt nod, voice dropping an octave lower. “Didn't know you were making rounds.”
“Just spreadin’ some holiday cheer.” His California accent slipping out slightly in his amusement. “Your boys look good. Should be an interesting game.”
The compliment throws me. We don't do this type ofthing. Civil conversation and professional courtesy. There's always an angle with Vega.
“Cut the shit,” I mutter, scanning the ice where his players are now taking warm-up shots. “What do you want?”
He shrugs, following my gaze across the rink. “Just wishin’ you good luck. May the best team win, all that festive bullshit.”
I grunt, uncomfortable with this new script. Eighteen years of barely contained hostility, and now he wants to play nice? The shift makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Good luck to you too,” I force out, the words tasting like ash.
That's when he laughs again, but this time it's different. He leans in, and my body tenses, my fist curling at my side just in case.
“Oh, and Kingston?” His voice drops, just between us. “Keep your fucking eyes off my daughter.”
He taps the bench with his knuckles twice before walking away, leaving me standing there with my blood pounding in my ears.
I watch my guys skate to center ice, and I shake it off. I’ve got a fucking job to do, and I need to forget all about Hennessy Vega.
Chapter 1
