Beckham
THREE YEARS LATER
Stepping out of my SUV, I adjust my tie with one hand while the other grabs my bag. The Monarch Hotel towers in front of me looking like a gleaming pretentious altar to the holiday season. Giant wreaths hang in every window, and a massive Christmas tree dominates the circular driveway, dripping with ornaments larger than my head.
“Welcome to the First Annual North American Collegiate Hockey Conference,” reads a banner stretched across the entrance. Inaugural year, well lucky fucking me.
I hand my keys to the valet, ignoring his cheerful “Happy holidays, sir!” My shoulders are knotted from the five-hour drive, and my mood matches the steel-gray sky threatening snow. I’ve got three days of this bullshit ahead of me. Panel discussions, networking events, and keeping my assistant coaches from embarrassing the program sound like so muchdamn fun.
I haven't slept properly in weeks, my team's inconsistency eating at me. Two losses in our last three games is just unacceptable.
“Kingston!” a voice booms from the hotel entrance. Maris, one of my assistant coaches, is waving at me like I’m a long-lost friend instead of someone who sees me every goddamn day.
I nod once, striding past the decorative ice sculptures flanking the entrance. The lobby hits me with a wall of heat.
“Cutting it close,” Maris says, checking his watch. “Registration closes in twenty minutes, and the welcome reception starts at seven.”
“I'm here, aren't I?” I mutter, scanning the room. Already I can spot two of my other assistant coaches by the bar, laughing too loudly with coaches from rival programs. “Where's the check-in?”
He points toward a table swarming with people in matching conference polo shirts. “I took the liberty of getting you a suite on the upper floor. Quieter up there.”
I give my thanks, already moving toward the registration table. The sooner I get my credentials, the sooner I can disappear to my room before the forced mingling begins. My number one priority while I’m here is making sure my players don’t embarrass the program. I’ve got a couple of juniors who think an out-of-state conference means party time.
The elevator is mercifully empty. I press the button for the fourteenth floor, leaning against the mirrored wall and closing my eyes briefly. Just three days. Seventy-two hours of handshaking and bullshitting. I can survive that.
The suite is impressive; I'll give them that. King bed, separate sitting area, floor-to-ceilingwindows overlooking the city. The bathroom's bigger than my first apartment. The university spared no expense, and I’m not about to ask any additional questions.
I toss my bag onto the bed, splash some water on my face, and check my watch. Fifteen minutes until the reception. I fucking hate being late, so I better get my ass down there.
The elevator feels like a steel cage as it descends. I loosen my tie slightly, already dreading the small talk and political posturing waiting for me downstairs. Every coach is trying to one-up each other with recruiting stories and season stats. It’s fucking exhausting.
The doors slide open with a soft ping, and my heart stops dead in my chest.
Hennessy Vega stands directly in front of me, her caramel hair falling in loose curls past her shoulders. She's wearing a gold sweater and denim jeans that hug every dangerous curve of her body and make my mouth go dry. Gold hoops glint on her ears, matching the delicate chain around her neck that disappears beneath the soft material of her top.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Her deep brown eyes widen slightly when she sees me, lips curving into a smile that's haunted my dreams for years. The one that says she knows exactly what she does to me.
“Hey, Coach King,” she says, her voice like honey as I step out of the elevator. But she doesn't move to get in, just stands there looking up at me through her thick lashes. Her gaze travels slowly up my body, lingering on my tie, my jaw, before meeting my own with a look that burns hotter than the fireplace roaring in the lobby behind her.
I should keep walking. I should nod and move past her. Ishould do anything except stand here breathing in the scent of her.
“Vega,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intended and trying to assert some fucking control over myself. No way in hell am I going to say her name.
Her eyes flick upward, and that's when I notice the small sprig of mistletoe hanging from the elevator doorframe. Her smile turns wicked.
“Well, tradition is tradition,” she murmurs, rising on her tiptoes and leaning forward.
Before I can process what's happening, she presses those soft lips against my cheek, lingering just a second too long to be innocent.
Something inside me snaps. It’s like I’m no longer in control of my body.
My fingers thread through her hair before I can stop myself, gripping the soft curls at the nape of her neck. I jerk her face to mine, watching her eyes darken with desire.
I crush my mouth against hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise.
She melts against me instantly, her small hands clutching at my jacket as I back her against the wall beside the elevator. I kiss her like a drowning man finding air, deep and desperate, my tongue claiming her mouth without permission or apology.
