The crowd is eating it up. Coaches are nodding and scribbling notes, while I'm sitting here remembering how those hands felt gripping my hips as he slammed into me from behind.
“That's why St. Charles has sent more players to the pros than any other program in the conference over the last five years,” he continues. “We don't promise these kids anything except that we'll push them harder than they've ever been pushed. The ones who can't handle it wash out. The ones who stay become men.”
Fuck. There's something insanely hot about watchinghim like this—in his element, completely in control, respected and feared in equal measure.
The man sitting next to me leans over to whisper to his friend. “My son's in his junior year of high school. I'd kill to get him into Kingston's program.”
His friend nods. “Good luck. I heard they had over two thousand applications for twelve spots last year.”
I bite back a smile.
“Hockey is and always will be a physical game,” Beck says, his eyes scanning the crowd. “We've gotten so worried about protecting players that we're not preparing them for the reality of the sport. I teach my guys to hit clean but hit hard. To take hits and get back up. The ice doesn't give a fuck about your feelings, and neither does the NHL.”
The moderator winces slightly at his language, but the crowd eats it up. This is why they're all here—to get the Beckham Kingston gospel straight from the source.
“That said,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly, “skill is still king. The game's evolved. My players need to be able to think about the game at top speed, to make decisions with the puck that create opportunities. We spend as much time on hockey IQ as we do on physical conditioning.”
God, he's so fucking good at this. When he talks about hockey, it's like watching someone talk about their soulmate. The passion in his voice, the way his whole body leans into it. It's sexy as hell.
The panel wraps up with a few more questions, most directed at Beckham. As people file out, I linger, pretending to check my phone while watching him. He's surrounded by admirers—coaches wanting advice, parents hoping for a connection that might help their kids get noticed.
I wait in the hallway as the crowd thins out, leaning against the wall and scrolling through emails I'm not actually reading. When he finally emerges, he's alone, his face set in that hard expression that makes most people step out of his way.
Not me. I push off the wall and step directly into his path.
“Coach Kingston,” I say, my voice professional but with an edge he'll recognize.
He stops, his jaw tightening. “Miss Vega. Did you need something for your media coverage?”
There's no one close enough to hear us, but his eyes dart around anyway, checking for witnesses.
“Why are you pretending last night didn't happen?” I ask, keeping my voice low but direct.
His nostrils flare, and he steps closer, looming over me. “Because it shouldn't have,” he growls, the words rumbling from deep in his chest.
I don't back down. Instead, I move closer, eliminating the space between us until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “But it did.”
I place my hand on his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt. His heart hammers against my palm, betraying the calm he's trying to project. For all his control, his body can't lie to me.
“Thanks for letting me keep the tie, Coach King,” I whisper, my eyes locked on his. “And for returning my key card.”
I let my hand linger just a second longer, feeling his sharp intake of breath, before I step back. Without waiting for his response, I turn and walk away, making sure to put an extra sway in my hips because I know he's watching.
I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I round the corner, and the victory tastes sweet on my tongue.
He can deny it all he wants, but his body tells the truth. He wants me. And no matter how hard he fights it, we both know this isn't over.
Chapter 10
Beckham
Iwatch the last of my players pile into the team van, slapping backs and making sure Avila has enough Gatorade to combat his lingering nausea. The snow's been falling since dawn, fat flakes that melt as soon as they hit the ground.
“Try not to kill anyone on the drive back,” I tell Maris as he slides into the driver's seat of the van. “I'd hate to have to break in a new assistant coach mid-season.”
“You're not coming?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“I'll head out in a couple hours. Want to get some ice time with Roman before I go.” It's not entirely a lie.
