“Why not?” I step closer, tilting my head up to look at him. “Pushing you gets me exactly what I want.”
“Hennessy,” he warns, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes heat pool between my legs.
“I’m just checking because I have needs, and if you won’t be scratching them, then I need to start swiping on someone who will.”
I always get what I want. The proof of that is this weekend. I had him for a moment, but I want him longer. I want him to not be a dirty little secret.
And when I put my mind to something I can’t be stopped.
Check, Coach Kingston.
Chapter 15
Beckham
“Fucking pathetic! Do it again!” I slam my clipboard against the boards, the crack echoing through the rink as twenty players flinch. “You call that a power play? The dean could move the puck faster than that!”
I've been back for three days, and I'm already losing my goddamn mind. Every drill is a disaster. Every player is incompetent. Every second that ticks by is another second I'm not buried inside Hennessy Vega.
“Reset!” I bark, watching my team scramble back to position. “And this time, try not to look like you've never held a hockey stick before.”
Ramsey skates by, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Again.”
“Fuck off, Blackwood,” I growl. “Unless you want to do suicides until you puke again.”
He flashes that shit-eating grin that's made him the darling of college hockey and the bane of my existence. “Just saying, Coach. You've been a raging dick since you got backfrom the conference. What happened in the two days you had to yourself?”
I ignore him, blowing my whistle to start the next drill. My eyes track the puck as it moves across the ice, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. In a hotel room with snow falling outside the window. With her in front of me, begging for more as I slam into her from behind.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout as the puck sails wide of the net for the fifth time. “Wilson, what the fuck was that?”
The sophomore hangs his head, skating back to position without a word. I know I'm being an asshole. I know I'm taking out my frustration on these kids. I don't care.
“Again!” I blow the whistle, watching them go through the motions like they're skating through mud.
Copeland Astor glides to a stop beside me, leaning against the boards. “You know, most people come back from conferences relaxed. You look like you're about to murder someone.”
“Maybe I am,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off the ice. “Starting with you if you don't get your ass back in line.”
He chuckles, completely unfazed by my threat. “Come on, Coach. What's got you so wound up? Bad weather? Shitty hotel? Or...” he lowers his voice, “did you finally get laid, and it wasn't good enough to take the edge off?”
My head snaps toward him so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Copeland raises his hands, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Just asking! You've been walking around like you've got a stick up your ass. Figured maybe you needed to get?—”
“Suicides,” I cut him off, my voice deadly calm. “Now.”
“You can't be serious.”
“Do I look like I'm joking?” I step closer, towering overhim despite his own impressive height. “Suicides. Until I say stop.”
He holds my gaze for a beat too long before shaking his head. “Whatever you say, Coach.” He pushes off the boards, muttering under his breath as he skates to the goal line.
I turn back to the rest of the team, who are all staring like they've just witnessed a public execution. “What are you looking at? Keep going!”
They snap back into action; the drill resuming with slightly more urgency than before. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to focus on the play unfolding in front of me instead of the memory of Hennessy's lips wrapped around my cock.
It's not working.
