I slam the door behind me, tossing my clipboard onto the desk and dropping into my chair. The silence is a relief after the chaos of practice, but it also leaves room for my thoughts to wander.
Three days. It's been three days since I last saw her, since I last touched her. Three days of trying to convince myself it was a one time thing, a mistake I won't repeat.
But even as I tell myself this, I'm checking my phone for the twentieth time today, hoping to see her name on the screen.
Because why would she text me when I made it clear what it was between us?
I had her, could have had her longer, and I choose some kind of fucking fake moral high ground? Too many concussions is the only logical fucking answer.
A knock on the door interrupts my pathetic spiral. “What?” I bark.
The door opens, and my top team captain for next year, Astor sticks his head in. “Team meeting still on for tonight?”
I'd completely forgotten about the strategy session I'd scheduled. “Yeah. Seven o'clock. Don't be late.”
Chapter 16
Beckham
My lungs are fucking burning.
Five miles on the treadmill, and I still can't outrun the memory of her. I push harder, cranking the speed up another notch as sweat pours down my face. The gym is nearly empty at half-past five in the morning, just a few dedicated masochists and me, trying to punish my body into submission.
Three hundred push-ups. Enough weight on the squat rack to make my knee scream. And still, all I can think about is Hennessy.
“Motherfucker,” I grunt, slamming the stop button on the treadmill. The belt slows, and I bend over, hands on my knees, gasping for air. My t-shirt clings to my body, soaked through with sweat.
This isn't working. Nothing's working. Four days and I'm losing my fucking mind.
My legs feel like jelly, my back and knee yell in protest, and my cock is still rock hard at the mere thought of her.
Moving to the deadlift platform, I load more weightthan I should. My form is shit and I know it, but I don't care. The pain is the point. Pain is the only thing that might distract me from the constant ache of wanting something I can't have.
By the time I finish, the sun is starting to rise, casting shadows through the gym's windows. My breathing is ragged as I finally admit defeat. No amount of physical torture is going to purge Hennessy Vega from my system.
I grab my towel, wiping my face roughly before heading to the showers. The hot water does nothing to ease the tension coiled tight in my muscles. If anything, it makes it worse—steam rising around me, reminding me of the hotel bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed and heading toward my car, muscles sore and mind still racing. My phone buzzes with an early text from my assistant coach about practice schedules. I need coffee before I can deal with any of that shit.
I pull into the lot of a local place near campus—not my usual spot, but it's on the way, and I need caffeine in my system before I kill someone. The bell above the door jingles as I walk in, scanning the room out of habit.
And Hennessy fucking Vega is sitting at a corner table with a laptop open in front of her. Her hair is pulled back, with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She hasn't seen me yet, too focused on whatever she's typing.
My first instinct is to turn around and walk out. My second is to march over, grab her by the wrist, and drag her to the nearest bathroom to fuck her against the wall.
I do neither. Instead, I freeze like a goddamn idiot, staring at her until she finally looks up.
Her eyes widen for a split secondbefore her lips curve into that smile—the one that's haunted my dreams for four nights straight. “Coach Kingston,” she says, voice carrying across the half-empty cafe.
I should keep walking. Order my coffee and leave. Instead, I find myself standing in front of her, hands shoved in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“Hi, Beckham.”
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out harsher than I intended.
She raises an eyebrow, closing her laptop. “Studying. Drinking coffee. Living my life.” Her eyes travel down my body, lingering on the way my t-shirt clings to my still-damp chest. “You look like you've been torturing yourself.”
“Gym,” I grunt, shifting my weight. “You're a bit away from home.”
