The waiter interrupts before I can respond, asking about drinks. Beckham orders a bottle of red wine without consulting me, which should annoy me but somehow doesn't.
“Confident I'll like your choice?” I ask after the waiter leaves.
“You will.” He leans back, studying me with those intense eyes. “You like bold flavors. Nothing subtle or boring.”
“You think you know me that well already?”
“I'm getting there.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against mine in a touch so light it almost doesn't register.
The wine arrives, and we both take a moment to taste it. It's rich and complex, exactly what I would have chosen. Damn him. Honestly, it’s so rude how well he did that.
We order; steak for him, salmon for me before our server leaves again.
“So,” I say, setting my glass down. “How do we do this? Twenty questions?”
He shrugs. “If you want. Or we could just talk like normal people.”
“Normal is overrated. Let's play.” I take another sip,letting the wine warm me from the inside. “I'll start. Why hockey?”
“That's your first question?” He looks almost disappointed.
“What were you expecting? 'What's your favorite sex position?'”
His eyes darken. “We already covered that.”
Heat rushes to my face as memories flood back—his hands gripping my hips as he took me from behind, my face pressed into the hotel mattress.
“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat. “Hockey?”
He considers for a moment. “I was angry as a kid. Hockey gave me somewhere to put it. Somewhere I could hit things and be rewarded for it instead of punished.”
“And you've been hitting things ever since,” I say, swirling my wine. “Angry kid to angry adult?”
“I'm not angry anymore.” He takes a long sip from his glass. “Just…passionate.”
“Right. That's why you nearly bit that referee's head off last season when he made that bad call against St. Augustine.”
Beckham's lips twitch. “You watched that game?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, trying to look casual. “My turn again. What's your biggest regret?”
His expression shifts, something darker crossing his face. “Pass.”
“You can't pass! That's not how twenty questions works.”
“My game, my rules.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “What's yours?”
I narrow my eyes. “Not letting you get away with that dodge, for starters.” When his jaw tightens, I sigh. “Fine. Mybiggest regret is probably letting my dad influence my college choice. I should've gone where I wanted.”
“Where was that?”
“New York. I got into NYU for their marketing program, but Dad freaked out about me being so far away.” I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip. “Your turn. First time you got drunk?”
“Fourteen. Stole a bottle of Jack from my uncle's cabinet. Puked all night and had practice the next morning.” He grimaces at the memory. “You?”
“Sixteen. My little cousin’s quinceañera after-party. Tequila shots with my cousins. Dad found me passed out in the bathtub.”
Beckham actually laughs at that, the sound deep and rich.
