My dad hated him.
I was fascinated.
“Would you like to grab dinner after this?” the coach asks, his hand brushing my arm.
I barely register the touch. “Hmm?”
Beckham's lips were softer than I expected. Gentle at first, then demanding. Like he couldn't help himself. Like I broke something in him.
“Hennessy? Did you hear me?” The voice sounds far away, annoying.
“I'm sorry, what?” I finally turn to face the man beside me, plastering on a smile I don't feel.
“Dinner? Tonight? After this wraps up?” His eyes drop to my neckline, lingering a beat too long.
“Oh, I can't tonight. I have plans.” The lie comes easily. My only plan is to drive Beckham Kingston absolutely out of his mind.
“Tomorrow then?”
I take another sip of wine, already bored with this conversation. “Maybe.”
My phone buzzes in my clutch. I excuse myself, stepping away from the group to check it.
Call me when you get in. I want to know you made it safely. I’ll be there tomorrow once I’m sure your abuela is taken care of.
My father finally convinced my grandmother to leaveCalifornia and move to New Haven, and he acts like she won’t still run circles around him with her chancla. I giggle to myself thinking about when I was eight and saw her do just that when he got a little bit of an attitude with her.
“Would you like another drink?” The guy who can’t take a hint is still talking, gesturing to my nearly empty glass.
“No, thank you. I think I need some fresh air.” I hand him my glass, not waiting for a response before slipping away.
The hallway stretches empty before me with no sign of him. I push through a set of glass doors leading to a small terrace overlooking the hotel gardens. The early December air hits me hard, raising goosebumps along my bare arms, but I barely notice the cold.
There he is, leaning against the stone railing, his back to me. Snowflakes drift lazily around him, catching in his dark curly hair. He looks powerful even in stillness, like a statue carved from something unyielding.
I've never wanted anyone the way I want him. It's a constant, unrelenting ache that hasn't faded despite the years or however many dates I’ve been on. They're all just pale substitutes for what I really want.
“Running away, Coach Kingston?”
He spins around, and snowflakes catch on his eyelashes, melting against the heat of his skin. For a moment, he just stares at me, jaw tight, hands gripping the railing behind him.
“You shouldn't be out here,” he says, voice low and gruff. “It's cold.”
I take a step closer, letting the door swing shut behind me. “I don't mind the cold.”
“What are you doing here, Hennessy?” He practically growls my name, and the sound of it on his lips sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
“I'm covering the conference for the NACHC media team. I work in the marketing department now.” I step closer, savoring the way his shoulders tense. “Didn't you get the memo?”
His eyes darken, that dangerous look I've been chasing for years. “You work for the conference?”
“Started three months ago. Social media, press releases, player spotlights.” I shrug, letting the movement draw his attention to the neckline of my dress. “Someone has to make hockey look sexy because the hockey stench after a game isn’t helping anything.”
“Your father know about this?” His voice is tight, controlled.
“I can keep a secret, but you don’t really think my dad wouldn’t know where I’m working.” I close the distance between us, my heels clicking against the stone terrace. “I'll be interviewing all the head coaches. One-on-one.”
The muscles in his jaw twitch. “And you didn't think to mention this little career development when you had your tongue down my throat?”
