Rebound: Connor & MacKenzie (Good Hope-The Next Generation #4)

Prologue

Rough and Tumble pulsed like a live wire.

The sports bar—Seattle’s self-proclaimed home for women’s sports—throbbed with sound and motion, every surface vibrating with anticipation.

As Connor Brody paused in the door, the roar of voices spilled past him into the cool night air—a collision of cheers, laughter and the hiss of beer taps working overtime.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes to tipoff.

No chance he was getting a seat at the bar.

Connor let the door swing shut behind him as the noise swallowed him whole. He’d come straight from a meeting that had run long—of course it had—and was grateful the Workman twins had arrived early enough to claim a table.

Tonight, the place was packed shoulder to shoulder for the WNBA Finals. The Las Vegas Aces were taking on the Orlando Rockets in the final game of a brutal best-of-five series.

“Connor!”

Emily’s voice cut through the din.

He scanned the crowd, spotting her dark hair and raised hand near the back wall.

She and her brother were at a table squeezed between a pizza-laden table and a cluster of fans already on their feet.

Connor threaded his way through the narrow aisles, brushing past elbows and jerseys, the air warm with fried food and adrenaline.

He felt the familiar surge of excitement as he approached—part game-night anticipation, part relief at having made it at all.

He’d asked Nicolette to come with him, though he hadn’t expected her to say yes.

She’d had another obligation, a charity event her mother was chairing at the historic Globe Building in Pioneer Square. Polished. Important. The kind of evening Connor knew how to show up for, even if it wasn’t where he felt most himself.

He hadn’t argued. Lately, he’d learned which parts of his life didn’t quite fit into his girlfriend’s.

Connor reached the table, clapped Ric on the shoulder and leaned in to hug Emily, the three of them folding together with the ease of people who’d known one another since before life had scattered them.

“We were starting to think you’d bailed,” Ric said, sliding a beer toward him and nodding at the half-destroyed pizza in the center of the table. “More for me and Em, but—”

“We didn’t want you to miss seeing Mac play,” Emily cut in, her eyes already flicking toward the screens mounted along the walls.

Connor smiled, lifting the beer in thanks. He’d known the Workman twins back in Good Hope, Wisconsin. When all three of them had ended up in Seattle after college, the years apart had collapsed without effort, as if nothing important had happened in between.

“I still can’t believe someone we went to school with is one of the top players in the country,” Ric said, reaching for another slice.

“I can,” Emily said easily. “As I’ve said before, Mac and I played on the same team in high school. Even then, MacKenzie Lockhart was in a league of her own.”

“I didn’t know her well,” Ric said. “But she was always cool. Friendly.”

“Same,” Connor said, taking a long pull of beer. “I only remember her on the court. Never at parties. Never hanging around.”

“There are rumors she’s retiring after this season,” Ric added.

Emily scoffed softly. “I think that’s noise. She’s still young. Still dominant. Tonight, she’s close to breaking her all-time scoring record. Who walks away at the top of their game?”

Connor’s gaze drifted to the nearest screen as the pregame coverage wrapped up. He thought of how Callum’s life had taken a hard, unexpected turn the year before, blowing apart plans he’d been sure of. Things had worked out for his twin in the end, but not the way anyone would’ve predicted.

Maybe Mac has something personal going on, Connor thought.

“I—” He stopped.

Ric and Emily weren’t listening anymore.

The arena feed filled the screens as player introductions began. The bar erupted with each familiar name. When MacKenzie Lockhart appeared, the cheer that rose from the crowd felt almost physical, a wave of sound that lifted Connor with it.

He leaned forward, studying her.

Her short, jaggedly cut dark hair framed her face, sharp and unapologetic.

She wasn’t traditionally pretty, but she was striking.

Magnetic. Confidence rolled off her in visible waves.

At six feet, she wasn’t even the tallest on the court, but her body—lean, muscular, coiled with power—marked her as someone no defender underestimated twice.

The stats flashed beside her image. Another stellar season. Another reason the Rockets were here, one game away from a title.

The game itself was relentless.

By the time ten seconds remained, the lead had changed hands so many times Connor had lost count. His throat burned from shouting. He was half out of his seat, knuckles white around his beer bottle.

The Aces were up by two.

Mac had the ball.

She brought it down the court, dribbling with controlled urgency, eyes up, reading the defense as two players closed in on her.

“Shoot it!” Connor yelled, along with most of the bar.

The seconds bled away.

Time stretched thin.

The ball left her hands, clean and confident, and the bar fell into a collective hush so sudden that Connor could hear the hum of the lights overhead.

The shot arced toward the rim—perfect, impossible—and for a single suspended heartbeat, nothing else in the world existed.