Chapter 4
KENDALL
I’ve successfully avoided Patterson by keeping my head down and sticking to my schedule.
Tuesday morning, I arrived at the facility exactly fifteen minutes before Tyler Reed’s session and left exactly thirty minutes after.
There was no lingering, and I gave Patterson zero chances to corner me again.
Working with Tyler was easy. He’s twenty-two—five years younger than me.
The guy has a face that photographs well, but he’s quiet and doesn’t open himself up much, even with open-ended questions.
I asked about his hometown, and he gave me two generic sentences.
When I inquired about his family, he had a little more to say, but not much.
By the end of the session, I had solid reference photos and enough sketches to work from.
I’m crossing my fingers that the rest are as easy, but that’s wishful thinking. Some of these guys have known me since my ice-skating days. Some have played for my dad their entire career.
As I suspected, Hunter Matthews was the polar opposite.
That man talked for an hour straight about his stats, workout routine, favorite restaurants, and opinions on the protein powder he’s become the face of.
Each time I asked him to hold still, he’d shift into a new pose, like he was shooting for a magazine spread and not sitting for a painting.
Hunter being flirty is an understatement.
By the time he left, I had over a hundred photos of him, and half of them were blurry.
At least he’ll make for an interesting portrait.
Now it’s Thursday, and I’m set up in one of the conference rooms, waiting for Callan Riddick, the team captain.
I arrange my supplies on the table—a few charcoal pencils, an eraser, sketch paper, and my camera for reference photos. The conference room has decent natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I’ve positioned a chair where I can easily capture the angles and shadows of his chiseled jaw.
Callan arrives ten minutes early, which I appreciate more than he knows.
“Kendall.” He nods at me with a kind smile. “Ready to make me pretty?”
“That’s the goal.”
He settles into the chair without being asked, finding a natural position immediately. Instead of fidgeting, he sits comfortably with his shoulders back. It’s stoic.
“So, how does this work?” he asks.
“I’ll take some reference photos first, then make a loose sketch. The photos will help me finish the painting later, but the sketches capture the moment in real time.”
“That sounds interesting.”
He laughs, and I snap the first photo. His entire face is full of joy that will translate beautifully to canvas. My goal is to capture the personality that leaks off the page.
“I’ve heard you’re the hockey player whisperer,” he says, smirking.
“Oh, is that the word on the ice these days? They used to call me The Destroyer.”
“Well, I think they still call you that too,” he tells me. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I say.
I have a type. And they’re always hockey players. Maybe I am a puck bunny, but then again, I actually appreciate the game. The players are a bonus.
The conversation is playful as I move around him, taking shots from different areas in the room. He doesn’t try to pose or control his expression. It’s refreshing after Hunter’s constant adjustments and need to fill every silence with his own voice.
“How’s it going so far?” he asks. “With the project, I mean.”
“Good. Two down, eighteen to go.”
“Hunter behaved himself?”
I snort, and Callan grins.
“That bad?”
“He asked me out four times in the hour we were together, knowing my father would murder him if I said yes.”
“Only four times? That’s restraint.” Callan shakes his head. “He once asked a reporter for her number during a postgame interview. On live television.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish. Coach almost benched him the next game because of it. His publicist lost her shit, and so did his agent. A filter isn’t included with the Hunter Matthews package. Pretty girls are his kryptonite.”
I chuckle and actually relax. Chatting with Callan has always been easy. That hasn’t changed over the years.
“Speaking of Coach and his temper,” Callan says, “do you think he’s serious about you not dating anyone on the team?”
“Very serious. Why? Are you interested?”
He laughs. “No. You’re not my type.”
“Ouch.”
“I just mean, what if you fell in love with an Angel? What would happen?”
I’ve thought about this before. “I think he would trade the player. He won’t coach someone who might be his son-in-law.”
“That’s putting a lot on the line,” Callan says. “Did you ever date Nick Banks?”
My face cracks into a smile. “Nick? No.”
“There was a rumor a few years back that he almost allowed a trade of Nick Banks because he wanted to take you out.”
My hand freezes on the camera. “Nick never asked me out.”
“He mentioned it in the locker room, just floating the idea. Coach heard about it within the hour.” Callan shakes his head. “The message was clear.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s your dad.” Callan studies me. “Want you to be aware of how it is.”
“Did he put you up to this talk? To scare me away?” I ask.
“No, I’m telling you so you understand. Store the information away for a rainy day.”
The words sink in as I realize my father almost traded Nick Banks over a passing comment. The thought makes me nauseous. I can’t be the reason my father destroys anyone’s career, even someone I despise.
A sigh escapes me. “I’ll date whoever I want. Trust me.”
“I believe you.” He holds up his hands. “You’re working against a lot. It’s risky for everyone involved. Consider it a friendly public service announcement.”
“Thanks, I guess. Maybe I’ll attach a warning label to my wrist.” I set down the camera and pick up my sketchbook, settling into the chair across from him. “Okay, enough about my dad’s overprotective bullshit. Talk to me about something else. The goal is to capture you in your element.”
“Great.”
“I’ve found that the more I chat with people while I’m doing this, the more personality comes out in the portrait. Makes it mean something.”
He considers my words. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever is on your mind,” I say.
“Now you sound like my therapist.” He cracks a grin.
“I’ve been told I’m a great listener. Just know that what you share within these walls stays here. It’s the artist’s promise. But we can start small. Tell me, did you always know you wanted to play hockey professionally?”
“Oh, so it’s an interview?”
“It can be.”
He talks about growing up in Minnesota and learning to skate on frozen lakes. His younger sister is a pediatric nurse in Chicago, and his expression shifts when he mentions her. I think it’s cute how his parents still attend every game they can drive to because it’s something they’ve always done.
When he speaks about this team, it’s with pride and affection.
It’s admirable how he creates space for everyone to be their best on the ice.
It’s a captain quality that’s less about commanding and more about encouraging.
He talks with pride about the rookies he’s helped bring up over the years, and I see why my father chose him to lead the team.
Callan is a green flag, a charming, safe space.
“Big game tonight,” I say. “You ready?”
“Always ready. You coming?”
“Nah,” I tell him.
“Too bad. Your dad thinks you’re our lucky charm.”
I smile. “Trust me, I’m not. That’s all you guys.”
“Yeah, we can’t afford another loss.” He rolls his shoulders. “I need everyone locked in. No distractions.”
“Think you’ll get that?”
“Depends.” He pauses. “Cross has been off this week. Can’t figure out why.”
As I open my mouth to respond, the knob clicks and swings open. Patterson steps inside, and the air in the room changes instantly.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter, sitting up straighter.
His broad shoulders fill the doorway, and he arrogantly leans against the frame like he owns every room he enters. His blue-green eyes find mine and hold me in place. They’re cold and accusatory, like I’ve done something wrong by simply existing in his space.
The audacity of this man to smell and look this good. The black T-shirt might be painted on him. My eyes slide down his body to his sleeves of tattoos on thick forearms. Most of that is new—sexy even. I swallow hard, hating that my body has any reaction to him at all.
“Coach wants you, Cap,” Patterson says to Callan.
“Right now?” Callan asks.
Patterson doesn’t move. “Apparently.”
I hold his glare because I refuse to be the one who turns away first. My pulse pounds as his shoulders tense beneath his shirt. Patterson doesn’t deserve any of my attention, and yet here he is, demanding it.
“Did you get enough shots?” Callan’s voice stays steady as he glances between us.
“I did,” I say kindly. “If you need to go, I can schedule you again if I need anything else.”
“Great.” Callan stands, moving past Patterson.
“Enjoyed our conversation,” I tell him.
“Was eye-opening.” He pauses at the door and glances back at Patterson and me before leaving.
We’re alone.
He doesn’t speak. He stands there, watching me like I’m something he wants to destroy. It wrecks me in the worst possible way.
“You lost?” I ask over my shoulder as I pack my art supplies into my bag.
“Nope.”
“Then go the fuck away. Pretend I don’t exist.”
“Impossible.”
I can feel his eyes on my back, and irritation crawls all over my skin. A minute later, I swing my bag over my shoulder and grab my canvas, then turn to face him.
Callan’s words echo in my head.
“How about you not suck tonight on the ice and actually win the damn game?” I say, letting every ounce of venom drip from my voice. “Your team needs you locked in.”
His jaw clenches so hard that I can see the muscle tic. “Excuse the hell out of me?”
“You heard me, Pattycakes.”
I walk past him, close enough to catch his scent, and I hate the way my stomach flips as I keep moving. The door slams behind me, and the sound echoes down the hallway. I don’t slow down until I’m outside the facility, standing on the sidewalk with February’s coldness biting at my skin.
As I breathe in, I smile, knowing Patterson’s probably fuming inside that conference room.
Good. Let him spiral.
As I head toward the subway, I text Addison.
Kendall
Drinks later? I need to decompress after my day.
Addison
Yes, please. I need an update on how the portraits are going!
Kendall
Perfect. Where?
Addison
Diamond? I’d like some privacy.
Kendall
Fancy. I’m in.
It’s one of those elite bars where celebrities and famous people go, and it reminds me that my father is Coach Hart.
Addison
Woo-hoo! Meet at 8:30?
Kendall
That’s great. It will give me some time to get more work done.
Addison
Me too! See you then! Cannot wait!
Part of me wants to make brownies and paint all night, but I need to have some fun before five more years pass me by. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t make my blood boil every time he walks into a room.
I slide my phone into my pocket and take the stairs down to the subway, thankful for Addison’s friendship.
Tonight, I’ll drink with my best friend and try to forget her brother exists. At least for a few hours.