Chapter 8
KENDALL
I’ve been painting since sunrise, adding the final brushstrokes to Tyler’s portrait while the coffee in my mug goes cold.
The work is good, and I’m ahead of schedule, which proves I’m well-conditioned after years of gallery deadlines.
Hunter’s portrait is drying on the easel by the window, and Cap’s is nearly finished on the table. Three down, seventeen to go.
But every time I pause, my mind drifts back to those photos of Patterson and that woman, which were posted online by every gossip site known to man on Friday.
I’ve looked at Patterson leaving Diamond with his arm around her waist at least a hundred times. We kissed, and hours later, he left with someone else. It’s proof that I’ve been romanticizing something that was never there.
Over the weekend, Addison called to check on me and started making excuses for her brother’s behavior.
Before she could finish, I told her there was nothing between us, and he could fuck whoever he wanted.
One stupid kiss in a bar doesn’t mean anything.
Then I spent the rest of the weekend painting with furious brushstrokes and pretending I believed my own words.
I set down my brush and gulp down the last of my coffee because that asshole doesn’t deserve another second of my mental energy.
Today, I have Wyatt’s portrait session, but I’m going to the facility early to find some reference shots for the charity auction pieces. Every day counts, and I refuse to fall behind on my deadlines because Patterson Cross is taking up space in my head.
I shower and dress in slacks and a black sweater, then slide on some heels. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail, hoping I blend in. It’s my I mean business outfit.
By the time I arrive, the facility is buzzing with activity. Players are filtering through the lobby, and the assistant coach is standing near the rink with a clipboard. As soon as my dad spots me, he waves me over with a proud smile.
“You’re here early.” He pulls me into a side hug. “Ready for a big week?”
“Of course. Thought I’d try to grab some additional shots of the guys before Wyatt’s session this afternoon.” I hold up my camera bag. I look at the rink and realize it’s goalies on the ice. “Where is everyone?”
“That’s my girl, always three steps ahead.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Most of the guys are in the weight room. Mondays are heavy lifting days.”
“Great. Is it okay for me to check it out?”
“Of course. You have free rein.” He checks his watch and frowns. “Honey, I wish I could chat longer. I’ve got a staff meeting in five.”
“Totally understand. Be nice to everyone.”
My dad laughs. “I’m always nice.”
“Yeah, sure you are.”
He grins wide as he heads toward the administrative wing, and I take a breath before making my way to the weight room.
The smell of iron and rubber hits me before I open the door. Inside, the sounds of grunts and clanking of plates layer over each other. Mirrors cover every wall, multiplying the image of professional athletes pushing their bodies past their comfort zones.
Cap is under a squat rack with a loaded barbell across his shoulders.
His eyes are glazed over and focused as he sinks into the movement and drives back up.
A trainer hovers behind him, hands ready, but Callan doesn’t waver.
I raise my camera and capture three quick shots—the strain in his jaw, the flex of his quads, the determination on his face.
Hunter is nearby on the bench press, arms trembling through what must be his final rep. The bar locks out, and he racks it with a satisfied growl before immediately checking his reflection. I snap him mid-flex, knowing he’ll request a copy.
Smiley is on a mat in the corner, doing a core circuit, alternating between planks and Russian twists with a medicine ball.
That trademark grin is plastered across his face, even while his abs burn.
I crouch to capture it because his joy is genuine in a way that will translate beautifully to canvas.
I’m reviewing shots on my camera screen when awareness melts over me.
I know without looking that Patterson is close.
When I turn around, I see him doing rows that make his tattooed shoulders flex.
His sleeveless shirt clings to the muscles that spread across his back, and it’s dark with sweat.
My eyes trail up the tattoos that snake up his forearms and disappear under the fabric.
I should look the fuck away, but my eyes refuse to cooperate as his lats spread with each pull of weight to his chest.
He finishes his set and releases the cable, rolling his shoulders as he reaches for his water bottle. When he straightens and turns, his gaze finds mine without hesitation.
Heat floods my face so fast that I feel dizzy. His mouth curves into a slow but evil smirk. And I know he’s filing this moment away to use against me later. If only the floor would open and swallow me whole because I’m living in my own personal hell.
I look away first, fumbling with my camera like the settings require intense concentration, as if I wasn’t memorizing every inch of him. My fingers are clumsy, and I swear I can hear my heart beating in my ears.
The last thing I want to do is give him any more leverage over me.
I walk over to Hunter and ask about his next set, positioning myself so Patterson disappears from view. My hands are steadier now, but my cheeks are hot.
“Where are you going?” Patterson’s voice comes from directly behind me, close enough that I catch the smell of his sweat and soap. It’s the same combination that clung to my clothes after being so close to him in the hallway.
“Away from you,” I say without turning.
“Why?” Laughter threads through his words. “Seemed like you were examining me pretty intensely. Don’t need a reference to draw me?”
My jaw tightens. “Shut up.”
“Tell me I’m lying.”
Now I turn because I won’t let him gloat, and he’s so much closer than I expected. Sweat beads at his temples, and there’s challenge in his eyes. His shirt might as well be painted on by how it’s clinging to every muscle on him. I keep my gaze fixed on his face as my body betrays me.
“Leave me alone.”
“You’re unbelievable.” He exhales, his amusement fades into frustration.
“Yeah? And you’re bothering me.”
We go back and forth, and one of the trainers looks at me, along with some of the players.
“I can’t do this with you,” I whisper between clenched teeth, noticing we’re drawing too much attention.
“Great,” he says. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
We stare at each other, and he looks like he wants to say more, but I don’t wait around to hear it. I turn back to Hunter, ignoring that Patterson even exists.
“You good?” Hunter asks.
“Fine. Annoyed,” I tell him, placing the viewfinder to my eyes and snapping a few photos. But my mind isn’t present. It’s replaying and dissecting every part of the conversation we just had.
Hunter laughs. “Yeah. Patty has that effect on people sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” I scoff.
“Yeah,” he says, lowering his voice. “Play the game, Kendall. You’re winning.”
I tilt my head at him. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Of course. But come on. You have more power than you think. Use it,” he offers, not explaining more. He doesn’t have to.
A small smile plays on my lips as I stare at Hunter. “Maybe I will.”
He moves to the next machine, cockiness in his steps. “If you change your mind on that date, let me know. I’m not afraid of being traded,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear.
Laughter falls from my lips. “Stop. Even joking about it is dangerous, you dummy.”
“Not scared, babe. Give me a chaaaance,” he says playfully.
The rest of my time in the weight room, I photograph every player available, building reference images. Tyler does dead lifts with perfect form. Mason laughs between sets because nothing dims that man’s energy.
I don’t cross paths with Patterson again. I also don’t let my eyes slide in his direction, even though I’m hyperaware of where he is at every moment. My vigilance is exhausting. Some might say it’s stubbornness, but it’s much more than that.
After lunch, I head to the conference room for Wyatt’s session, but my neck is stiff, and my back is tight. I’ve been carrying too much tension.
Wyatt arrives fifteen minutes early, radiating nervous energy, asking whether he should smile, look serious, or tilt his head a certain way.
I gently walk him through the process, explaining that I want to capture who he actually is rather than some manufactured pose.
As we talk about hockey and ice skating, he relaxes.
By the end of the hour, I have what I need, and I think it fully represents the earnest kid underneath the professional athlete. He leaves smiling.
“I’m gonna have to tell the other guys this isn’t as scary as everyone thinks.”
“Pfft. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They call you The Destroyer, Kendall. There’s a reason for that,” he says, looking at me from head to toe. I haven’t heard that nickname in years. “I see the allure though.”
“Sir, respectfully, you’re too young.”
“Oh, I assumed,” he says. “Thanks.”
After the door closes, I sit alone and let silence surround me.
The portrait schedule for next week needs to be finalized today because I promised my dad I’d give everyone at least a week’s notice in case someone needed to switch.
I slide my laptop from my shoulder bag and open the spreadsheet. Most players need one session, maybe two for the stiff ones. The auction pieces require more time. I haven’t fully decided what I’ll create yet. I’d love to do team portraits, but that will require me to go to games.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I remember the conversation I had with Hunter earlier.
“Play the game, Kendall. You’re winning.”