Chapter 12
KENDALL
Ihaven’t stopped thinking about Patterson and what happened in the storage closet yesterday. Even now, I’m still in shock that he agreed, especially considering how he’s always treated me.
The way his voice dropped when he said, “Your pussy is mine,” may haunt me for the rest of my life.
It was intense, like he was claiming his territory.
I’ve replayed it so many times that I barely slept, tossing and turning while my body remembered every detail of something I should be trying to forget.
I’ve never lost control like that. My sex life has been vanilla at best. Careful. For once, I don’t want that.
Now I’m standing outside my parents’ house in Westchester with a bottle of wine in one hand and my sanity slipping through the other.
Sunday dinner before I moved away was a Hart family tradition that survived my years in Europe through video calls and care packages.
I’ve been looking forward to having my mom’s cooking while listening to Dad’s really bad jokes.
There are comforts this house gives me that no other place in the world can.
As I make my way onto the top step, I notice a black Range Rover sitting on the other side of my dad’s jacked-up pickup truck that he hardly ever drives. I figure one of the neighbors. The Amorettis live right next door and use my parents’ driveway when their relatives are in town.
Before I make it to the front door, it swings open.
“There she is!” My mom steps outside with her arms spread wide, wearing the floral apron she’s had since I was twelve.
Her dark hair is streaked with gray, more than I remember, and it’s pulled back into a loose bun.
I am a spitting image of my mom, her true mini-me.
“I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”
“Sorry. Traffic on the Hutch.”
I climb the steps and let her pull me into a hug. She smells like lavender and home, and I hold on a little longer than usual because I’ve missed this. Five years of video calls could never replace the real thing. Considering I’m an only child, I’m all my parents have.
“You’re too thin,” she says, pulling back to examine me. “Are you eating enough? I worry about you in that apartment by yourself. You should stay with your father at his place in the city.”
“I’m eating fine, Mom. And I need my privacy. I’m twenty-seven now, and Dad is nosy.”
“Yes, he is.” She ushers me inside with a soft hand on my back. “Your father’s in the living room. Dinner is almost ready.”
The house hasn’t changed since I was a kid.
The same hardwood floors creak in the hallway and made it impossible for me to sneak out as a teen.
Family photos line the staircase wall, documenting every awkward phase of my adolescence, along with championship plaques that were given to my dad.
I even pass the ugly ceramic vase I made when I was ten that my mom refuses to throw away.
I follow the sound of my dad’s voice in the living room. He’s loud and animated, and he’s talking about hockey. He must be on the phone with one of his assistant coaches, breaking down film or arguing about line combinations the way he does every—
I freeze in the doorway.
My mouth falls open when I see Patterson Cross sitting on my parents’ couch, laughing with my dad.
He’s wearing a navy sweater that makes his eyes look more blue than green, and his hair is styled like he actually put effort into it. A glass of liquor, maybe whiskey, is in his hand. He’s wearing that charming smile he reserves for people he’s trying to impress or when he’s on television.
Then his gaze slides over to me. This is war.
My grip tightens on the wine bottle. Seeing him here causes aggravation to flood me. Behind the hostility in his eyes, I catch something else. The corner of his mouth twitches before his smile fades into a challenge.
He’s enjoying this, enjoying making me squirm in front of my parents. Some sick part of him finds it amusing. I want to throw the wine bottle at his head.
Knowing what we did and how much my body craves more of him—it makes everything worse. Now I have to undoubtedly hate him in front of my parents.
“There’s my girl.” Dad stands and crosses the room to kiss my forehead, oblivious to the battle of wits that’s just begun. “Was starting to worry about you.”
“Dad, what is he doing here?” The words come out flat and hard.
Dad’s smile falters. “Patterson stopped by to drop off some game film. I invited him to stay for dinner.”
“Then I’m leaving.” I take a step backward. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Kendall.” Dad’s voice carries a warning.
“No. I came here to see you and Mom, not to deal with”—I gesture toward Patterson, who’s watching me with that infuriatingly sexy but blank expression—“him.”
Patterson shoots back his whiskey and sets his glass down with a deliberate clink. “Trust me, I didn’t plan for this either.”
“Then leave.”
“Enough.” Dad’s coach voice rips through the room. It’s the one that makes grown men shut their mouths and skate harder. “Both of you, sit down.”
“Dad—”
“Right now, Kendall.”
I force my feet to move, lowering myself into the armchair away from the couch. I slam the wine bottle on the side table and cross my arms over my chest like a teenager who got grounded.
Patterson settles back onto the couch, and I catch that glint in his eyes again. Bastard.
Mom appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Dinner’s almost—” She stops, noticing the tension in the room. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Dad says. “Just having a family discussion.”
“I should go.” Patterson starts to rise. “I don’t want to intrude on—”
“Sit.” Dad points at him, then at me. “Both of you. Nobody’s going anywhere until we discuss this.”
“There is nothing to discuss.”
Mom’s gaze bounces between us before she quietly retreats to the kitchen. Smart woman.
Dad stands in the center of the room like he’s addressing the team before a playoff game. His arms cross over his chest, and I recognize the posture. I’ve seen it my whole life, right before he delivers a speech that guys will remember and quote for years.
“I’ve watched you two circle each other like rabid dogs for weeks now,” he starts. “The whole facility’s noticed. My coaches have noticed. Hell, the equipment manager complained about you two terrorizing each other in the hallways.”
My face burns. “Dad—”
“I’m not finished.” He holds up a hand. “I don’t know what happened between you two, and frankly, I don’t care about who dated who and who doesn’t like each other for whatever reason.
That’s in the past. What I care about is my team, my daughter, and the fact that this”—he gestures between us—“is becoming a distraction.”
Patterson says nothing. His expression has gone carefully neutral; all traces of his cockiness have vanished.
“Kendall, you know you’re going to be at more games, practices, and team events.” Dad turns to Patterson. “And you’re going to get used to it. She’s not going anywhere, and neither are you.”
“With respect, Coach—” Patterson starts.
“I’m not asking for respect. I’m asking for basic professionalism.
” Dad’s voice drops lower, which is somehow more intimidating than when he yells.
“You’re the face of this franchise, one of the best players in the league.
She’s my daughter. Whatever personal issues exist between you, figure them out and bury them so deeply that no one ever sees them again.
Pretend you like each other in public. I don’t want to hear about it from anyone. Understood?”
The silence stretches on for an eternity.
Patterson’s eyes find mine across the room, and this time, there’s something darker that makes my thighs press together involuntarily.
“Understood,” Patterson says quietly. “You have my word.”
Dad looks at me. “Kendall?”
“Fine.” The word tastes like ash. “I’ll be professional.”
“Good.” Dad’s shoulders relax. “Now, your mother made a beautiful meal, and we’re going to sit at that table like civilized adults and have a nice dinner. No glaring. No snide comments. Just food and conversation. Can you both manage that?”
“Yes, sir,” Patterson says.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
“Good.” Dad heads toward the dining room. “Let’s eat.”
Patterson rises from the couch and pauses beside my chair, close enough that I catch his scent.
He leans down, his mouth barely an inch from my ear. “Award-winning performance,” he whispers so low that only I can hear.
“I wasn’t performing,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
He smirks. “Even better.”
Then he follows my father, leaving me nearly gasping for air. He affects me too much, a control I wish he didn’t have.
Sitting across from him at dinner is a masterclass in torture.
The food is perfect, but every bite sits like an anchor in my stomach. I’m hyperaware of Patterson, noticing the small details, like how he holds his knife and the movement of his throat when he swallows.
“This is incredible, Mrs. Hart.” Patterson’s voice is genuine, and my mother practically glows under the praise. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal like this. I haven’t seen my parents as often as I should.”
He takes another bite and makes a sound of appreciation that I’ve heard in a very different context. My fork scrapes against my plate.
“Between the season and training, there’s not much time for family dinners.”
“That’s a shame,” Mom says. “Family is everything.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he says.
I want to gag at how fake he’s being. He’s performing the role of perfect dinner guest so convincingly that my mother is eating out of his hand. Dad’s nodding along, and I’m the only one in the room who knows the real Patterson Cross. The man he tries to hide under that perfectly polished surface.
He’s a manipulative, arrogant, infuriating asshole who might ruin me for anyone else.
“Kendall, you’re quiet.” Dad’s watching me like I’m hiding something.
“Just enjoying the food.”
“You’ve barely touched it.”