Chapter 20
KENDALL
Ilock myself in the bathroom and stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me.
My lipstick is somehow still intact, but my hair is a disaster, pins loosened and strands falling around my face.
My cheeks are flushed, and my eyes are too bright, and I can feel Patterson between my thighs with every micro-movement I make.
The absence of my underwear is a constant reminder of what happened, of what I practically begged for.
I grip the edge of the sink and take three deep breaths, knowing that I live for these moments even though I shouldn’t.
I’m addicted to the rush of it all, but now I need to get it together and put my game face on because I have to go back out there and sit next to his brother like I didn’t just get fucked senseless.
I clean myself up and squeeze my thighs together, hating how much I already want him again.
I fix my hair as best I can, tucking the loose pieces back into place and securing them with pins that are hanging on for dear life.
I reapply my lipstick even though it doesn’t need it and pat my cheeks until the flush looks like makeup instead of sex.
When I look presentable enough to face a room full of league executives, newscasters, sports journalists, and my father, I smooth my dress down and return.
Jameson is exactly where I left him, chatting with one of the assistant coaches, and his face lights up when he sees me approach.
“There you are.” He stands and opens his arms to welcome me into an easy embrace. “Thought you might have gotten lost.”
“The line for the bathroom was insane,” I lie, sliding into place to play the part, knowing most eyes are on us.
I can feel where Patterson was, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral.
Across the room, he’s back at his table with Mila, looking cool and composed.
When his eyes find mine in the crowded room, I see a flicker of satisfaction before he looks away because he knows I’m wrapped around his little finger, and I hate that he’s right.
“You okay?” Jameson asks, his hand gently finding my bare shoulder. “You seem tense.”
“Ready to get out of these heels,” I explain, and it’s not completely a lie.
He laughs, and I try to act normal when he touches me. It’s not unpleasant so much as it feels wrong because I know how it affects Patterson, and everything about tonight feels wrong except for being with him in the coat room. That’s the most fucked-up part of all.
The lights dim, and the emcee takes the stage to introduce the first speaker.
I half-listen through two speeches about league partnerships and charity initiatives.
At the same time, my mind wanders back to Patterson’s hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, the way he said I belonged to him like it was an undeniable fact.
I love it when he’s rough, but I crave the soft moments with him, when he lets me really see him.
When the emcee announces Patterson’s name, I sit a little taller.
He struts up to the podium with the confidence of someone who’s been in front of cameras his entire career, and the spotlight catches the lines of his jaw and the curve of his shoulders in that perfectly tailored tux.
He looks like he was born for stages and applause and rooms full of people hanging on his every word.
“Good evening,” he begins, his deep voice filling the ballroom. “I’m here tonight to talk about Coach Hart, but I think to really understand what he means to this team, I need to start with a confession.”
I hold my breath.
“Years ago, I walked into the Angels’ facility as a rookie with a chip on my shoulder and something to prove.
I thought I knew everything about hockey, and I believed talent was enough.
I was always told if I worked harder and played better than everyone else, success would follow.
” He pauses, scanning the crowd. “That’s so far from the truth that it’s laughable. ”
I watch him command the room, every eye fixed on him.
“Coach Hart saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself.
He saw past the arrogance and the attitude and the walls I’d built, and he refused to let me hide behind them.
He pushed me harder than anyone ever had, not because he wanted to break me, but because he knew what I was capable of becoming. ”
His eyes find mine across the room, and everyone disappears.
“The game started to change for me. It stopped being about proving something and started being about the love of it. I found a pure, all-consuming, terrifying love for something that challenged me every single day.” His voice drops, intimate despite the microphone.
“None of this would be possible without Coach Hart, and I owe everything to him. He taught me that the things worth having tend to scare you the most, but you keep working for that. Coach is a wise man, even though he has a scary-as-hell holler.”
My heart is pounding so hard that I’m sure Jameson can hear it.
“But he taught me that sometimes, you have to stop holding back and go after what you want, even when every logical part of your brain is telling you it’s a terrible idea. If you see a shot, you take it because the regret of never going for the goal is so much worse.”
He’s not talking about hockey anymore, and we both know it.
Jameson shifts beside me, and I feel his eyes on my face, but I can’t look away from Patterson.
“I used to think hockey was only a game, something I was good at, something that paid the bills and filled the time. But it’s my life.
” Patterson’s jaw tightens. “Coach Hart taught us about family, and he treats every single person on the team like they’re his own.
You do a lot for family; you fight for it, protect it, and give it everything you have, even when it’s hard, even when it hurts.
So, tonight, I want to thank Coach Hart for believing in so many of us when we didn’t believe in ourselves.
Thank you for always pushing me to be better. ”
He raises his glass toward my father’s table. “To Coach Hart. The best coach, mentor, leader, and father figure I’ve ever known. You deserve this, Coach. There is no greater honor than to be a player on your team.”
The room erupts in applause, and I clap along, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind races. Patterson steps away from the podium and accepts handshakes and back-slaps as he makes his way to his table, and he doesn’t look at me again, which is probably for the best.
“That was a beautiful speech,” Jameson mutters, and there’s something careful in his voice now. “Patterson’s not usually so eloquent.”
“He’s full of surprises these days,” I manage to say.
Jameson studies me for a moment, and I see something shift in his expression. He’s always been perceptive, always been able to read me, and right now, I feel like he’s cataloging details he shouldn’t be noticing.
My father goes to the front and accepts his award, giving a heartfelt speech about coaching the Angels for nearly his entire thirty-year career. Jameson catches me glancing at Patterson, and I force a smile.
“Kendall, are you—” he starts, but the clapping begins again along with a standing ovation.
My father appears at our table with his gigantic trophy, which will go in the case next to all the others.
“There’s my girl.” Dad pulls me into a hug, and I breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne, letting it ground me. “What did you think?”
“The speeches were great.”
“Yeah. Patterson’s almost made me choke up.” Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Pain in my ass sometimes, but a good kid.”
If he only knew how good.
Dad quickly chats with Jameson before he’s pulled away, and I use the time to collect myself. When I glance toward Patterson’s table, he’s deep in conversation with Mila, her hand on his arm, her body angled toward his, and they’re playing the part, like me.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of small talk and champagne that I start chugging. By the time Jameson suggests we head out, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the hour, because performing wears me down.
We slide into the back of the town car, and Manhattan blurs past the windows as we head toward my apartment.
He’s so easy to be around, so uncomplicated, and I remember why I said yes when he proposed all those years ago, because being with Jameson feels safe, like sitting in a warm bath instead of being plunged into cold water.
On the way back to my apartment, I keep hearing Patterson’s voice repeat in my head. “Tell him it’s over. Make it crystal clear.”
The city lights paint shadows across his face, and I’m struck again by how much they look alike. They have the same bone structure and blue-green eyes, but where Patterson is all tension and edges, Jameson is comfortable and approachable.
The car slows in front of my place, and I turn to him.
“Good night, Kendall. Had fun,” he says.
I should let him go, say good night, and disappear inside, but Patterson’s demand echoes in my head, and I realize I need to know for certain that there’s nothing left between Jameson and me. I need to close this door completely.
“Actually, do you want to come up for a bit? I have wine or tequila, and I think we should talk.”
His smile is kind. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Jameson pays the driver before I can protest and follows me up the stairs. I let us into my apartment, flipping on lights and heading toward the kitchen while he looks around at the canvases stacked everywhere.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, examining the stack of paintings leaning against the wall. He moves closer and bends down to look at Callan’s portrait. “Wow, Kendall. You’re so damn talented. Like, you were good before, but this is … I’m blown away and so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing two glasses and the bottle of red I opened yesterday.