Chapter 30
KENDALL
On Saturday morning, Patterson reorganizes his entire closet by color while I’m still in bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask from under the covers.
“Organizing.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“I’ve been up since four. I had a video call at five. Owner is fucking pissed at me.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care. “Anyway, which one is darker?” He holds up two nearly identical navy sweaters.
I squint, looking at them in the glowing closet light. “They’re the same.”
“One is navy, and the other is midnight.”
“Those are both dark blue.”
He stares at me, and I pull the pillow over my face because I’m not awake enough for this.
“That’s why we work. You don’t give a fuck about any of this.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“No. That’s the thing,” he says, rehanging them and moving to the doorway. “Over the last hour, I’ve realized that I don’t give a fuck about any of this.”
“You don’t mean that,” I tell him.
The suspension is going to be a long week.
The next day, he goes to practice because he’s allowed to skate with the team, just not suit up for games.
When he comes home, he’s in a better mood.
That night, the Angels play the Sharks, and we watch from his couch because my father banned him from the bench.
Every time they give up a goal, he mutters something under his breath.
When they lose by three, all he can do is shake his head.
“This is bullshit,” he mutters.
Sunday, the Angels blow a two-goal lead against the Las Vegas Hawks. Patterson watches the third period collapse with his hands pressed over his eyes. When the final buzzer sounds, he gets up without a word and goes for a long run.
Watching his team lose is killing him, and I wish there were something I could do about it.
Monday, I return to my apartment to check on my drying auction pieces and grab more clothes.
The five canvases are lined up where I left them.
I look over them one last time to make sure they’re ready for tomorrow’s delivery.
The team portrait came out better than I ever could’ve expected.
They all did, especially the two of Patterson.
He’s the star of the team; no one would expect any different.
Truthfully, I didn’t plan it that way.
I chose the most dynamic action shots, the moments with the best composition and lighting.
Patterson drives toward the net with two defenders on his back in one, and the other shows him in the penalty box, helmet off, jaw tight, looking like he wants to murder someone.
He’s magnetic on the ice in a way I couldn’t ignore, even when I was being objective.
Patterson is artwork in every way that matters.
The next morning, I load everything into the van I rented and drive it to the facility. The owner’s assistant meets me in the loading dock and helps me carry the pieces to the conference room, where we set them up on easels.
For some reason, my nerves are beginning to get the best of me. I wipe my hands on my jeans.
Dennis arrives ten minutes later in a tailored suit and shoes that reflect light.
“Miss Hart.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“I hope they meet your expectations.”
He starts with the team shot, nodding slowly, then moves to Callan and Hunter.
When he gets to Wyatt, he smiles. “The rookie. Very good choice. Fans love an underdog.”
Then he sees the two of Patterson and stops.
“Your star player,” I mutter.
He nods, looking at the first one for a long time. Patterson is mid-stride with the puck, his whole body leaning into the play. Then he moves to the penalty box painting and smiles.
“This one will start a bidding war. Patterson Cross is one of the best players this team has seen in nearly twenty years.” The owner turns to me. “Maybe ever. You were smart to capture that.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
Dennis looks impressed. “The auction committee will be thrilled. We’re going to raise a fortune for the foundation. This couldn’t have been done without your help and talent. It’s appreciated.”
“Actually”—I gesture to his assistant, who brings in two wrapped canvases—“I have something else. They’re a gift to the team, extras for the auction.”
He raises an eyebrow and unwraps the first one.
It’s my father screaming during a play, leaning forward with his hands braced on his knees, intensity radiating off him. I painted him fierce, focused, and completely in his element. He’s the man who taught me to love this game.
Dennis doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
“Kendall,” he says, “this is extraordinary. I swear I can hear this painting.”
“That’s literally the best compliment anyone has ever given me about one of my paintings,” I say with a chuckle. “I can hear it too.”
He unwraps the second canvas. It’s a team huddle—all the players circled up with their sticks in the center, heads bowed. You can’t see faces, just helmets and shoulders. It’s the collective, the unit, the essence that makes a team more than names on a roster.
“It’s been an honor to be chosen to do this,” I tell him, almost repeating the speech I gave him when I begged for this job. “I really hope you enjoyed working with me.”
The owner looks at me. “I’m blown away. Thank you for helping us memorialize this.”
I thank him, shake his hand, and manage to keep my composure until I’m back in the van. Then I sit in the driver’s seat and let myself feel the happiness radiate off of me.
I actually did it.
I finished the portraits on time, and I got the guy too.
When I walk into Patterson’s place, it smells like garlic and butter. Candles flicker on the kitchen island, wax dripping down the sides and pooling on the marble. A bouquet of the brightest pink roses sits next to an open bottle of wine.
I close the door behind me and stop.
He’s at the stove, barefoot in gray sweats, no shirt. Muscles cascade down his back as he stirs something in a pan. He’s relaxed.
“Hi,” I say as I enter the kitchen.
He glances over his shoulder at me and grins. After quickly wiping his hands, he pours me a glass of wine. “Sit down. We’re celebrating.”
I do as he says. “Your suspension doesn’t end until tomorrow.”
“We’re celebrating you, Ken Doll.” He turns back to the stove.
I lean in and smell the flowers. This color is my favorite, but I don’t remember telling him that.
“How did you know I like pink roses? I never told you.”
He chuckles, still focused on the pan. “I know a lot about you, babe. I pay attention.”
I stare at the back of his head.
“Like what?” I ask.
He turns the burner down and faces me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The candlelight catches the angles of his face, and he looks stupidly handsome, like he knows exactly what he does to me.
“You chew on your bottom lip when you’re thinking hard about something.
You hate the sound of ice in a glass, but you won’t ask for no ice because you think asking is more annoying.
You weirdly won’t eat ketchup on a burger, but you dip your fries in it.
” He pauses. “You hum when you draw. You don’t even know you’re doing it. ”
I don’t say anything.
“You tuck your hair behind your left ear when you’re nervous, never on the right.
You order coffee with oat milk, but you actually prefer whole milk.
You love naps, and you get really cranky when you’re tired, hungry, or horny.
And when you’re happy—like genuinely happy—and you laugh, you scrunch your nose right here. ”
Tears stream down my cheeks. “You noticed all that about me?”
“I see you, Kendall.”
He pushes off the counter and walks toward me. All I can do is kiss him like he’ll disappear.
“Aw, please don’t cry.”
“They’re happy tears, I promise,” I tell him as he wipes and kisses them away.
“I have to go stir that,” he says.
“Go,” I tell him, patting his ass as he walks away.
I take a sip of my wine and watch him cook. Five minutes later, he plates everything with more care than I expected. He fills shallow bowls with pasta, shrimp, and fresh parsley. He carries them to the table by the large windows, where more candles are burning.
Patterson pulls out my chair.
“Um … I didn’t know you were capable of this,” I say.
He places his hand over his heart, acting offended. “Give me a fucking break. I’m a hopeless romantic.”
“Ahh.” I nod. “Loving Titanic suddenly makes sense.”
He sits across from me and chuckles. “If you ever tell anyone that, I will deny it.”
We eat and talk about everything and nothing.
The delivery, Dennis’s reaction, the way my dad’s painting made him emotional.
Patterson tells me about practice, about Callan threatening to ruin his life if he gets suspended again.
I tell him about the team huddle painting and how I almost cried in the van because I was so overwhelmed with happiness. Everything is going so well.
After dinner, he clears the plates and comes back to find me standing by the window, looking out at the city. He spins me around and pulls me close before we start swaying. One of his arms is around my waist. We’re barely moving, and after a moment, he hums something soft against my hair.
“What are you humming?” I ask.
“I’m making it up as I go.”
I laugh as he pulls away and puts a record on the player.
“‘When a Man Loves a Woman,’” I say as he walks up to me and pulls me close to him.
“Why not? It’s a classic,” he tells me.
He hums along with it as we rock together. The candles burn down, and the wax covers the counter. The city glitters through the windows, and I close my eyes and let myself feel this.
His hand slides up my back, and he spins me out without warning. I yelp, and he catches me, pulling me back in. He dips me low, and I grab on to his shoulders as he sings along.
“Don’t drop me,” I tell him.
“Never,” he says, pulling me back up and kissing me.
We keep dancing long after the song ends, swaying to whatever plays next, neither of us paying attention to the songs anymore. His chin rests on the top of my head, and I press my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“I used to think about this. Having you here. Like this.” His hand traces up my spine. “I’d imagine what it would be like to be with you. No hiding. No sneaking around.”
“And?” I pull back to kiss his chin.
“Way fucking better than I ever imagined.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “And to think, we’re just getting started.”
The record crackles, and a new song starts, something slower. He pulls me closer, and we barely move.
“As soon as my contract is signed, I don’t want to hide anymore,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Really?” I ask.
“Don’t sound surprised. I want you with me everywhere. I’m tired of pretending we’re not together. I want the whole damn world to know you belong to me. I spoke with my agent today. She’s telling Dennis we need everything finalized before playoffs.”
I study him. “And what if they don’t?”
“They will,” he says. “I’m the best player they have. Losing those games only proved that.”
“That’s so soon.” I capture his lips, giddy at the idea of going public, and then I think about my dad. “I’ve thought about this, and I think I should tell my mom first. She’ll be happy, and she can help us come up with a plan.”
“Or maybe I’ll march into his office tomorrow and tell him exactly how I feel.” He presses his lips against my forehead, then my nose, then my mouth.
“That’s irrational,” I whisper. “You’ll be freshly unsuspended. Let’s try not to push your luck, okay? My dad is going to be angry.”
“Do you think he’ll get over it?” Patterson asks.
“I hope,” I tell him, feeling a stab of panic.
We make out in front of the fire that he built, his hands in my hair, mine pressed flat against his chest. Eventually, we slow down, trading kisses for quiet, holding each other while the flames crackle and pop.
“Thank you for this,” I say.
“Anything for you.” He pulls me down against him, my head on his chest, his arm heavy around my waist. “Stay with me tonight.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The fire burns low. His breathing slows. I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat and let myself believe that everything is finally falling into place.