Chapter 31
PATTERSON
The puck hits the back of the net before the goalie’s glove is halfway there.
My body remembers this even though I’ve spent the past week watching from the sidelines. Now I’m back where I belong, blades cutting fresh ice and my stick feeling like an extension of my arm.
Everything is clicking into place, like the life I’ve always dreamed of having is waiting for me on the horizon. Wyatt feeds me another pass, and I slam it into the goal. The crossbar sings from the impact.
The thought of playing in the game tomorrow night has me working harder. My muscles and lungs burn. I’m ready to win.
Hunter whoops from the bench. “Cross is back, baby! Devils had better watch out!”
Callan catches up to me at center ice, both of us breathing hard.
“Channel that energy for tomorrow night.” He taps his stick against mine. “Lock it down for the playoffs. We need you focused, not suspended again.”
“That was a onetime thing.”
Callan almost smiles, which for him is practically a standing ovation. “Keep your head straight. Whatever’s going on with you lately, put a ring on it.”
I smirk. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He skates off before I can argue.
Is it written across my forehead?
We run drills for another hour, and it’s clear that the break I got has made me untouchable. Every line I join clicks, and our plays work flawlessly. When Coach blows the whistle and waves us in, Smiley skates up beside me and shakes his head.
“Bro, maybe you should get suspended more often.”
“Not my style,” I tell him with a shrug. “Can’t stand to watch you lose.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Callan says. “I knew that would get to your head.”
The locker room is loud with the usual post-practice chaos. Gear is being stripped off, smack is being talked, and several Bluetooth speakers are playing clashing music. I peel off my jersey and pads and do some more stretching.
In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be back in a real game with the playoffs around the corner. My relationship with Kendall is waiting for me on the other side of this.
Coach appears in the doorway. “Reminder, portrait dedication at three. Dennis wants everyone showered and looking professional. Local news is covering it. Don’t embarrass the organization.”
A few guys groan.
“Three o’clock,” Coach repeats. “The concourse at the main entrance. Be there.”
I take my time in the shower and allow the hot water to beat down on my shoulders. Steam fills the stall, and I realize I don’t have any tension in my body. I’m completely relaxed.
I think about how she kissed me goodbye this morning and told me she loved me. I dry off and pull on the dress clothes I brought. Navy slacks, white button-down, and a midnight-blue tie she said she liked last week. I knot it, checking the mirror to make sure everything sits right.
My phone buzzes.
Kendall
Can’t wait to see you. Now, remember, please no eye-fucking.
Patterson
No guarantees.
Kendall
Best behavior, Pattycakes.
Patterson
Only for you.
Kendall
Patterson
Go pantyless for me.
Kendall
Really?
Patterson
Double dare you.
I pocket my phone and head to the event. When I enter, I follow the sound of voices.
The space has been transformed for the dedication of the portraits ceremony.
Ladders lean against the walls, where workers are making final adjustments to the hanging portraits, each one illuminated by a dedicated light that makes the colors pop.
Press clusters near the entrance with cameras and notepads.
Dennis is gesturing broadly while a reporter nods along.
The guys are scattered around, looking uncomfortable in their dress clothes.
Hunter is already tugging at his collar like it’s choking him.
And there she is.
Kendall is near the far wall, chatting with someone.
The black dress hugs her body perfectly and stops above her knee.
Dark brown hair falls past her shoulders.
Each time she moves her head, her diamond earrings sparkle in the light.
She hasn’t seen me yet, and that’s okay. I’m sure she can feel my presence.
I grab a tiny bottle of water from a side table and find a spot along the wall, where I can watch the workers hang the last few portraits.
One of them is hanging Callan’s portrait, checking twice that it’s level before stepping back.
The image is incredible from here, and I can see the determination carved into every line of his face.
Kendall made him look like a warrior, a fearless leader. She has a way of finding what’s special about someone and bringing it out in her artwork.
My eyes drift back to where she was. She’s now shaking hands with someone from the news crew, and I give myself permission to watch. Kendall is confident and holds herself with authority, while keeping her shoulders relaxed. She glances up and immediately finds me across the crowded room.
Everyone fades away, and the edges soften.
Conversations around me blur into the background.
We’re dancing in the electric current, hoping not to get shocked.
Everything blurs on the edges of my vision as I focus on her.
The voices fade into background noise. People standing close become shapes in my peripheral vision.
The corner of her mouth lifts into a smirk that’s reserved for me.
I remind myself to breathe, to look away, to stop being so fucking obvious about how I feel. Coach is somewhere in this room, and the last thing we need is for him to notice anything.
I force my gaze to the portraits on the wall and study the brushwork, allowing my pulse to go back to normal.
When I look back, she’s talking to Dennis, drinking a glass of champagne. She politely nods along to whatever he says, but her eyes flick over to me. It’s a quick look, hungry, full of longing, but then she glances away.
I take a long drink of water and try to think about anything other than her.
A moment later, the microphone is being tapped, and the room grows quiet.
Coach Hart moves up to the microphone. “Thank you all for being here today. This is a special moment for the franchise—fifty years of history. This year, instead of photographs, Dennis Jones thought painted portraits would better honor the players who have made this possible. The Angels are one of the greatest teams in the league with the most talented players. I am honored to be your coach.”
He gestures to the walls, to the portraits hanging in their perfect rows, each one lit like a museum piece.
Dennis moves up to the podium. “These portraits will hang in this arena for decades to come. Long after we’re a memory, people will walk through this arena and see the faces of the men who made it legendary.
Each and every one of you holds a special legacy, and that’s what we’re celebrating today. You.”
Kendall proudly stands at the edge of the stage, looking at her work with starry eyes. Her vision, her talent, and her countless hours of effort will live forever with the team legacy. And she has to stand there, pretending it’s no big deal.
“I want to thank our incredibly talented artist, Kendall Hart, for bringing this vision to life. Dare I say, she will be remembered as one of the greats,” Dennis continues, and everyone claps.
Kendall dips her head in acknowledgment, but doesn’t step forward for more recognition than that.
Her dad places his arm around her shoulders and squeezes. They smile at each other, and when her eyes briefly meet mine, I see everything she’s feeling reflected back at me.
Every portrait on these walls is proof of how talented she is. Now her artwork belongs to every single person who steps foot into this room.
The formal unveiling begins. Each player’s portrait gets its own moment, Dennis reading off our numbers, names, and how long we’ve been an Angel, along with any important stats. The crowd goes wild.
When he gets to my portrait, the applause grows until it echoes and fills the room.
“Glad you’re back,” Dennis says.
I look around and see every person is celebrating my return. Callan claps me on the shoulder. Hunter yells something unintelligible. My heart is full.
She’s watching me with an expression that makes my chest tight. Pride and love and something fierce underneath.
Coach glances between Kendall and me, his brow furrowing slightly before he turns back to the crowd.
Thirty minutes later, the dedication ends, and people scatter. Some head for the food; others cluster around their portraits for photos. The camera crew packs up, and the noise level rises as everyone relaxes.
Callan drags me over to the auction pieces, and I see the collection together for the first time. I’m blown away.
Hunter grabs different teammates who are close and lines us up like we’re posing for a Christmas card. “Everyone, say cheese for my mom,” he says.
She’s the Angels’ biggest fan.
Eventually, the crowd thins, and I notice where everyone is. I say my goodbyes to Smiley, then make my way toward the corridor. I take one of the long hallways that connects back to the conference rooms in the building.
“Mr. Cross,” she says in a hushed whisper.
I turn and tuck my hands in my pockets, grinning. “Miss Hart? Can I fucking help you?”
“Actually, yes. There’s something I need to discuss with you privately,” she says, leading me into a conference room.
It’s small and beige, and it has old game plays scribbled on the whiteboard. It smells like stale coffee and dry-erase markers. When the door clicks shut behind us, I bury my face into her neck.
“You smell so good,” I whisper.
“I couldn’t stop looking at you,” she says. “I did what you asked.”
Muffled voices filter through the walls. Her eyes are bright and full of want.
“Mmm. Did you?”
“What are you going to do about it?” She guides me toward the table.
Kendall grips my shirt, and I taste the champagne she was drinking. Everything narrows down to this very moment. I slide my tongue into her mouth, and she groans.
“Move in with me,” I whisper.
She pulls back enough to look at me, her lips swollen. “What?”
I steal a kiss. “I want you closer. Like in my bed every fucking morning and every night. I want your favorite coffee mug in my cabinet and your shampoo in my shower.”
She laughs, softly. “Really?”
“Please?” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone.
The pause stretches long enough that my heart starts to pound hard. Every doubt I’ve ever had about us starts creeping in, and I fear I’ve pushed too far or rushed us. Maybe I want too much.
Then her face breaks into a grin, nose scrunching, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Okay, Pattycakes, I’d love to move in with you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” She laughs, and I can tell she’s giddy. “I want to spend every free second I have with you.”
I’m nearly dizzy with relief. I lean forward, kissing her sweetly. She grabs my tie and pulls me down to her, and the playfulness turns into something hotter. My hands find her waist, and hers slide up my chest, fingers working at my collar, without breaking the kiss.
The fabric of her dress rides up her thighs, and I slide my hand between her legs. She’s bare.
“Yes, right there.” She breathes against my mouth. “Feels so good.”
I kiss down her neck, her collarbone, the top of her shoulder, where her dress strap has slipped. “You’re so damn sexy.”
Her head falls back to give me better access, her fingers threading through my hair. “Fuck, I’m so close.”
“Think you can come for me?”
“Yes,” she says, pulling my mouth back to hers, and she’s completely lost in the sensation. Her hands work my belt, the button, and she reaches for the zipper.
“I love you,” I say against her throat.
“I love you too.” Her voice is breathless, her hands fumbling with moving my pants down so I can enter her. “Please, give me …”
The door opens.
Time stops.
Coach Hart stands in the doorway with his hand still on the handle. The smile on his face fades, and his brows furrow like he’s short-circuiting. Kendall moves her dress down and tries to readjust her clothes as I zip my pants, trying to ignore my cock that’s rock hard. Nobody moves or speaks.
The air-conditioning kicks on with a soft whir. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs at a joke we’ll never hear.
Coach’s expression cycles through confusion and disbelief, then lands on something I’ve never seen before. I nearly shudder.
“Dad.” Kendall’s voice comes out choked.
“What the hell?” Coach Hart says.
Kendall slides off the table and stands, her fingers fumbling with her strap. I reach over and do it for her.
Coach slams the door until it rattles, then walks farther into the room. The vein in his head, which usually makes its appearance when the team is cooked, is on full display. That’s when I know we’re fucked.
He glares at Kendall, then focuses directly on me with flared nostrils.
“This ends now,” he says with venom in his tone. “Right. Fucking. Now.”
This is it, I think.
This is my moment of truth. The moment I either win or lose it all.