Chapter 13 Serena
The snowstorm had continued its assault on Wrightwood during the Avalanche family charity event, turning the Wrightwood Conference Center windows into sheets of white static.
Inside, the ballroom blazed with warmth and light, team families mingling over drinks and silent auction items. I'd borrowed a dress from the back of my closet—one of the few nice things that had survived both Marcus's criticism and the cabin disaster.
Brad wore his suit like armor, all sharp lines and dangerous shoulders, moving through the crowd with the kind of confidence that came from knowing every eye tracked him.
His hand found my lower back periodically—steering me through conversations, marking territory, or maybe just habit. I couldn't tell anymore.
Then she appeared.
Dr. Patricia Reeves moved through the room like she owned it, all long legs and perfect posture in a dress that looked painted on. Her blonde hair caught the light as she laughed at something the head coach said, medical degree and natural beauty wrapped in one intimidating package.
“You remember Patricia, right? She’s our team doctor,” Brad said, noticing my gaze. “Best in the league.”
"She's beautiful," I said, trying for neutral.
"I guess." He seemed genuinely oblivious. "She's more importantly brilliant. Saved Derek's career last season with an experimental treatment."
Patricia's radar locked onto Brad. She approached with the inevitability of an avalanche, smile widening to show perfect teeth that probably had their own insurance policy.
"There you are." She pressed against him, kiss to each cheek, European-style, fingers splaying across his chest. "I've been hunting you all night."
The hug lasted long enough for me to catalog every point of contact—her breast against his arm, her hand on his neck, the way he didn't pull back.
"How's the knee?" Her fingers traced his thigh with medical authority that looked distinctly unmedicinal. "We should discuss treatment options. Maybe over coffee? Like old times?"
Old times?
"You two know each other well?" I asked, voice bright as broken glass.
Patricia laughed, musical and confident. "Oh, Brad and I go way back. We dated briefly before he met Sarah." She winked at him. "What was it you said—I was too intimidating?"
"You were too focused on your career," Brad corrected. "We both were."
"Well, times change." Her gaze swept over him appreciatively. "We're both in different places now."
The implication hung heavy. I took a sip of wine to avoid saying something I'd regret.
"This is Serena," Brad said, seeming to remember I existed. "She's staying with us while—"
"The storm refugee, yes." Patricia's smile could have frozen vodka. "How generous of Brad to help out during the storm."
"He's been very kind," I managed.
"He always was. Too kind sometimes." She touched his chest, ostensibly straightening his tie. "Remember that conference in Aspen? You spent the entire weekend reading me medical journals in that hot tub, like foreplay for nerds."
They had hot tub foreplay. With medical journals. Of course they did.
"Patricia—" Brad started.
"I'm just reminiscing." She pressed closer. "We should catch up properly. Compare notes on... recovery techniques."
I set my wine down before I threw it. "Excuse me. Bathroom."
I didn't run, but it was close. The bathroom was all marble and inadequacy, my reflection looking exactly like what I was—a boring teacher in a borrowed dress, playing dress-up in a world where women like Patricia existed.
Women who saved careers and looked like supermodels and shared hot tub histories with men like Brad.
My hands gripped the marble counter like it could anchor me to reality. He's not yours to claim , I told myself. You have no right to fantasize about Patricia's sudden disappearance into a convenient sinkhole.
"She's basically climbing him like a fire pole." Maria's voice said from my phone screen when I called her from the bathroom.
"She's a doctor who looks like a lingerie model and saves careers for fun," I shot back. "I teach seven-year-olds how to spell 'Wednesday.'"
"You're spiraling."
"I'm being realistic. They have history. Hot tub history. With medical journals."
"That's the least sexy foreplay I've ever heard."
"Maria—"
"Text him. Right now. Say you need him."
"I'm not—"
"It's not manipulation, it's science. Text him you feel sick. Time his response."
I typed it out, hating myself. Twenty-three seconds later—I counted—Brad burst through the bathroom door like the building was on fire.
"What's wrong?" His hands were already reaching for me, checking my temperature, my pulse. "Is it a migraine? Too much wine? Should I—"
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." He stepped closer, caging me against the sink. "Your tell is that little line between your eyebrows. What happened?"
"Patricia happened."
Something shifted in his expression—understanding mixed with something darker. "Serena—"
"She fits, Brad. In your world. She speaks hockey and medicine and probably knows which fork to use for the fish course."
"There is no fish course. This is Wrightwood."
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't." He moved closer, close enough that I could see Patricia's lipstick smudged on his collar. "Explain it to me. Explain why you think Patricia matters when you're the one who has my kid asking if you can adopt him."
"He didn't—"
"He did. Yesterday. Asked if you could be his mom 'for real.'" Brad's voice went rough. "You're the one sleeping in my house, wearing my clothes, making Finn laugh until he can't breathe. But sure, let's discuss Patricia's surgical credentials."
The air between us turned electric, dangerous.
"That principal from Wrightwood Primary has been circling you like a shark all night," he continued. "Called you 'luminous.' Theo's been body-checking him every time he gets close."
"He has?"
Brad's jaw worked. "Man's got a PhD and keeps touching your elbow."
"That bothers you?"
"Maybe. I don’t know." His voice cracked on the last word. " We're friends. Housemates. Whatever."
"Right. Whatever."
The space between us evaporated. Maybe I moved first, maybe he did, maybe we just collapsed into each other like stars dying. But suddenly his mouth was on mine and nothing else existed.
It wasn't a kiss—it was demolition. His hands tangled in my hair, mine fisted in his shirt, and we kissed like we were trying to crawl inside each other's skin. He tasted like whiskey and terrible decisions. I bit his lip and he made a sound that should've been illegal.
Someone laughed in the hallway. We broke apart, both panting like we'd run a marathon.
"Jesus," he breathed.
"Too much champagne," I said desperately.
"Right. The champagne." He was already backing away. "We should—"
"Forget this happened."
"Completely."
We were both such terrible liars.
Theo materialized around the corner like the world's most inconvenient fairy godmother. "Patricia's got her hands so far down your—" He stopped, taking in Brad's destroyed hair, my smeared lipstick, the guilty distance we'd inserted between us. "Oh my God, finally."
"Nothing happened," we said in unison.
"Sure. That's why Brad looks like he went through a car wash and Serena's got that freshly-ravaged glow." He grinned. "Patricia's going to stroke out."
"There's nothing to—" Brad started.
"Your lipstick's on his neck, Serena."
Brad scrubbed at his throat frantically. I wanted to phase through the floor.
"I'll go first," I managed. "You wait five minutes."
"Ten," Brad corrected. "Fifteen."
"An hour," Theo suggested. "Give you time to maybe acknowledge you're both insane."
We ignored him, returning to the ballroom like we hadn't just detonated everything. Patricia attached herself to Brad immediately, her hands everywhere, and I forced myself to join a cluster of team wives discussing school fundraisers.
"So you and Brad?" Kelly, one of the team's wives, asked without preamble. "When's the wedding?"
"We're not—"
"Honey, that man just watched you walk away like you were taking his soul with you."
"He's looking at Patricia," I pointed out.
"He's looking through Patricia. At you. While she's basically performing CPR on his thigh." Kelly took a contemplative sip. "It's like watching someone try to defuse a bomb while their house burns down."
Brad said something to Patricia. She laughed, bright and false, her grip tightening. He said something else. Her smile faltered. Then he was moving—extracting himself from her grasp with the determination of someone escaping quicksand.
Patricia followed, her hand catching his sleeve. "Brad, we were just—"
"I need to—" He pulled free, not even finishing the sentence, crossing the ballroom like a man possessed.
The team wives went silent as Brad arrived at our circle, his presence creating a force field of tension.
"Serena." Just my name, but it sounded like a complete sentence.
"Brad."
Patricia materialized behind him, her smile sharp enough to perform surgery. "Brad, the coach wants to discuss—"
"Later." He didn't look at her. Couldn't look away from me. "Dance with me."
It wasn't a question.
"I don't—"
His hand extended between us, steady despite everything. "Please."
Kelly made a sound that might have been a squeal. Patricia's face went through several stages of grief in rapid succession.
I took his hand.
The band was playing something slow and dangerous. Brad pulled me onto the floor, and suddenly we were too close, my hand in his, his other hand finding my waist like it belonged there.
"This is a terrible idea," I whispered.
"The worst," he agreed, pulling me closer.
"People are staring."
"Let them."
"Patricia looks homicidal."
"I don't care about Patricia." His voice dropped. "I haven't been able to think about anything but that kiss."
"Brad—"
"Dad! Miss Serena!" Finn's voice cut through everything. He was running toward us in his little suit, Theo trailing behind. "Are you dancing? Can I dance too?"
The spell broke. Brad stepped back, and I felt the loss like temperature dropping.
"Of course, buddy." Brad lifted him up, and Finn wrapped his arms around both our necks, creating a weird three-person dance that had other couples smiling.
"This is nice," Finn announced. "We should dance at home too."
"We don't have music at home," Brad pointed out.
"We could get some." Finn's head swiveled between us. "Why do you both look weird?"
"We don't look weird," I said.
"You look like when my teacher says we're not in trouble but we're definitely in trouble."
Theo appeared, stealing Finn with promises of dessert conspiracy, leaving Brad and me standing in the middle of the dance floor like abandoned lighthouses.
"We should go," Brad said.
"Yeah."
The ride home was suffocating. Finn provided running commentary about the party for exactly three minutes before passing out against his window. After that, there was just the sound of tires on snow and everything we weren't saying.
"About earlier—" Brad started as we pulled into his driveway.
"Wine," I said desperately. "Too much wine."
"Right. Wine."
We were still lying, and the lies were getting heavier.
"Why are you being weird?" Finn's voice cut through the dark, suddenly completely awake because children have timing like comedic assassins.
"We're not—"
"You didn't talk the whole way home. You're using your fighting voices."
"We're not fighting," Brad said.
"Then why does Miss Serena look sad and you look like when you can't solve a hockey play?"
"Everything's fine, warrior," I managed.
He studied us with those too-knowing eyes. "Mom and Dad used to say that too. Before."
The word landed like a grenade. Brad's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"That's not—" I started.
"If you're mad at each other, you should just fix it," Finn announced. "Matthew's parents go to therapy. Maybe you need therapy."
"Finn—"
"Or you could just kiss and make up. That works in movies."
I was going to die. Right there in Brad's car, I was going to spontaneously combust from mortification.
Inside, we performed an elaborate ballet of avoidance—Brad checking locks, me cleaning already-clean counters, both of us using Finn's bedtime routine as a buffer zone.
Finally, we stood in the hallway where it split toward our bedrooms, the darkness making everything feel more dangerous.
"Goodnight," Brad said, not moving.
"Goodnight," I replied, also not moving.
We stood there like idiots, gravity and fear fighting for dominance.
"Serena—"
"Don't." If he said anything real, I'd shatter. "Please."
He nodded, understanding too much. "Yeah. Okay."
I lay in bed later, pressing my fingers to my lips where I could still feel him, still taste champagne and catastrophe. Down the hall, his footsteps paced—back and forth, back and forth, like he was trying to walk off whatever was burning through both of us.
We could blame the wine until our tongues fell out, but the truth was simpler and so much worse: that kiss had been building since the moment I'd walked through his door, and now that we'd let it happen, we were both just waiting for everything to explode.
The only question was who would light the next match.