1. Serena
SERENA
PRESENT DAY
Some days, it feels like life is a great big tornado, and I’m the cow flying through the sky for dramatic effect.
Pretty sure it didn’t end well for the cow.
—Serena’s Secret Thoughts
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I slap the contract down on my father’s desk and absolutely do not hiss in pain and pull back as it shoots straight up my arm. Damn it.
Dad’s icy-blue eyes lift from the computer, obviously less than impressed with my tantrum. And if I’m honest with myself, that’s exactly what it is. A tantrum. A quick pang of guilt hits me before I shove that bitch back down.
“Well, hello to you too, Serena.”
“I told you he wasn’t a right fit for the team.” My voice shakes with anger and hurt. More hurt than anything, if I’m being completely honest with myself . . . Even if I’m not being honest with him. “Why did you bother asking me for my opinion if you weren’t going to take my recommendation?”
Soccer might be my sport of choice, but hockey was my first love.
How could it not be when the Philadelphia Revolution professional hockey team was Dad’s first baby before I came along?
I grew up in this arena. Mom likes to say I took my first steps on the ice visible below through the massive window taking up an entire wall of Dad’s office.
She always teased that I skated before I walked.
She thought I’d be the first female hockey player on the team until I touched my first soccer ball.
That was it. Game over. Hockey was forgotten, and I found my new obsession.
I was six.
“He had a hundred and two points last year, Serena,” my father argues, clearly bored.
“When his contract ran out at the end of last season, he had his pick of teams. He could have stayed with Chicago, or he could have gone anywhere.” Dad plants his palms on his desk and rises slowly, reminding me why he’s one of the most feared and respected businessmen in the country.
“He could have written his own ticket, and he wanted to come here. To come home. Do you know what that’s going to do for attendance?
Having all three Sinclair brothers playing for the Revolution? ”
All. Three. Sinclair brothers.
Nixon.
Leo.
And Hendrix.
Not only do I know what that will do to attendance, but I’m also fully aware of what that will do to me. Dad, however, isn’t.
He waits for a response, clearly pissed. A man not used to being ignored.
Max Kingston is the master of his universe and all who reside within.
The patriarch of the Kingston family.
The president of their empire.
General manager and president of the Philadelphia Revolution.
Arguably one of the most powerful men in the city, if not the state.
He wears his power like an understated bespoke suit. Perfectly fitted for him.
His armor against the world.
When he speaks, you listen, and you answer.
But right now, my anger is warring with my control.
If I answer, he’s not going to like what I say.
So I just . . . don’t.
“Would you care to tell me why you’re so angry?” he asks, his jaw clenched. “This is one of your oldest friends, and he asked to come home.”
My heart sinks, and my near-constant anxiety soars.
This is what happens when you work for your father.
He knows what buttons to push. He may not know why those buttons hurt, or even that they do, but that’s my fault, not his.
After my second ACL tear a year ago, I knew the career I’d spent a lifetime building was over.
Every single doctor I saw told me so, and I saw more doctors than I can count.
So many, you’d have thought at least one would have given me hope of getting back out on that field.
But my body had other plans, and at one of my lowest points, I took the easy way out when it was offered this time.
I knew better then and still did it.
My father has always had this idea. He believes the Revolution is my legacy. That one day, I’ll take over the team. That I’ll be the next him. But I’ve never loved this team the way he does. In reality, few people ever will.
“Serena—”
“I asked you not to make the trade,” I finally answer, my words measured and tone soft. “You hired me to do a job, and I did it, Dad. He wasn’t the right hire—”
“He was and still is.”
My blood boils in my veins, and red-hot tears prick the backs of my eyes.
I could tell him the hundreds of reasons I don’t want Hendrix Sinclair playing for this team. My family’s team, as my father loves to point out when I tell him I don’t want anything to do with hockey.
All the reasons he’s oblivious to . . . So many reasons.
I could, but I don’t.
I shouldn’t have taken this job in the first place.
You should never change your life based on guilt and heartbreak. Especially when that heartbreak isn’t caused by another person, it’s caused by your own body. Not having someone else to blame puts a whole other level of anger in your path.
I knew it then as clearly as I know it now, but lost isn’t an emotion I handle well, and I’ve been lost for a long time.
I guess that’s what happens when, after one bad play on the field, the dream you’ve been chasing your entire life is taken away and everything comes crashing down on you.
An oversized defensive midfielder included.
Stupid fucking slide tackle. Your world goes to hell.
A very painful hell. And you make stupid, irrational decisions based in fear.
Something I’ve gotten unfortunately pretty good at doing.
Something it’s about time I change.
A calmness settles over me as an unfortunate realization dawns.
Maybe it doesn’t actually dawn. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve known it all along.
Working for the Revolution—for Dad—was a mistake, not a fix.
It’s barely a Band-Aid big enough to staunch the bleeding.
Hell, I might as well be bleeding out.
It’s a paycheck and health insurance and a 401K I don’t need.
Not that professional soccer paid well. Let’s be real, it didn’t.
Women don’t earn anywhere near what men make per game.
But I was lucky enough that money never mattered.
I was doing something I loved. I also happen to be lucky enough to have a trust fund that could choke a horse and a really good investment portfolio.
I don’t need to work. But I think I’d lose my mind if I didn’t.
What do people do when they up and quit a job without something else lined up?
Take themselves out to lunch?
Take up a hobby?
I don’t even know what options I’d have.
Reading? Does that count as a hobby?
I could tackle my Tbr. That’s at least a mile long.
Gardening, maybe? Not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve killed a cactus.
The girls might let me hang out with them at the tea shop.
I could be a barista.
Or maybe an Etsy witch.
“Serena.” Dad’s clipped voice snaps me out of my spiraling rabbit hole, and I look at him.
Really look. The deep lines around his eyes weren’t there this time last year.
The gray that used to be strictly around his temples has worked its way through most of his hair.
The exhaustion that’s impossible to hide.
We’ve all been dealing with the past year as best we can.
And I swear to God, I tried to be the daughter he needed.
The one he wanted here at the Revolution by his side.
But I’m just not sure I can do it anymore. I’m even less sure I ever could.
“Sorry, Daddy. This isn’t working for me.” I glance down at the paper I’ve left crumpled on his desk, swallowing and forcing back the fear and guilt. “I love you, and I’ll help you while you fill my position.” It takes all the strength I have to meet his gray eyes. “But I quit.”
His mouth opens, shocked, but he doesn’t argue.
Pretty sure he doesn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.
They’re kind of a hard sell since I’m not sure I believe them either.
With a new nervous energy pushing me forward, I walk around his desk and kiss his cheek. “I love you. I’m going to take tomorrow off. I’ll be back in next week to speak to HR and look at résumés.”
He blinks, refusing to accept it. “You can’t—”
“I just did.” I hug him and let myself out of his office, pulling my phone from my pocket with strangely solid hands. Not even a hint of a shake. Go me.
Serena
Umm . . . I just quit my job. Please tell me I didn’t just fuck up my life. Again.
Olivia
You did not just fuck up your life. More like you un-fucked it. You hated it there.
Serena
Love you, Liv. I need to get the hell out of Kroydon Hills. Are you still going to Vegas tomorrow?
Olivia
Nope. I leave tonight.
Serena
Is there room on the jet?
Olivia
Hell yes, there is. Get your little ass home and packed.
My heart races inside my chest as I drop my head back against my office door.
The silence quickly closes in on me.
Serena
Livvy . . . I don’t think I’m okay.
Olivia
You will be, Barbie. Come home.
And maybe pick us up some dinner. I’m in the mood for grease. Jet leaves at eight.
Serena
Sounds good. See you soon.
Olivia and I have owned our house together since she finished law school a few years ago.
Neither of us lived in Kroydon Hills full-time at first. She split her time between here and her agency’s offices around the country.
And I would come back each winter when the season ended.
But somehow, it became home. The place and the people.
My cousin and I have been each other’s ride or die since we were little girls.
Something going to college in different states then starting careers on different coasts couldn’t change.
Moving in together made perfect sense to us.
I mean, maybe we should have thought ahead and gotten a roommate who could cook, but nobody’s perfect.
Neither of us can cook.
Not even a little.
We’ve tried, and it didn’t end well, which for two high achievers should have been a hit to the ego. It wasn’t. We just tried again. Yeah . . . it was worse the second time. Only that time, we both ended up violently ill.
We blamed the undercooked chicken.
Apparently, you’re supposed to thaw it before you cook it.