9. Hendrix
HENDRIX
Hey. Are you at the arena?
Just finished morning skate. Why?
I need to talk to you. Don’t leave.
You realize tonight is the first preseason game?
I want to get outta here and catch a nap before I have to be back.
This won’t take long.
—Text from Olivia to Hendrix
What the fucks echo through the Revolution locker room, followed by a few whistles before my dumb-fuck teammates realize they’re sexually harassing Olivia St. James. The team owner’s niece and the coach’s sister-in-law.
Pretty sure more than one dick shrivels behind their towel with that realization.
Her catlike green eyes flick from man to man, clearly less than impressed as she crosses her arms over her chest as those eyes sharpen on me. “We need to talk.”
“Hello to you too, Livvy.” I grin as Leo chokes, pulling up his sweats.
I pull her in for a hug, her head barely coming up to my shoulder before she presses up on her toes and growls—actually fucking growls like a feral fucking cat.
“In private, Sinclair. I love you, but this conversation isn’t for the entire locker room to hear,” she whispers against my ear before pulling back and nodding toward Coach’s office. “I’m sure Deacon won’t mind . . .”
Coach Deacon Kane. Head coach of the Philadelphia Revolution.
He’s a great coach and a good man. And outside of this arena, he’s what I’d call friend-adjacent.
Hell, this entire town is basically an epic game of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.
And between my friendship with Liv and my sisters’ friendship with Coach’s wife, Liv’s sister, there’s my winning answer in two damn degrees.
But inside this building, he’s the coach.
My coach. My new coach. One I haven’t proven myself to yet, considering the first game of preseason is tonight.
My head pounds like I’m trying to fix one of those math problems with numbers and letters. The kind I always sucked at. The kind Britt basically did for me in college.
“Seriously?” I pull back and stare down at the tiny powerhouse who’s as likely to stab you with one of her red-soled heels as she is to smile at you. “I’ve been on the team for about ten minutes, Olivia. Not really jonesing to kick my coach out of his own office.”
“Guess it’s a good thing he loves me then.
” Her eyes narrow as she waves at my brothers.
They get smiles because she’s been dying to get the three of us on her roster of players for years.
Because of course, she’s one of the best agents in the industry.
Only problem is we’ve already got one of the few agents who’s better.
And you can be sure that list is minuscule. “See you at the wedding, guys.”
Fucking hell. The wedding.
Ryker’s wedding is coming up, and that’s a whole other shit show.
I follow her to Coach’s office and crack my neck when she pokes her head inside.
“How’s my favorite brother-in-law?” she coos—actually fucking coos—playing Deacon the way Liv has always played us all. This woman knows how to get exactly what she wants, and a minute later, Deacon is stepping aside as Liv and I walk in.
“Good luck, Sinclair,” he offers as he claps his hand on my shoulder.
Liv shuts the door, and I wince as she closes the blinds too. The next thing I know, the team is going to think I’m fucking Olivia St. James. “Okay, Henny . . . consider this the intervention you never knew you needed.”
My head snaps back like I’ve taken a hit on the ice with no helmet. “I hate to break it to you, Liv, but I’m not an addict.”
“Bullshit.” She hops up on Coach’s desk and crosses her legs, her hands digging into the chipped wood. “You’ve been an addict most of your life, and my best friend is your drug of choice.”
I open my mouth, but before I can get a word out, she throws her hand up, effectively shutting me up.
“I’m not here to debate the merits of your marriage, Hendrix.
I’m here to tell you your being home is fucking up someone I love very much.
And considering you’ve already fucked her up once, I’m going to need you to deal with it—now. ”
“Fuck. You,” I seethe, anger rolling off me in waves. Anger I’ve got to fucking check. Because while we might be behind a goddamned door, this room is far from soundproof. “You’ve been one of my closest friends for most of my life, Liv, but you just took a flying fucking leap across that line.”
“I was there for her when you weren’t, Hendrix.
” Her shoulders sink, and she throws her head up to the ceiling, eyes closed for one beat, then another, before bringing them back to me and nailing me to the wall with them.
“I know how hard this was on her and on you. And I know you’re hurting her . . . again.”
I rock back on my heels, her words packing the powerful punch she knew they would. “Olivia . . . I’m trying, but it’s not that easy.”
“I know that. I refuse to stand by and watch her break this time, and I know you don’t want that either. I. Know. You. And I know you never stopped loving her.”
“That was three years ago, Olivia . . .”
“After a lifetime, Hendrix,” Liv whispers and slides off the desk, dropping her head to my chest and sighing.
“Liv . . . I’m not sure I can do it.” Fuck.
“Hendrix . . . Talk to her. She’ll be at the wedding.”
“The wedding where I’m a best man? The wedding where my entire family and yours will be . . . watching.”
“Lower your voice,” Liv hisses. “I don’t care where you talk to her or when you do it, for that matter. Just do it, Hendrix.” She squares her shoulders and pulls in a deep breath
Some people say their life is so goddamned good, they wonder constantly when the other shoe will drop.
I’d like to know at what fucking point I run out of fucking shoes.
Serena
“Helloooooo.” Aurora’s voice echoes through the house like she’s calling into a cave from what sounds like my front door. “Anybody home?”
Yup. That’s her.
I turn to one side, then the other, staring at my reflection, cataloging every reason why I hate this suit and quite possibly my body right along with it as I deflate.
“Up here, Sleeping Beauty,” I call down and toss the black jacket onto the bed.
A minute later she steps in, a Kingston jersey and jean shorts on, making her long legs look even longer, looking cool and casual, like she’s not worried about a single thing.
Which, in all fairness, she’s probably not.
My beautiful, talented cousin is quite possibly the most easygoing Kingston. I blame all the yoga she does.
“Uhh . . .” She stops for a hot second and drags her eyes from the top of my freshly blown-out hair down to my pink-painted toes. “No. This will not do.”
“Tell me about it,” I groan and watch as she walks into my closet. “I seriously don’t feel like going to this game tonight.”
“Are you still working for your dad?” She pokes her head out and nibbles her lip before disappearing back into the closet. “Because if the answer is yes, you have to go to the game. And if you’re going, you’re going to need to look better than that.”
I unzip the pencil skirt and step out of it as she emerges, carrying a sleeveless, red silk Revolution mini shirtdress and a pair of black patent-leather Jimmy Choos.
“If you’re working for Uncle Max,”—she holds up her hand before I can interrupt—“even if it’s just for a few more days, you need to look the part of the future of the organization.
” She cocks a brow and shakes the dress. “Now strip.”
“Don’t you think this is a little much for preseason?” I pull the dress on and slide into the shoes.
“Nope.” Aurora unbuttons the top two buttons. “Not even a little. Now hurry up. Saylor’s waiting in the car.”
Preseason is a funny thing for all sports. It’s the start of the season, even if they say it doesn’t matter. They’re lying. It matters. It sets a tone. The wins and losses may not follow you into the season, but everything else does.
It lets you—the fan, the owner, the player, the coach—see who clicks and who doesn’t. What lines work and which still need work. Who came back from last season stronger, faster, hungrier.
And for the players on the cusp of either being cut or having their dreams come true, it can mean everything.
Some people might not think it’s exciting. But I do—because preseason is a clean slate full of possibility. A new beginning.
Standing inside my family’s suite while the last notes of the national anthem echo through the arena before the puck drops, my eyes trail over the team.
Over my friends and a few cousins who stand beneath me on the ice, sticks in hand, vibrating with nervous energy they’ll probably never admit to having.
But having played in years’ worth of preseason games, I know it’s there.
I spent years standing, bouncing on the balls of my feet, and convincing myself I wasn’t nervous. And God, I miss this. Miss knowing I’ll never stand on a soccer field again, waiting for the ball to be kicked to me.
The realization hits hard and fast enough that my knuckles turn white against the railing they’re wrapped around.
“Serena,” A glass of wine appears in front of my face. “You look gorgeous, honey.” My mom pushes my hair behind my shoulders, smiling as her gaze drops to the neckline of my dress. Her brows lift, but not in disappointment. “I had an interesting conversation with a friend today.”
“Oh yeah?” I take a sip of the wine, fortifying myself for whatever she’s going to say next, and turn back to the ice as the puck drops and my traitorous heart thumps in my chest as my eyes lock on Hendrix.
I used to love watching him play. In high school.
In college. Even when he wore Chicago’s colors.
It wasn’t the Revolution, but it was Hendrix, so it was my team.
A fact I could never share with my die-hard family.