9. Hendrix #2
This is the first time I’ve ever seen him in Revolution red, and damn if it doesn’t look good on him.
Sinclair stretched across broad shoulders.
The number thirty-one beneath it. He’s had that number since we were kids.
I may still have a jersey, a few tees, and an old Kroydon Prep hoodie with that name and number on them buried deep in my closet.
Nixon wins possession immediately and sends it to Leo, who takes it down the ice and behind the Kraken’s net as Ares slams one of the Kraken players against the boards.
Leo sends it across the ice. Hendrix downs it, and in one smooth, beautiful move, buries a slapshot in the corner of the net before sixty seconds have even come off the clock.
The dozen or so people in the suite explode, and my heart fights to keep a steady rhythm.
“Serena . . .”
Shit.
“Sorry, Mom.” I tear my eyes from the ice below and focus on her. Or at least try to. “What were you saying?”
She sips her wine and looks at my neckline again. “Meeting someone after this?”
“What?” I look down to make sure my boobs are still contained, which they are. “Mother? Are you judging me?” I tease. Mom has always been the more body positive parent. Dad would have forced me into a nun’s habit if he thought he could have gotten away with it.
“Not judging. Admiring.”
A snort comes from my left as Aurora and Saylor slide in next to us, a tower of nachos between them. “For what it’s worth, I forced her to unbutton it, Aunt Daphne.”
Saylor points a chip at my chest. “Yup. Pro boob over here too. If you’ve got them, flaunt them.
But maybe share who we’re flaunting them for .
. .” She eyes me knowingly. She doesn’t actually know.
But both of these women should have a pretty good guess, even if it’s never been confirmed to anyone other than Liv.
“Thanks for your support . . . ?” I ask more than state because the cheese-covered chip is still pointed at my dress.
“Always.” Saylor pops the chip in her mouth. “Kingston girls have to stick together, considering the man we’re damning is our fathers.”
“Umm . . . are we damning the man?” I ask, a little confused, and look at Aurora. “Has she been on an Empire Records kick again?”
Aurora closes her eyes and nods. “You’re not the only one with the eighties movie obsession, Serena.”
“Can we just have a minute of silence for young Ethan Embry,” Saylor sighs.
“What is wrong with you?” Mom asks, as all of our focus swings her way. “What? He didn’t even have tattoos back then.”
“Cohen Kingston has the puck,” an announcer says over the speakers, and we all look down in time to see Cohen flying down the ice and a Kraken defenseman coming right at him before Hendrix slams the defenseman into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass.
“Ohh.” Aurora winces. “That man’s ancestors felt that hit.”
“This isn’t Mulan,” Saylor laughs.
Aurora flips her off. “Disney movies are better than eighties movies.”
Cohen fires the puck off to Hendrix, who with one lethal crack, rockets it past the goalie’s glove.
The suite erupts again.
One of my uncles shouts, “Welcome home, Sinclair!” like Hendrix has any chance of hearing that over the roar of twenty thousand screaming fans.
Holy. Shit.
He’s scored twice in the first five minutes of a preseason game, and my heart stupidly slams painfully against my ribs.
Nixon throws an arm around Hendrix before Leo crashes into both of them.
All three Sinclair brothers in Revolution red, together on the ice.
Dad is probably having an orgasm over the potential for a spike in ticket sales.
“Serena.”
“Hmm?” I force my eyes from the ice back to Mom and watch her study me for a hot second.
“You disappeared there for a minute.”
“I didn’t,” I push back. “I was watching the game.”
Aurora and Saylor follow my line of sight toward the ice, then back to me.
I narrow my eyes in warning.
They’re bound to figure something out at some point. But that point absolutely does not need to be here and certainly doesn’t need to be now, if freaking ever.
My gaze unwillingly drifts back to Hendrix before I can stop myself.
He’s already on the bench. His helmet shoved slightly higher on his forehead as Uncle Jace, the assistant coach, talks to him.
“You know,” Mom interrupts me again. “I know Annabelle is thrilled to have Hendrix back home.”
“She is his mother,” I grumble, then fix my face. “I’m sure it’ll be good for all of them.”
“How’s he doing?” she asks, sipping her wine, and warning bells go off in my head. “You two used to be thick as thieves, but I don’t remember the last time I heard you mention him.”
Aurora chokes on a nacho, and Saylor smacks her back.
There’s no way they know.
We were careful.
For years.
And the only person I’ve spoken to about him since he’s come back is Olivia.
“Umm . . . He’s fine.” I mean, that might not be a lie. He’s back in his hometown with his family, playing for a team he loves. He might be fine.
Yeah . . . even I don’t believe that.
“Have you spoken to him?” Mom pushes, and my stomach drops.
“I ran into him at The Busy Bee. He seemed fine.” Especially compared to me.
Aurora sighs, an evil glint in her eyes. “How does he look? He’s always been the hottest Sinclair brother.”
And I’m going to kill my cousin. Slowly. With tiny cuts and a lot of alcohol.
My focus drops back to the ice.
“That good, huh?” Saylor asks, a pursed-lipped smile pressed on her face. “You should totally nail that.”
“Saylor,” Mom gasps, then shrugs like she’s thinking about it.
Oh, fuck me. “Mother.”
“I mean you always had a thing for him,” Aurora adds like she has no clue how close she is to being tortured.
“Ha.” Mom grins. “I knew it, and I agree.” Her eyes widen like she’s just realizing what she said. “Wait. Not to the nailing part. But Annabelle and I always thought you two would be sweet together.”
There is absolutely nothing sweet about the way we were together.
Feral would be more appropriate.
“I am literally being trained to take over this organization. I’m not about to nail one of its players.”
“You quit,” Saylor reminds me.
“And fraternizing has never been an issue for this team. I mean, your father and I—”
“Oh. My. God. Please, stop. I beg you,” I plead with my mother.
“Fine. But I’ll leave you with this thought . . .” She finishes her wine. “I think you may need to find a better excuse.”
Oh, Mom. If you only knew.