10. Serena
SERENA
The older I get, the stronger the fuck no.
—Serena’s Secret Thoughts
The game clock runs out, and everyone left in the suite cheers. A win is a win, whether it’s pre-, during or postseason. Although postseason celebrations do tend to be on a whole other level.
Dad has never cared when we win, as long as we win. And when he turns to me tonight, his smile is as big as if we just won the cup. “Meet me downstairs?”
Of course he wants me there.
“Dad . . .”
“The job is still yours, Serena.” His gray eyes soften. “Help me wrangle the pundits.”
I nod and watch him walk out before I beeline to the bar in the corner of the suite, Aurora and Saylor right behind me. I lift three fingers and smile at Edie, the sweet single mom who’s been the bartender in our suite for years. “Tequila.”
“You okay, honey?” She doesn’t bother with the Cuervo and goes straight for the Don Julio. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
“Yeah, Serena.” Saylor looks from me to the shot glasses. “Are we sure shots before the press conference is the best idea?”
“We are fine. We are also having a day, so cut me some slack please.” I hand them each a shot and pick mine up.
“I’m not in the mood to deal with the press or my dad or the team.
It’s been close to a month, and I’m still here.
If I were anyone else, I’d have given my two-week notice, worked those two damn weeks, and been done with the Revolution. ”
I tap my glass to theirs. “Cheers.”
The two women stare for a moment as I throw the tequila back. “What?”
“Should we be worried?” Aurora asks Saylor, like I’m not standing right here.
Saylor sniffs the tequila before sipping it, shivering, and downing the rest in one gulp. “Maybe. She’s a bit of a lightweight.”
“Pot meet kettle.” I grin, contemplating another shot.
Just one more.
But before I can ask, Aurora hands me hers. “This isn’t about Max or the Revolution, right? There’s something else going on.”
I stare into the amber-colored liquid, not sure if I have the energy to lie.
Or to get drunk.
Who am I kidding?
This isn’t going to work. I drop the shot to the counter and grab my purse. “I’ve got to go. Apparently, I still have a job to do.”
Aurora steps in front of me, not willing to let me off so easily. “You can’t avoid us forever, Barbie.”
“I know.” I sidestep her and reach for the door. “But duty calls.”
“How about we meet for coffee this week?” Saylor pushes, clearly concerned. “And don’t give me that crap about work. You said it yourself, you shouldn’t even be there anymore, coffee Barbie. I refuse to take no for an answer.”
I look between the two of them and catch my mother moving my way.
“Fine,” I tell them, needing to get downstairs. “Coffee. Now I’ve got to go.”
“Tell Hendrix we said hi.” Saylor wiggles her fingers, and I turn my back on both of them.
Some days, I’m glad I’m an only child.
By the time I get downstairs, Dad is smiling from ear to ear off to the side of the raised platform.
Coach Deacon Kane sits on one side with Nixon Sinclair, the captain, in the center, and his co-captain and brother-in-law, Ares, to the left.
Surprisingly, there’s no sign of Hendrix.
I’d have figured he’d have been out here.
His first game with the Revolution, and he scored two points in the first period before he was pulled.
Deacon doesn’t like to overplay his starters in preseason, and Hendrix wasn’t just traded to be a starter. He’s going to be a star.
Dad sighs and leans against the wall, his shoulders drooping. Seemingly exhausted.
Guilt churns in my gut. “You okay, Dad?”
“I’m good.” He turns his face toward mine. “You sure you want to give this up, sweetheart?”
“It’s your dream, Dad. Not mine.” I didn’t even have to think about my answer. But you rarely have to think through the truth. “Just because I don’t have soccer anymore doesn’t make hockey my dream, and I don’t think I can figure it out from here.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and tugs me against him. “Yeah . . . Your mother might have mentioned that.”
“She’s a smart woman.” I swallow down some of the emotion bubbling beneath the surface. “I’ve got a few interviews set up for next week. So I’m not gone just yet.”
“Love you, Serena.” He drops his hold on me. “See you tomorrow.”
And I slip away as he joins Deacon to answer a few questions about the upcoming season.
I feel like I’m sneaking out as I step into the hallway outside of the locker room and come face-to-face with a ghost.
“Running away again, Serena?”
Every muscle in my body locks tight.
That voice. Low and warm and amused. God, the memories it brings with it.
I turn slowly to find Hendrix standing just outside the locker-room door. Freshly showered. His dark hair still damp. A sharp charcoal suit and crisp white shirt, sans tie. Top two buttons open at his throat because apparently, I haven’t suffered enough.
Teammates file out from behind him, smacking his shoulder as they go.
But he doesn’t pay a single one of them any attention.
He’s too busy looking at me. His gaze drops slowly from my face to the neckline Mom was judging earlier, then lower before coming back to my eyes.
Not remotely subtle, but then again, he never was.
Heat crawls over my skin like a fire getting too close.
Asshole.
His mouth curves, and there it is.
That smile.
The one I haven’t seen aimed at me in over three years.
The smile I used to love.
My heart pounds like hoof prints in the sand, but I force myself to breathe.
“I’m not running anywhere,” I finally manage.
“No?” His brow lifts as he looks around me. “Langley with you tonight?”
“Rafe?” I ask, confused. “No.”
“Good.” One word. That’s it. That’s all it takes, and my pulse immediately betrays me.
Gigantic. Asshole.
He takes a step closer. Just one. Just close enough to still be appropriate. Close enough to smell the ocean waves. Damn, he still smells good.
Nope. Not going there.
Hendrix drops his eyes, but this time it’s to the floor, not to me, and my heart sinks again. I hate this. Hate that this is us. That this is what we’ve done to each other. “Did you enjoy the game?”
“It was okay.”
He laughs softly, and my throat clogs. “Just okay?”
“It’s preseason, Sinclair. Don’t get cocky.” I smile, and it’s almost genuine. Almost. But hey, I’m not mid-panic-attack, so I’ll take that as a win.
“I scored twice.” He smirks.
I lift a shoulder, forcing indifference. “Did you?”
That beautiful grin widens, and so does the crack in my heart.
“You know I did.” His voice is deep and warm and so fucking gravelly I could cry.
“I might have noticed something like that,” I tease and wonder who I am and how I got here. On the verge of tears but somehow teasing the one man who threw my heart into a blender and pressed grind. “There were a lot of players out there.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, really smiles. And it’s everything I remember. “There were.”
And suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
“What are you thinking, princess?”
My eyes fly to his, and I suck in a breath, steadying my heart.
I can do this. Right?
“I’m trying to figure out what all the fuss is about.” The words are meant to be teasing. Easy. They’re anything but, even if he doesn’t know it.
“And?” He moves out of someone’s way as they round the corner. Hendrix’s hand brushes my waist, steadying me as they walk by, and a million memories flash in an instant. His hands on my face. My hips. My— “Did you figure it out?”
“What?” I ask, barely breathing.
“What the fuss is about . . . Did you figure it out?” His grip tightens, and my heart betrays my brain.
“No,” I whisper, needing to move. To leave. To break his hold. But I can’t. I’m frozen.
My body and my brain.
“Guess I’ll have to give you something worth watching next time.”
Next time . . . We won’t have a next time.
“I better . . .” I point toward the end of the hall and step out of his hold, my mask on the verge of shattering. “I have to go.”
“Yeah. Me too. Gracie’s nanny is helping with Bodhi right now.”
Bodhi.
His son.
I’ve known this man my entire life, in some ways better than I’ve known myself, and I’ve never had a conversation with him about his son.
What’s worse is I’m not sure I can.
Slowly exhaling, I catch those beautiful blue eyes and ignore my racing heart.
I fight the urge to run. To hide. To fall ten million steps backward into the dark place I was in before.
Instead, I force my feet to stay still and ignore the nausea rising in my stomach and the tears threatening.
“How is he doing?” I fist my hands in my pockets and picture the gorgeous little boy with his mother’s eyes and his father’s smile.
“With the move, I mean. He’s a little guy, so is it throwing him off?
Or are your mom and dad spoiling him so rotten that he doesn’t care? ”
There. I did it.
So why does it hurt so badly?
And why does Hendrix look like he’s about sixty seconds from wrapping me in his arms?
“Serena.” He reaches for me, but—oh, hell no. I can’t. Not now, with my body back on the verge of fight-or-flight mode, where it seems to live when he’s around. “Right. Sorry.” He drops his hand, and his easy smile fades. Damn it. “He’s good. Everyone is spoiling him rotten.”
We stand there, staring at each other for a long minute.
Neither of us speaking until I’m not sure we can.
“Good,” I finally whisper. “That’s good, Superman.”
“Serena . . .”
“I’ve got to go, Hen.” I don’t bother waiting for a response. I can’t. Not unless I want him to see the tears fall, and I promised myself a long time ago, he would never get that from me.
Not again.