I can already hear her questions stacking in my head like bullets fired from a machine gun: Where did you meet? How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? And God help me, when am I getting grandchildren?
I should grab the phone back and stop this madnessbefore it spirals any further, but my feet won’t move. I’m stuck watching, helpless, while he spins a fantasy my mother will dissect with surgical precision.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says smoothly, his tone all polite and charming. “I’ll see you then.”
I’m still reeling when he reaches past me, fingers brushing the strap of my bag. My breath snags, but rather than the disaster my brain concocts, he grabs the pen I'd forgotten I had clipped to my bag and catches my hand.
His eyes flick from mine as he scrawls a number across the inside of my palm in quick, confident strokes.
“Just in case your mom calls back and I need to keep my story straight,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough to slide right beneath my skin.
Then, with a grin that should come with warning labels, he dips his head and presses a quick kiss to the spot he just inked. The contact is nothing more than a brush, and my knees turn traitor beneath me.
“Bye, sweetheart.” He hands the phone back to me as the elevator doors slide open on our floor.
He strolls out like he didn’t just hijack my entire life. My jaw hangs open, phone limp in my hand, brain trying and failing to reboot, as the doors slide shut again, carrying me back downstairs. That’s when my mom’s laugh cuts through the line, warm and delighted in a way that feels like a death sentence.
“Well, he sounds wonderful, Alycia. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Mamá, no es así…” I say quickly, tripping over the words, desperate to undo whatever she thinks she just heard.
“Ay Dios, por fin,” she says, sounding like she’s been waiting her whole life for this.
My stomach drops clear to the basement, and all I can do is stare at my reflection in the mirrored wall, hair slipping loose from its clip, cheeks still pink, eyes wide and stunned.
I am so completely, irreversibly screwed.
Chapter Three
Kyle
The elevator dings open, and I step out, grinning. The silence behind me is alive with that humming tension that comes when the world tilts and you know it won’t snap back into place. She didn’t say a word or even move, just stared at me like I’d knocked her heartbeat out of rhythm, and she wasn’t sure how to get it back. The way she looked at me like she couldn’t decide whether to breathe me in or push me away follows me down the hall, clinging to the back of my mind as if her gaze left a mark I can’t shake.
I glance down at the smudge of blue ink across my knuckles, where her hand brushed mine when I scribbled my number on her palm. The ink is already bleeding into my skin, a messy little reminder of a moment I should probably forget. I shake my head like an eight ball, trying to rattle everything back into focus.
Today was supposed to be my first day of media training with this year’s rookies. I missed an entire day of training. It wasn’t my fault, but that won’t matter.My big brother—and the man whose name is on the line every time I step on the ice—is already breathing fire. If there’s one thing Cooper hates more than losing, it’s me giving him another reason to question why I’m on his team.
He made it perfectly clear he didn’t want me here. When I told him I wanted to declare for the draft last year, he shut it down. Said I wasn’t ready. So, I waited and graduated like he asked, but that still wasn’t enough. We haven’t spoken much since I declared for the draft. He even went to management when the analysts started calling me the final piece of some “Hendrix Dynasty” and speculating what team would be the best fit. He called it showing concern, but what he really meant was that having me here would complicate everything—on the ice, in the media, and at home.
The Timberwolves have already done more than their fair share of damage control because of us. Cole’s time in rehab is still fresh in everybody’s mind, no matter how hard the team tried to spin it as a shoulder that never healed right. Mercer used to take cheap shots at my brothers, tossing around “your druggie brother” whenever he wanted to get under Beau’s and Cooper’s skin. I’ve heard enough stories to know it got ugly. I’m honestly surprised Mercer made it out of the locker room without a broken jaw before they finally fired him.
Then Beau’s medical retirement hit right after, another reminder that nothing about our family ends quietly. One season he was on the ice, the next hewasn’t. No farewell tour, no big ceremony. Just a bland press release about long-term health concerns and a quiet move behind the bench. He still shows up every day as the goaltender coach, but he moves differently now. Slower. More careful. Like he’s listening to something in his body that the rest of us can’t hear. I’ve seen the look in his eyes when the guys hit the ice. Pride and loss tangled so tightly they’re impossible to separate.
Add all that to the mess the team’s been dealing with since Mercer’s contract was terminated and Cooper took over as head coach, and it’s no wonder he didn’t want me dragging the Hendrix name back into the spotlight he’s been trying to dim.
I came anyway.
Cole and Beau thought joining the league right after graduation was the right move. I’d earned my shot. I did what Cooper told me to do. I went to college. I put in the work. And if I wanted to play with my brothers, it had to be now, while they were still here. Cooper and Beau have already hung up their skates, and nobody knows how much longer Cole’s shoulder will hold. I didn’t want to wait and watch the door close.
I wanted one season. One chance to wear the same colors and share the same ice with my brothers, to make every shift count before the window slammed shut. So, here I am, late for my first day of media training and about to get my ass chewed out by the head coach, who also happens to be my big brother.
It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. I was supposed to crash at Beau’s old condo, a five-minutewalk from the rink, but Mom called with promises of homemade pasta and cinnamon rolls. I’m not stupid. You don’t say no to that. I planned to leave early, beat traffic, show up on time, and prove I could be professional. Then the flat happened. One loud pop, one useless spare, and me cursing in the driveway while Mom stood on the porch, waving another cinnamon roll like that could fix it.
Cooper won’t go easy on me. If anything, he’s harder on me than anyone else. No shortcuts. No special treatment. No family favors. Just a name that carries more weight than I ever asked for and a target painted squarely between my shoulder blades. Every drill, every shift, every game means I must prove I belong here. That I earned this. That I’m not just the youngest Hendrix trying to cash in on a last name.
If I fail, it’ll be front-page news. If I rise, it’ll be because no one could stop me.
I can feel the quiet tension between Cooper and me, heavy with all the things we don’t say. Did I fight my way here because I’m good enough or because he couldn’t stop me?
