“Oh, you’d better believe it, Pattycakes.” I grin, and my face softens. “But don’t ever question my love for you again. You’re my number one.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, then my nose, then my lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I trace the lines of his tattoo.
“For seeing me,” he whispers, snuggling tighter and closer.
“I’ve always seen you,” I say, meaning it with every part of my being.
30
KENDALL
On Saturday morning, Patterson reorganizes his entire closet by color while I’m still in bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask from under the covers.
“Organizing.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“I’ve been up since four. I had a video call at five. Owner is fucking pissed at me.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care. “Anyway, which one is darker?” He holds up two nearly identical navy sweaters.
I squint, looking at them in the glowing closet light. “They’re the same.”
“One is navy, and the other is midnight.”
“Those are both dark blue.”
He stares at me, and I pull the pillow over my face because I’m not awake enough for this.
“That’s why we work. You don’t give a fuck about any of this.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“No. That’s the thing,” he says, rehanging them and moving to the doorway. “Over the last hour, I’ve realized that I don’t give a fuck about any of this.”
“You don’t mean that,” I tell him.
The suspension is going to be a long week.
The next day, he goes to practice because he’s allowed to skate with the team, just not suit up for games. When he comes home, he’s in a better mood. That night, the Angels play the Sharks, and we watch from his couch because my father banned him from the bench. Every time they give up a goal, he mutters something under his breath. When they lose by three, all he can do is shake his head.
“This is bullshit,” he mutters.
Sunday, the Angels blow a two-goal lead against the Las Vegas Hawks. Patterson watches the third period collapse with his hands pressed over his eyes. When the final buzzer sounds, he gets up without a word and goes for a long run.
Watching his team lose is killing him, and I wish there were something I could do about it.
Monday, I return to my apartment to check on my drying auction pieces and grab more clothes. The five canvases are lined up where I left them. I look over them one last time to make sure they’re ready for tomorrow’s delivery. The team portrait came out better than I ever could’ve expected. They all did, especially the two of Patterson.
He’s the star of the team; no one would expect any different.
Truthfully, I didn’t plan it that way.
I chose the most dynamic action shots, the moments with the best composition and lighting. Patterson drives toward the net with two defenders on his back in one, and the other shows him in the penalty box, helmet off, jaw tight, looking like he wants to murder someone. He’s magnetic on the ice in a way I couldn’t ignore, even when I was being objective. Patterson is artwork in every way that matters.
The next morning, I load everything into the van I rented and drive it to the facility. The owner’s assistant meets me inthe loading dock and helps me carry the pieces to the conference room, where we set them up on easels.
