For some reason, my nerves are beginning to get the best of me. I wipe my hands on my jeans.
Dennis arrives ten minutes later in a tailored suit and shoes that reflect light.
“Miss Hart.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“I hope they meet your expectations.”
He starts with the team shot, nodding slowly, then moves to Callan and Hunter.
When he gets to Wyatt, he smiles. “The rookie. Very good choice. Fans love an underdog.”
Then he sees the two of Patterson and stops.
“Your star player,” I mutter.
He nods, looking at the first one for a long time. Patterson is mid-stride with the puck, his whole body leaning into the play. Then he moves to the penalty box painting and smiles.
“This one will start a bidding war. Patterson Cross is one of the best players this team has seen in nearly twenty years.” The owner turns to me. “Maybe ever. You were smart to capture that.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
Dennis looks impressed. “The auction committee will be thrilled. We’re going to raise a fortune for the foundation. This couldn’t have been done without your help and talent. It’s appreciated.”
“Actually”—I gesture to his assistant, who brings in two wrapped canvases—“I have something else. They’re a gift to the team, extras for the auction.”
He raises an eyebrow and unwraps the first one.
It’s my father screaming during a play, leaning forward with his hands braced on his knees, intensity radiating off him. Ipainted him fierce, focused, and completely in his element. He’s the man who taught me to love this game.
Dennis doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
“Kendall,” he says, “this isextraordinary. I swear I can hear this painting.”
“That’s literally the best compliment anyone has ever given me about one of my paintings,” I say with a chuckle. “I can hear it too.”
He unwraps the second canvas. It’s a team huddle—all the players circled up with their sticks in the center, heads bowed. You can’t see faces, just helmets and shoulders. It’s the collective, the unit, the essence that makes a team more than names on a roster.
“It’s been an honor to be chosen to do this,” I tell him, almost repeating the speech I gave him when I begged for this job. “I really hope you enjoyed working with me.”
The owner looks at me. “I’m blown away. Thank you for helping us memorialize this.”
I thank him, shake his hand, and manage to keep my composure until I’m back in the van. Then I sit in the driver’s seat and let myself feel the happiness radiate off of me.
I actually did it.
I finished the portraits on time, and I got the guy too.
When I walk into Patterson’s place, it smells like garlic and butter. Candles flicker on the kitchen island, wax dripping down the sides and pooling on the marble. A bouquet of the brightest pink roses sits next to an open bottle of wine.
I close the door behind me and stop.
He’s at the stove, barefoot in gray sweats, no shirt. Muscles cascade down his back as he stirs something in a pan. He’s relaxed.
“Hi,” I say as I enter the kitchen.
He glances over his shoulder at me and grins. After quickly wiping his hands, he pours me a glass of wine. “Sit down. We’re celebrating.”
I do as he says. “Your suspension doesn’t end until tomorrow.”
