Patterson
Go pantyless for me.
Kendall
Really?
Patterson
Double dare you.
I pocket my phone and head to the event. When I enter, I follow the sound of voices.
The space has been transformed for the dedication of the portraits ceremony. Ladders lean against the walls, where workers are making final adjustments to the hanging portraits, each one illuminated by a dedicated light that makes thecolors pop. Press clusters near the entrance with cameras and notepads. Dennis is gesturing broadly while a reporter nods along. The guys are scattered around, looking uncomfortable in their dress clothes. Hunter is already tugging at his collar like it’s choking him.
And there she is.
Kendall is near the far wall, chatting with someone. The black dress hugs her body perfectly and stops above her knee. Dark brown hair falls past her shoulders. Each time she moves her head, her diamond earrings sparkle in the light. She hasn’t seen me yet, and that’s okay. I’m sure she can feel my presence.
I grab a tiny bottle of water from a side table and find a spot along the wall, where I can watch the workers hang the last few portraits. One of them is hanging Callan’s portrait, checking twice that it’s level before stepping back. The image is incredible from here, and I can see the determination carved into every line of his face.
Kendall made him look like a warrior, a fearless leader. She has a way of finding what’s special about someone and bringing it out in her artwork.
My eyes drift back to where she was. She’s now shaking hands with someone from the news crew, and I give myself permission to watch. Kendall is confident and holds herself with authority, while keeping her shoulders relaxed. She glances up and immediately finds me across the crowded room.
Everyone fades away, and the edges soften. Conversations around me blur into the background. We’re dancing in the electric current, hoping not to get shocked. Everything blurs on the edges of my vision as I focus on her. The voices fade into background noise. People standing close become shapes in my peripheral vision.
The corner of her mouth lifts into a smirk that’s reserved for me.
I remind myself to breathe, to look away, to stop being so fucking obvious about how I feel. Coach is somewhere in this room, and the last thing we need is for him to notice anything.
I force my gaze to the portraits on the wall and study the brushwork, allowing my pulse to go back to normal.
When I look back, she’s talking to Dennis, drinking a glass of champagne. She politely nods along to whatever he says, but her eyes flick over to me. It’s a quick look, hungry, full of longing, but then she glances away.
I take a long drink of water and try to think about anything other than her.
A moment later, the microphone is being tapped, and the room grows quiet.
Coach Hart moves up to the microphone. “Thank you all for being here today. This is a special moment for the franchise—fifty years of history. This year, instead of photographs, Dennis Jones thought painted portraits would better honor the players who have made this possible. The Angels are one of the greatest teams in the league with the most talented players. I am honored to be your coach.”
He gestures to the walls, to the portraits hanging in their perfect rows, each one lit like a museum piece.
Dennis moves up to the podium. “These portraits will hang in this arena for decades to come. Long after we’re a memory, people will walk through this arena and see the faces of the men who made it legendary. Each and every one of you holds a special legacy, and that’s what we’re celebrating today. You.”
Kendall proudly stands at the edge of the stage, looking at her work with starry eyes. Her vision, her talent, and her countless hours of effort will live forever with the team legacy. And she has to stand there, pretending it’s no big deal.
“I want to thank our incredibly talented artist, Kendall Hart, for bringing this vision to life. Dare I say, she willbe remembered as one of the greats,” Dennis continues, and everyone claps.
Kendall dips her head in acknowledgment, but doesn’t step forward for more recognition than that.
Her dad places his arm around her shoulders and squeezes. They smile at each other, and when her eyes briefly meet mine, I see everything she’s feeling reflected back at me.
Every portrait on these walls is proof of how talented she is. Now her artwork belongs to every single person who steps foot into this room.
The formal unveiling begins. Each player’s portrait gets its own moment, Dennis reading off our numbers, names, and how long we’ve been an Angel, along with any important stats. The crowd goes wild.
When he gets to my portrait, the applause grows until it echoes and fills the room.
