The headline reads:COACH’S DAUGHTER SECRETLY DATING ANGELS HOCKEY STAR.
“That was fast,” I whisper.
Patterson tosses his phone on the coffee table, screen down. “By next week, they’ll have something new to talk about.”
But his hand tightens on my ankle, and I know he doesn’t believe that any more than I do.
35
PATTERSON
Itold Kendall the media would move on, and that they’d find something new to obsess over, someone else to tear apart. She was exhausted and scared and needed to hear something hopeful, so I gave us both that, even though the media was unpredictable.
I was too fucking hopeful.
It’s Tuesday morning, three days since our dinner date, and my face is still on every screen in the city. Jameson is pissed because he can’t go anywhere without being bombarded. This is officially a train wreck.
I’m standing in the kitchen before dawn because I couldn’t sleep anymore. I’ve already run five miles on the treadmill and lifted this morning, hoping it would calm my mind, but here I am, scrolling through headlines I know I should ignore.
PUCK BUNNY OR POWER PLAY: THE DEVIL BEHIND THE ANGELS DOWNFALL
They’re coming for Kendall, dissecting her past, her career, and her relationship with Jameson. That’s the part that makes me want to throw my phone against the wall because seeingpictures of them together still takes me back to a time I want to forget.
The team has lost three games without me. I’ve watched every single one from this couch with Kendall against my side, both of us holding our breath like it might change the outcome. It doesn’t.
I set my phone face down on the counter and start the coffee maker because I need to focus on something else. The penthouse is quiet, and early morning light creeps through the windows. Kendall is still upstairs, asleep in our bedroom. She’s been sleeping a lot lately, which worries me. Because when Kendall’s happy, she paints, she hums, she laughs more. Sleep is how she hides.
The coffee finishes, and I pour a cup, leaving a mug on the counter for her when she wakes. I settle onto the couch with my laptop.
In a few hours, I have an exclusive ESPN interview that my publicist sent over. She and my agent gave me the talking points I’m supposed to memorize, along with a list of instructions, such as:Stay calm and neutral, and confirm nothing personal.Pivot back to hockey when possible. I read through them twice and close the laptop, hoping I don’t make matters worse. Since the spotlight is on me, my words will be twisted and used to continue the feud.
Kendall comes down the stairs around eight, wearing my T-shirt and nothing else. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head. She pours coffee into the mug I left for her and blows on it a second before coming to me. Without warning, she moves to my lap, straddling me.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.” I kiss her. “How’d you sleep?”
“Okay.”
She’s lying. I can see it in the shadows under her eyes, but I know she’s not ready to talk about what’s bothering her, which is her dad.
“Interview’s at ten,” I tell her. “You don’t have to watch.”
“I want to.” She takes another sip of coffee. “Have you practiced what you’re going to say?”
She rocks against me, and I smile, growing hard under her.
“That your father and I have a difference of opinion. That I respect him as a coach. That my personal life is personal.”
“It’s very personal,” she says.
I pull her closer. “I won’t trash him on national television. Even if part of me wants to.”
She’s quiet for a minute before she sets her coffee down on the small table beside the couch. “My mom’s been calling.”
“You didn’t tell me that.” I place my hands on her hips.
“I haven’t answered.” She runs her hands down my chest. “She keeps texting that we need to work this out as a family. But if he wanted to talk to me, he’d call me himself. He hasn’t.”
