I make my way home, and Kendall is at her easel, painting something that looks like a mouth and throat.
My mouth. My throat.
It makes me smile as I move to her, admiring her and her artwork.
“Is this for the gallery you and Addison are putting together?”
“Yes, I think I’m going to try to add more to the collection I started. Maybe I’ll be able to fill the room with pieces of you.”
“Love that idea,” I say.
“So, how was it?” she asks.
“I thought you’d watched,” I tell her.
“Oh, I did. But the Patterson on TV isn’t my boyfriend. Don’t know him. I’m askingyouhow it went.”
“Quick. Annoying. I honestly hate interviewing.”
“But you’re so good at it,” she says.
“I’m good at everything I do,” I tell her, stealing a kiss.
“I don’t disagree.” She sets her paintbrush and paints down.
By the time it hits the sports networks at noon, Kendall has retreated to the spare room to paint, and I’m alone, refreshing social media like an addict. The headlines start rolling in within minutes.
PATTERSON CROSS BREAKS SILENCE ON SUSPENSION
“HE’S A MAN WHO DOES WHAT HE WANTS”: CROSS ON COACH HART
ANGELS STAR REFUSES TO CONFIRM ROMANCE WITH COACH’S DAUGHTER
The comments are split down the middle, half calling me arrogant and entitled, half calling Coach Hart a tyrant who’s sabotaging his own team. Others call Kendall a whore who collects Cross brothers.
A text from Callan pops up, telling me the locker room is tense for tonight’s game and everyone’s walking on eggshells. I send him words of encouragement and toss my phone on the cushion.
This makes me crawl out of my skin. I should go to the gym, burn off some of this restless energy, but instead, I find Kendall.
“I think I need you,” I tell her.
She immediately stops what she’s doing, and we talk about nothing and everything.
Around two o’clock, I get a text from Addison.
Addison
Turn on Sports News. Now.
I show Kendall. “You don’t have to.”
My curiosity gets the best of me, and I grab the remote and flip to the channel. I expect a replay of my interview or another panel of talking heads dissecting my body language. Instead, Damien Blackwell’s face fills the screen, and my whole body goes rigid.
He’s in a studio somewhere, wearing a Cobras hoodie and that self-satisfied grin I’ve wanted to punch off his face for as long as I’ve known him. The bar at the bottom reads:DAMIEN BLACKWELL SPEAKS OUT ON CROSS SUSPENSION.
“… been saying all along that Cross gets special treatment,” Damien says. “And now we know why.”
The interviewer leans forward. “Can you elaborate on that?”
