Footsteps approach the door, and I duck into an open conference room as Patterson storms by with barely containedanger, mumbling under his breath. He doesn’t see me, but I see him, and I let myself enjoy every second of watching him seethe.
I wait until my heart has settled and he disappears before I do a little victory dance. Patterson will have sessions with me, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. Dad made sure of that.
As I move through the doors to the sidewalk outside, I grin.
I’m playing the game. And I’ll win.
9
PATTERSON
ONE WEEK LATER
I’m seven minutes late on purpose.
Coach can force me to show up for these sessions, but he can’t force me to be on time. Seven minutes is enough to send a message without being egregious. It will have Kendall wondering if I’m coming at all. Right now, she deserves to feel that flicker of doubt, to sit uncomfortably in that conference room, watching the door, waiting for me to arrive. She deserves to wonder if she has as much control as she thinks she has.
After practice, I showered and took my time getting dressed. I checked my phone and answered texts that could’ve waited until later tonight. After what she had pulled, Kendall needs to sweat a little.
When I approach the hallway outside the conference room, the entire facility is empty. I pause with my hand on the door to collect myself. I’ve been dreading this all fucking week, which isn’t typical. I tend to face things head-on and dominate. But the thought of being alone with Kendall for an hour while she tries to crack me causes unease.
I’ve avoided her since our confrontation in the hallway last week. If I saw her coming, I turned around and went the long way round. Other times, I’d pretend to be absorbed in my phone. When she showed up at our games last week, I looked straight past her like she didn’t exist. It’s supposed to get easier. But I can’t stop thinking about the taste of her tongue in my mouth or her hands fisted in my shirt.
I push open the door.
Afternoon sun streams through the windows that overlook the practice rink. She’s set up in the corner, where the light is best, with a leather chair angled to catch the warmth. Supplies are spread across the table.
“You’re late,” she says, keeping her voice even, but I catch irritation in her eyes.
Good.
“Got caught up with something.” I drop into the leather chair without waiting for direction, sprawling back with my arms crossed.
“You expect me to believe that bullshit?” she asks with her brow popped.
She turns and grabs her camera. My eyes slide down her body. She’s wearing a silk shirt that fits her perfectly and jeans that accentuate her ass. Her expression is carefully neutral, even though there’s tension in her shoulders.
“I need to take some reference photos first. Look natural,” she says, leaning against the table, keeping plenty of space between us.
She raises the camera, and the shutter clicks, but I give her nothing.
“Can you smile and pretend like you’re having a good time?”
“I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”
“Patterson.”
“Use your overactive imagination and paint one on me. I don’t smile on command.”
I can tell she’s resisting the urge to throw the camera at my head, which gives me a petty surge of satisfaction. She wants three sessions, and I won’t make them easy.
“Can you at least uncross your arms?”
“Can you use your manners?” I ask.
She huffs. “Please?”
I uncross them, but grip the armrests instead, bracing myself for impact.
