“Okay then. Dismissed.”
I take off toward the gate, blades carving hard into the surface. Callan shouts my name, and Coach barks something I don’t bother hearing. Once I’m in the locker room, I rip off my helmet and hurl it against the lockers. It crashes and then clanks to the floor. I grab my shit and slip out before anyone can catch up to talk or before I run into Kendall. Right now, I need to be alone, need to get my head straight before I do something I’ll regret.
I guess it’s official. Kendall is back, and she’s staying until the end of the season. There’s not a damn thing I can do about it except stay the hell away from her.
Because if I don’t, I’ll burn her to the ground, like she deserves.
2
KENDALL
It’s been eight hours since I left the rink, and I can’t stop thinking about Patterson’s blue-green eyes burning through me. He glared at me like I was something he wanted to destroy, and I hate that my body still responds to that. It frustrates me that I noticed how broad his shoulders were in his practice jersey. He’s the last asshole on this planet I should be thinking about right now.
I set my art supplies on the dining room table of the apartment I’m subletting until the end of May. The furnished place came with generic IKEA furniture and beige walls that have me itching to add color, but the light is good, and the rent is reasonable for Manhattan. Brushes and charcoal pencils are scattered across the oak surface, so I organize them the way I always do when my mind won’t settle. Several easels are propped against the wall by the door, and blank canvases are stacked on top of the coffee table, like monuments waiting to be transformed.
My leather-bound notebook sits on the edge of the table, the cover worn soft from years of being shoved into bags and pulled out in galleries and cafés across the world. My whole life is inthere—contact information for galleries, sketches from random travels, half-finished ideas, my personal thoughts, and grocery lists. It’s my random catch-all.
Outside my window, the January sky has turned that shade of gray that somehow makes it feel colder than it is. Sirens wail below, and voices carry through the streets. I actually missed this city more than I expected, and after five years gone, I thought I’d be over it by now. Guess this will always be home.
After pouring myself a glass of wine, I focus on the work ahead of me, but I’m reminded of how Patterson stormed off that rink like I’d set his world on fire. Being back in New York isn’t about him. I came here for a job, and that’s it. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
I grab the roster Dad gave me and scan over the names of the twenty players I need to paint before the first of May. If I complete two to three per week, I’ll finish ahead of time, and then I can work on the charity paintings. It’s an aggressive schedule, but not impossible, considering I have nothing else going on right now.
This project could open doors for me in the US market. It’s so damn important for me to put my best foot forward and show everyone why I earned this opportunity.
I glance over the notes I made about each player. Callan Riddick will be easy because he’s the captain with a natural authority that will translate well to canvas. Hunter Matthews and Ryan Brady will be fun, all swagger and energy. Wyatt King, the rookie, will probably be nervous and stiff.
Then there’s Patterson. The jerk who keeps taking up space in my mind without permission.
I’m brought back to that moment six years ago that I can’t forget, no matter how many miles and years are put between us. Maybe I am the villain? Maybe we both are.
My phone vibrates.
Dad
Great job today, sweetheart. The team is excited to work with you. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble.
Kendall
Thanks, Dad! Thinking about bringing my skates and taking a few laps around the rink tomorrow.
Dad
You still remember how?
Kendall
Of course. It’s like riding a bike.
I lean back on the cushion and stare at the ceiling. When Patterson called me a nepo baby, it stung. Comments like that are cruel. He can act like my accomplishments mean absolutely nothing, even though I’ve spent five years proving myself in galleries across Europe. Nobody gave a shit whose daughter I was.
A knock at my door nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I stay quiet because I’m not expecting anyone, but then I hear my best friend, Addison’s, voice from the other side.
“Keke! I know you’re in there because I tracked you on our location app. Open up,” she says.
“Coming.” I stand and realize I drank that glass of wine too fast because my head swirls as I unlock the dead bolt and open the door.
Addison’s holding a box of pizza in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “Hungry?”
