My mouth falls open when I see Patterson Cross sitting on my parents’ couch, laughing with my dad.
He’s wearing a navy sweater that makes his eyes look more blue than green, and his hair is styled like he actually put effort into it. A glass of liquor, maybe whiskey, is in his hand. He’s wearing that charming smile he reserves for people he’s trying to impress or when he’s on television.
Then his gaze slides over to me. This is war.
My grip tightens on the wine bottle. Seeing him here causes aggravation to flood me. Behind the hostility in his eyes, I catch something else. The corner of his mouth twitches before his smile fades into a challenge.
He’s enjoying this, enjoying making me squirm in front of my parents. Some sick part of him finds it amusing. I want to throw the wine bottle at his head.
Knowing what we did and how much my body craves more of him—it makes everything worse. Now I have to undoubtedly hate him in front of my parents.
“There’s my girl.” Dad stands and crosses the room to kiss my forehead, oblivious to the battle of wits that’s just begun. “Was starting to worry about you.”
“Dad, what is he doing here?” The words come out flat and hard.
Dad’s smile falters. “Patterson stopped by to drop off some game film. I invited him to stay for dinner.”
“Then I’m leaving.” I take a step backward. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Kendall.” Dad’s voice carries a warning.
“No. I came here to see you and Mom, not to deal with”—I gesture toward Patterson, who’s watching me with that infuriatingly sexy but blank expression—“him.”
Patterson shoots back his whiskey and sets his glass down with a deliberate clink. “Trust me, I didn’t plan for this either.”
“Then leave.”
“Enough.” Dad’s coach voice rips through the room. It’s the one that makes grown men shut their mouths and skate harder. “Both of you, sit down.”
“Dad—”
“Right now, Kendall.”
I force my feet to move, lowering myself into the armchair away from the couch. I slam the wine bottle on the side table and cross my arms over my chest like a teenager who got grounded.
Patterson settles back onto the couch, and I catch that glint in his eyes again. Bastard.
Mom appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Dinner’s almost—” She stops, noticing the tension in the room. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Dad says. “Just having a family discussion.”
“I should go.” Patterson starts to rise. “I don’t want to intrude on?—”
“Sit.” Dad points at him, then at me. “Both of you. Nobody’s going anywhere until we discuss this.”
“There is nothing to discuss.”
Mom’s gaze bounces between us before she quietly retreats to the kitchen. Smart woman.
Dad stands in the center of the room like he’s addressing the team before a playoff game. His arms cross over his chest, and I recognize the posture. I’ve seen it my whole life, right before he delivers a speech that guys will remember and quote for years.
“I’ve watched you two circle each other like rabid dogs for weeks now,” he starts. “The whole facility’s noticed. My coacheshave noticed. Hell, the equipment manager complained about you two terrorizing each other in the hallways.”
My face burns. “Dad?—”
“I’m not finished.” He holds up a hand. “I don’t know what happened between you two, and frankly, I don’t care about who dated who and who doesn’t like each other for whatever reason. That’s in the past. What I care about is my team, my daughter, and the fact that this”—he gestures between us—“is becoming a distraction.”
Patterson says nothing. His expression has gone carefully neutral; all traces of his cockiness have vanished.
