“Kendall, you know you’re going to be at more games, practices, and team events.” Dad turns to Patterson. “And you’re going to get used to it. She’s not going anywhere, and neither are you.”
“With respect, Coach—” Patterson starts.
“I’m not asking for respect. I’m asking for basic professionalism.” Dad’s voice drops lower, which is somehow more intimidating than when he yells. “You’re the face of this franchise, one of the best players in the league. She’s my daughter. Whatever personal issues exist between you, figure them out and bury them so deeply that no one ever sees them again. Pretend you like each other in public. I don’t want to hear about it from anyone. Understood?”
The silence stretches on for an eternity.
Patterson’s eyes find mine across the room, and this time, there’s something darker that makes my thighs press together involuntarily.
“Understood,” Patterson says quietly. “You have my word.”
Dad looks at me. “Kendall?”
“Fine.” The word tastes like ash. “I’ll be professional.”
“Good.” Dad’s shoulders relax. “Now, your mother made a beautiful meal, and we’re going to sit at that table like civilizedadults and have a nice dinner. No glaring. No snide comments. Just food and conversation. Can you both manage that?”
“Yes, sir,” Patterson says.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
“Good.” Dad heads toward the dining room. “Let’s eat.”
Patterson rises from the couch and pauses beside my chair, close enough that I catch his scent.
He leans down, his mouth barely an inch from my ear. “Award-winning performance,” he whispers so low that only I can hear.
“I wasn’t performing,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
He smirks. “Even better.”
Then he follows my father, leaving me nearly gasping for air. He affects me too much, a control I wish he didn’t have.
Sitting across from him at dinner is a masterclass in torture.
The food is perfect, but every bite sits like an anchor in my stomach. I’m hyperaware of Patterson, noticing the small details, like how he holds his knife and the movement of his throat when he swallows.
“This is incredible, Mrs. Hart.” Patterson’s voice is genuine, and my mother practically glows under the praise. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal like this. I haven’t seen my parents as often as I should.”
He takes another bite and makes a sound of appreciation that I’ve heard in a very different context. My fork scrapes against my plate.
“Between the season and training, there’s not much time for family dinners.”
“That’s a shame,” Mom says. “Family is everything.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he says.
I want to gag at how fake he’s being. He’s performing the role of perfect dinner guest so convincingly that my mother is eating out of his hand. Dad’s nodding along, and I’m the only one in theroom who knows the real Patterson Cross. The man he tries to hide under that perfectly polished surface.
He’s a manipulative, arrogant, infuriating asshole who might ruin me for anyone else.
“Kendall, you’re quiet.” Dad’s watching me like I’m hiding something.
“Just enjoying the food.”
“You’ve barely touched it.”
I shove a large bite into my mouth and chew aggressively, maintaining eye contact with my father until he shakes his head and returns to his conversation with Patterson.
