“Yeah,” I say, understanding that more than she knows. “I do like being an independent woman though.”
“Me too,” she says, and we clink our wineglasses together as we continue eating. “There’s something about being able to do your own thing and getting dicked down whenever you want. Sometimes you can have your cake and eat it too.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. “That’s never worked for me.”
We easily fall back into that friendship we’ve always had, no matter how much time has passed.
A few hours later, Addison gets up to leave and she pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m excited you’re back.”
“Me too.”
“If Patterson pulls any more shit, let me know.”
“So you can murder him?”
“Nah. I won’t get my hands dirty. I’ll just tell my dad he’s being disrespectful to you. It would be handled within twenty-four hours.” She grins before heading out. “Now, how about you try to have fun while you’re in the city? Live a little.”
“I’m not sure if I know how to anymore,” I tell her.
“Try,” she encourages.
After she’s gone, I grab my notebook and add more notes about the players. Then I draw his face in the margin without meaning to. It’s rough lines at first, followed by the angle of his jaw and the shape of his eyes. I add the perfect slope of his nose and the upward curve of his mouth. I erase and redraw his eyebrow three times before the arch is right.
He and Jameson may be identical, but my pencil isn’t drawing the warmth around his eyes. I’m capturing Patterson’s grit, the lock of his jaw before he says something cruel. It’s a special coldness that he reserves for me. After all these years, Patterson’s face is the one that refuses to leave me alone.
I close the notebook with force and shove it across the table.
Five years away wasn’t enough time for me to get him out of my system, but I cannot do this with him. It would never work.
The bottom line is I’m here to do a job, one that my dad begged me to take. I want to make him proud.
Patterson Cross can hate me forever, but I refuse to let him run me off.
He can go fuck himself.
3
PATTERSON
Ishow up to the facility at five in the morning because my brain won’t shut off, and sometimes, being on the ice is the only thing that helps. Most of the building is still dark, but Coach is here somewhere because I swear that man never rests. I head toward the locker room and change into my practice gear before grabbing my skates, and as I move down the hallway that leads to the rink, I hear Coldplay. No way Coach would be listening to this, but it has me curious about who’s here this early.
I follow the sound and stop at the entrance.
Of fucking course Kendall’s here.
This woman loves being under my skin, torturing me in ways I can barely articulate. Yesterday, when I spoke with my sister, she couldn’t understand my hatred of her best friend. Some days, I don’t understand it either. Hating her is my habit.
I should turn around, grab my shit, and leave, but I can’t make myself move. Right now, she’s oblivious to me, and I like it that way.
Kendall’s wearing black leggings and a tight athletic top with her dark hair pulled back into a high bun. A portable speaker sits on the ledge, playing the music while she skates backward withher eyes closed, feeling the beat. She’s a ballerina with bite on blades.
My feet stay planted, and part of me resents her for it. Even after all this time, she still controls me without even trying.
Sometimes, I forget she was on the path to becoming an Olympian before an ankle injury ended her career. When the accident happened, Coach missed a month of practice, and it was the only time he’d ever been absent.
She builds speed like she’s setting up for something big, and seconds later, she launches into the air and throws a triple axel with three and a half rotations. Her blade hits the ice and cuts through it like nothing. A satisfied grin touches her lips as she continues.
My hand curls into a fist. Watching her now makes me want to say much worse than I did yesterday.
