“That’s a terrible motto.”
“I never claimed to be inspirational.” He stands and checks his watch. “I really do have to go. I can’t be late this morning, or your dad will rip me a new asshole. Try to have a good day.”
He slips out the door before I can respond, and I’m left alone in my apartment, surrounded by Addison’s doughnuts and a bundle of red flags.
I pick up my phone and stare at the screen. I should text Jameson to warn him that Addison thinks we’re rekindling things. But then again, I’m sure his agent has already emailed him about us being in the gossip headlines.
But that means having to talk to him, and I haven’t forgiven him yet. Honestly, I don’t know if I ever will.
23
PATTERSON
Practice runs longer than usual because Coach is in one of his moods where nothing is good enough, and everyone pays for it. By the time he blows the whistle, my legs are burning. My shoulder still aches from a hit I took against Hunter.
I’m already thinking about tonight, about having Kendall in my kitchen, about the salmon and risotto I bought ingredients for yesterday.
I’m halfway to the locker room when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise.
“Cross. My office. Five minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, acting indifferent.
Callan shoots me a look as I peel off from the group. I shrug like I don’t know what this is about, but my mind is racing through every stolen glance Kendall and I have shared lately.
Maybe Coach noticed; maybe I’m feeling guilty as fuck. My mind races as I stalk toward his office, not daring to be late when he’s already at his wits’ end.
What if my career with the Angels is about to end because I couldn’t keep my hands off his daughter?
The door is open, and he’s sitting behind his desk, reading something on his laptop. I study his face as I knock on the frame, searching for a hint of what he wants. His expression gives me nothing.
“Sit.”
I drop into the chair across from him, keeping my own expression neutral even though my heart is slamming against my ribs. His office hasn’t changed since I’ve been on this team. The same motivational bullshit is plastered on the walls, the same championship photos, and a framed picture of Kendall skating on his desk. I force myself not to look at it.
“Wanted to talk to you about something,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
I can’t tell if he’s drawing this out on purpose or if I’m actually nervous. Coach has always been impossible to read. It’s what makes him a great coach.
“I’ve noticed things have been better lately.”
“With?”
“You and Kendall.”
This is it. He knows.
“I’m trying to be civil,” I say steadily, which is a miracle.
He studies me. “She mentioned you’ve been professional.”
I wait for the rest. For him to say,And then someone told me they saw you two in the hallway, orCare to explain why you were in a storage closet together?But he keeps looking at me.
“Maybe I’ve grown up,” I manage.
He laughs, and it’s a real one. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and I realize with a jolt that he’s not angry or suspicious. He’s genuinely pleased.
The relief nearly knocks me out of the chair.
