“I wanted tonight. You know I did. I’ll make it up to you.”
“When? Sometime next week? Or the week after?”
I run through my schedule in my head. Game tomorrow. Travel Thursday for the road series. Back in New York on Tuesday, with another game on Wednesday, and then I start all over. All I can do is sigh. “You know how this goes.”
Her laugh is hollow. “I know. And I’m already exhausted.”
“Ken Doll …” I find her face in the dark, my hands cupping her jaw. Her skin is warm under my palms. “Are you sure you can do this with me?”
I feel her breath against my lips, feel her fingers still twisted in my shirt.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I’m not ready to stop trying.”
“Neither am I.”
Her hands slide up to my shoulders, and she pulls me closer. When she kisses me, it’s almost sad. I sink into it, my hands moving to her hips, pulling her against me in the dark.
“I’d better get the princess treatment,” she says when she pulls back.
“Queen treatment, babe.”
“Promise?”
“Pinkie swear,” I say, lifting my finger, and she takes mine in hers.
“I hate this,” she whispers.
“Me too.”
She reaches past me and cracks the door open, checking the hallway. Light spills across her face, and I see the frustration she’s trying to hide.
“Go first,” I tell her. “I’ll wait five minutes.”
I steal one more kiss before she slips out. When I’m alone, I close my eyes, leaning my head against the wall. What the fuck are we doing?
Five minutes later, I’m walking toward the exit, trying to push my doubts away.
The dinner is fine. Dennis talks numbers and years and no-trade clauses while I nod and say the right things. Coach watches me with approval, probably thinking my priorities are straight. The steak is cooked perfectly, but I barely taste it.
At one point, Dennis asks about my goals for the next five years. I give him the standard answer—championships, legacy, being part of something bigger than myself. The whole time, I’m thinking about Kendall, alone in her apartment, probably drinking wine and hating me.
Halfway through dessert, Dennis excuses himself. When I’m alone with Coach, he claps me on the shoulder.
“You’ve come a long way, Patterson. I remember when you first joined this team. Cocky as hell, chip the size of Manhattan on your shoulder.” He shakes his head with something like fondness. “You’ve grown into one of the best players I’ve ever coached. I’m proud of you.”
The words feel good because he never gives compliments.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“I mean it. If you keep your head on straight, stay focused through the playoffs, then I have a feeling you’ll spend the rest of your career with this franchise.” He raises his glass.
“That’s all I want,” I tell him truthfully.
Coach raises his glass of bourbon. “To the Angels.”
“To the Angels,” I echo, and the booze tastes like guilt.
By the time I get home, it’s almost eleven. I stand in my kitchen, looking at the salmon still in my fridge, the vegetables I planned to roast, and the bottle of wine I’d picked out because it was her favorite. A whole evening planned and wasted.
