I toss the salmon in the freezer, then text Kendall.
Patterson
I stare at the screen after I hit Send. We don’t do hearts. We send food emojis. But tonight, it feels like canceling on her cost me something.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Kendall
I exhale a laugh.
I set my phone on the nightstand and lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. I don’t know when I’ll be with her again. My schedule is full of games and travel, but I’ll make it work. Somehow.
“Good night, Kendall,” I whisper to the dark, feeling like I’m already fucking this up.
If she slips through my fingers this time, it’s no one’s fault but my own.
24
KENDALL
Iwake up to the sun rising and immediately feel the nervous energy inside me. I don’t know when I’ll see Patterson again. He’s traveling this week, and the closer we get to the playoffs, the more important each game becomes.
Now that I’ve finished my commissions and chosen my action shots for the charity auction, traveling with the team is an unnecessary expense.
Tomorrow, I’ll deliver the player portraits, with a promise of game plays delivered by the first of May. I have a little more than a month, but I only need a few days to finish them. I’m ahead of schedule, and today, I’m inspired to paint for myself. It’s not something I’ve done in … years.
I crank up some oldies and grab my brushes and paints. I don’t know how to register the feeling that swirls inside me as I squeeze oils onto my palette. My brush moves without thinking about where it’s going. By the time the light outside my window shifts from morning to afternoon, I’ve created something I didn’t intend to make.
Two bodies press together with faces hidden in shadow. His strong, veiny hands gripping my hips as the arch of my backcurves against his broad chest. I’ve captured the way his fingers dig into my soft flesh, the tension in his forearms, the way my body melts against his, like I belong there. The colors are warm and dark—amber and bronze, mixed with deep burgundy where our skin meets.
“Painted you like one of my French girls,” I say with a laugh.
I didn’t plan to paint us. I didn’t intentionally think about him, but he’s always on my mind. My hands knew what to create, like he’s my muscle memory. This is complete surrender.
I set the canvas aside and tell myself it’s nothing. Just inspiration.
That night, I pull on his gray shirt before bed because it still smells like him, and I’m not above admitting that to myself. My phone vibrates.
Patterson
I smile at the ceiling, wishing he were in the city.
Kendall
Patterson
I fall asleep with my phone still in my hand.
Friday morning, I put on my professional face and deliver the portraits to the facility. The owner shakes my hand in the conference room while my father watches from the doorway, arms crossed, beaming like I won an Olympic medal. Right after, he’s traveling to meet the team for tomorrow’s game.
“These are extraordinary,” the owner says, flipping through the portfolio. “The way you’ve captured each player’spersonality. Fierce. Unapologetic. The way you painted Patterson. It’s like there’s something in his eyes.”
I keep my expression neutral. “He was challenging.”
“Seems you rose to the challenge.” He closes the portfolio. “I’m looking forward to the auction pieces.”
My father walks me out, his hand warm on my shoulder, and I relax.
