Page 39 of Sweet Redemption

“I was there for her when you weren’t, Hendrix.” Her shoulders sink, and she throws her head up to the ceiling, eyes closed for one beat, then another, before bringing them back to me and nailing me to the wall with them. “I know how hard this was on her and on you. And I know you’re hurting her . . . again.”

I rock back on my heels, her words packing the powerful punch she knew they would. “Olivia . . . I’m trying, but it’s not that easy.”

“I know that. I refuse to stand by and watch her break this time, and I know you don’t want that either. I. Know. You. And I know you never stopped loving her.”

“That was three years ago, Olivia . . .”

“After a lifetime, Hendrix,” Liv whispers and slides off the desk, dropping her head to my chest and sighing.

“Liv . . . I’m not sure I can do it.” Fuck.

“Hendrix . . . Talk to her. She’ll be at the wedding.”

“The wedding where I’m a best man? The wedding where my entire family and yours will be . . . watching.”

“Lower your voice,” Liv hisses. “I don’t care where you talk to her or when you do it, for that matter. Just do it, Hendrix.” She squares her shoulders and pulls in a deep breath

Some people say their life is so goddamned good, they wonder constantly when the other shoe will drop.

I’d like to know at what fucking point I run out of fucking shoes.

Serena

“Helloooooo.” Aurora’s voice echoes through the house like she’s calling into a cave from what sounds like my front door. “Anybody home?”

Yup. That’s her.

I turn to one side, then the other, staring at my reflection, cataloging every reason why I hate this suit and quite possibly my body right along with it as I deflate.

“Up here, Sleeping Beauty,” I call down and toss the black jacket onto the bed.

A minute later she steps in, a Kingston jersey and jean shorts on, making her long legs look even longer, looking cool and casual, like she’s not worried about a single thing. Which, in all fairness, she’s probably not. My beautiful, talented cousin is quite possibly the most easygoing Kingston. I blame all the yoga she does.

“Uhh . . .” She stops for a hot second and drags her eyes from the top of my freshly blown-out hair down to my pink-painted toes. “No. This will not do.”

“Tell me about it,” I groan and watch as she walks into my closet. “I seriously don’t feel like going to this game tonight.”

“Are you still working for your dad?” She pokes her head out and nibbles her lip before disappearing back into the closet. “Because if the answer is yes, you have to go to the game. And if you’re going, you’re going to need to look better than that.”

I unzip the pencil skirt and step out of it as she emerges, carrying a sleeveless, red silk Revolution mini shirtdress and a pair of black patent-leather Jimmy Choos. “If you’re working for Uncle Max,”—she holds up her hand before I can interrupt—“even if it’s just for a few more days, you need to look the part of the future of the organization.” She cocks a brow and shakes the dress. “Now strip.”

“Don’t you think this is a little much for preseason?” I pull the dress on and slide into the shoes.

“Nope.” Aurora unbuttons the top two buttons. “Not even a little. Now hurry up. Saylor’s waiting in the car.”

Preseason is a funny thing for all sports. It’s the start of the season, even if they say it doesn’t matter. They’re lying. It matters. It sets a tone. The wins and losses may not follow you into the season, but everything else does.

It lets you—the fan, the owner, the player, the coach—see who clicks and who doesn’t. What lines work and which still need work. Who came back from last season stronger, faster, hungrier.

And for the players on the cusp of either being cut or having their dreams come true, it can mean everything.

Some people might not think it’s exciting. But I do—because preseason is a clean slate full of possibility. A new beginning.

Standing inside my family’s suite while the last notes of the national anthem echo through the arena before the puck drops, my eyes trail over the team. Over my friends and a few cousins who stand beneath me on the ice, sticks in hand, vibrating with nervous energy they’ll probably never admit to having. But having played in years’ worth of preseason games, I know it’s there.

I spent years standing, bouncing on the balls of my feet, and convincing myself I wasn’t nervous. And God, I miss this. Miss knowing I’ll never stand on a soccer field again, waiting for the ball to be kicked to me.

The realization hits hard and fast enough that my knuckles turn white against the railing they’re wrapped around.