Page 3 of Sweet Redemption

Hendrix is quiet as he stares at me. But tonight, those eyes that have seen me at my best and worst look through me, not at me. “She’s my best friend, Serena. And, yeah, she’s going to be the mother of my kid, but . . .”—his next words catch on a heavy sigh as he drags his fingers through his eternally messy hair—“it should have been you.”

Oh God.

“It was never going to be me,” I whisper while tears burn the backs of my eyes, knowing no matter how much I wished things could have been different, this was how it was always going to end.

Him finally moving on. And me staying exactly where I am.

Heartbroken.

Or maybe just broken.

“After the first round of playoffs a few months ago . . .” He drags his hand over his face and sighs, and the simple sound is devastating. “It doesn’t matter. The baby is mine, Serena. What else was I supposed to do?”

God, it hurts . . . My head, my heart, my fucking soul . . .

“You don’t have to marry her, Hendrix.” The words are barely a whisper falling from my lips before they’re lost in the night.

In my head, I yell them.

In my heart, I get through to him.

In reality, none of it matters.

It never did and never will.

“You don’t love her like that.” I’m not sure whether I’m trying to convince myself or him. “You can’t.”

“She said yes, Serena . . .”

What he doesn’t bother adding before the call ends is that I never did.

SERENA

PRESENT DAY

Some days, it feels like life is a great big tornado, and I’m the cow flying through the sky for dramatic effect.

Pretty sure it didn’t end well for the cow.

—Serena’s Secret Thoughts

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I slap the contract down on my father’s desk and absolutely do not hiss in pain and pull back as it shoots straight up my arm. Damn it.

Dad’s icy-blue eyes lift from the computer, obviously less than impressed with my tantrum. And if I’m honest with myself, that’s exactly what it is. A tantrum. A quick pang of guilt hits me before I shove that bitch back down.

“Well, hello to you too, Serena.”

“I told you he wasn’t a right fit for the team.” My voice shakes with anger and hurt. More hurt than anything, if I’m being completely honest with myself . . . Even if I’m not being honest with him. “Why did you bother asking me for my opinion if you weren’t going to take my recommendation?”

Soccer might be my sport of choice, but hockey was my first love.

How could it not be when the Philadelphia Revolution professional hockey team was Dad’s first baby before I came along? I grew up in this arena. Mom likes to say I took my first steps on the ice visible below through the massive window taking up an entire wall of Dad’s office. She always teased that I skated before I walked. She thought I’d be the first female hockey player on the team until I touched my first soccer ball.

That was it. Game over. Hockey was forgotten, and I found my new obsession.

I was six.

“He had a hundred and two points last year, Serena,” my father argues, clearly bored. “When his contract ran out at the end of last season, he had his pick of teams. He could have stayed with Chicago, or he could have gone anywhere.” Dad plants his palms on his desk and rises slowly, reminding me why he’s one of the most feared and respected businessmen in the country. “He could have written his own ticket, and he wanted to come here. To come home. Do you know what that’s going to do for attendance? Having all three Sinclair brothers playing for the Revolution?”