Page 4 of Sweet Redemption

All. Three. Sinclair brothers.

Nixon.

Leo.

And Hendrix.

Not only do I know what that will do to attendance, but I’m also fully aware of what that will do to me. Dad, however, isn’t.

He waits for a response, clearly pissed. A man not used to being ignored.

Max Kingston is the master of his universe and all who reside within.

The patriarch of the Kingston family.

The president of their empire.

General manager and president of the Philadelphia Revolution.

Arguably one of the most powerful men in the city, if not the state.

He wears his power like an understated bespoke suit. Perfectly fitted for him.

His armor against the world.

When he speaks, you listen, and you answer.

But right now, my anger is warring with my control.

If I answer, he’s not going to like what I say.

So I just . . . don’t.

“Would you care to tell me why you’re so angry?” he asks, his jaw clenched. “This is one of your oldest friends, and he asked to come home.”

My heart sinks, and my near-constant anxiety soars.

This is what happens when you work for your father. He knows what buttons to push. He may not know why those buttons hurt, or even that they do, but that’s my fault, not his. After my second ACL tear a year ago, I knew the career I’d spent a lifetime building was over. Every single doctor I saw told me so, and I saw more doctors than I can count. So many, you’d have thought at least one would have given me hope of getting back out on that field. But my body had other plans, and at one of my lowest points, I took the easy way out when it was offered this time.

I knew better then and still did it.

My father has always had this idea. He believes the Revolution is my legacy. That one day, I’ll take over the team. That I’ll be the next him. But I’ve never loved this team the way he does. In reality, few people ever will.

“Serena—”

“I asked you not to make the trade,” I finally answer, my words measured and tone soft. “You hired me to do a job, and I did it, Dad. He wasn’t the right hire⁠—”

“He was and still is.”

My blood boils in my veins, and red-hot tears prick the backs of my eyes.

I could tell him the hundreds of reasons I don’t want Hendrix Sinclair playing for this team. My family’s team, as my father loves to point out when I tell him I don’t want anything to do with hockey.

All the reasons he’s oblivious to . . . So many reasons.

I could, but I don’t.

I shouldn’t have taken this job in the first place.