Page 42 of Sweet Redemption

There is absolutely nothing sweet about the way we were together.

Feral would be more appropriate.

“I am literally being trained to take over this organization. I’m not about to nail one of its players.”

“You quit,” Saylor reminds me.

“And fraternizing has never been an issue for this team. I mean, your father and I⁠—”

“Oh. My. God. Please, stop. I beg you,” I plead with my mother.

“Fine. But I’ll leave you with this thought . . .” She finishes her wine. “I think you may need to find a better excuse.”

Oh, Mom. If you only knew.

SERENA

The older I get, the stronger the fuck no.

—Serena’s Secret Thoughts

The game clock runs out, and everyone left in the suite cheers. A win is a win, whether it’s pre-, during or postseason. Although postseason celebrations do tend to be on a whole other level.

Dad has never cared when we win, as long as we win. And when he turns to me tonight, his smile is as big as if we just won the cup. “Meet me downstairs?”

Of course he wants me there.

“Dad . . .”

“The job is still yours, Serena.” His gray eyes soften. “Help me wrangle the pundits.”

I nod and watch him walk out before I beeline to the bar in the corner of the suite, Aurora and Saylor right behind me. I lift three fingers and smile at Edie, the sweet single mom who’s been the bartender in our suite for years. “Tequila.”

“You okay, honey?” She doesn’t bother with the Cuervo and goes straight for the Don Julio. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

“Yeah, Serena.” Saylor looks from me to the shot glasses. “Are we sure shots before the press conference is the best idea?”

“We are fine. We are also having a day, so cut me some slack please.” I hand them each a shot and pick mine up. “I’m not in the mood to deal with the press or my dad or the team. It’s been close to a month, and I’m still here. If I were anyone else, I’d have given my two-week notice, worked those two damn weeks, and been done with the Revolution.”

I tap my glass to theirs. “Cheers.”

The two women stare for a moment as I throw the tequila back. “What?”

“Should we be worried?” Aurora asks Saylor, like I’m not standing right here.

Saylor sniffs the tequila before sipping it, shivering, and downing the rest in one gulp. “Maybe. She’s a bit of a lightweight.”

“Pot meet kettle.” I grin, contemplating another shot.

Just one more.

But before I can ask, Aurora hands me hers. “This isn’t about Max or the Revolution, right? There’s something else going on.”

I stare into the amber-colored liquid, not sure if I have the energy to lie.

Or to get drunk.

Who am I kidding?