Page 208 of The Hookup Situation
Our friends’ and families’ excitement echoes through the yard, and suddenly, we’re being pulled inside. We’re hugged and congratulated, and champagne flutes are placed in our hands. Everyone wants a piece of this moment, and I don’t mind sharing it with them.
Just a few months ago, Julie and I made a fake-dating pact that quickly turned into a hookup situation.
Now, this gorgeous, stubborn, pumpkin-obsessed woman is going to be my wife.
Guess the old saying is true, and the third time really is the charm.
EPILOGUE
PATTERSON
FIVE WEEKS LATER
Billie Calloway doesn’t throw parties; she creates memorable experiences.
Tonight is no exception. Her Manhattan penthouse, which is one of many, looks like the inside of a champagne bottle exploded. It’s gold glitter with diamond chandeliers and sequined dresses that cost more than what some people make in a lifetime. The skyline outside blazes with spotlights. The Empire State Building is lit like it’s competing with this party. Music throbs through the room, laughter echoes off the marbled walls, and cameras randomly flash. It’s a safe space though.
Billie doesn’t just decorate; she designs arenas. This isn’t just another Calloway spectacle or a New Year’s Eve celebration, which the entire family is known for. Tonight, we’re here to celebrate Nick Banks’s engagement to Julie Loveland.
Nicolas fucking Banks is getting married.
He’s one of my best friends and a brother in everything but blood. He once swore off commitment harder than I swore off carbs during preseason. Now? He’s across the room in a clean-cuttuxedo, wearing an orange tie, smiling at the beautiful redhead on his arm like they just shared an inside joke. She’s his fiancée. His forever. The love of his life.
He doesn’t care that half of New York’s elite is watching him kiss her. It almost makes me believe in something fictional like love.
But if Nick can change … Nick, who used to treat women like they came with expiration dates … then maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.
I’m the exception.
Love isn’t in my playbook and never has been. I’m Patterson Cross—center for the New York Angels, fan favorite, notorious tabloid headline maker. I’m the guy who breaks hearts and builds rivalries. I’m known for ruining happy endings, not living them.
Still, watching Nick hold Julie tight makes something hollow in my chest ache in ways I don’t admit to anyone.
“Patterson Cross,” someone slurs, clapping me on the back. It’s Wyatt King, our rookie winger, already drunk on Billie’s bottomless champagne fountain.
“Smile, man. It’s New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow is a brand-new year,” he says to me.
Yeah, no pressure.
I force a grin, tip back my drink, and scan the elite crowd. Anything to distract myself from the bullshit. It’s a mistake, though, because that’s when I see her.
Kendall Hart.
Her name is bitter on my tongue.
She’s my coach’s daughter, my little sister’s best friend, and my brother’s ex-fiancée. Kendall is the ghost that shows up in my memories, and she’s always haunting me.
I hate her.I fucking hate her.
She shouldn’t be here. Not in this room. Not in this city.
But still, she persists, and this time, she’s not alone.
Her hand is tucked possessively around the arm of Damien Blackwell.
Yeah.ThatDamien. Captain of the Brooklyn Cobras, my biggest rival on the ice. He knocked my Angels out of the playoffs last season and hasn’t stopped smirking about it since. He’s dangerous on skates, insufferable off them, and now he’s strutting into Billie Calloway’s penthouse with Kendall on his arm like she’s the Stanley Cup. I won’t even mention the influence his entire family has in New York.
The crowd parts like their movements are scripted. The event photographer’s camera flashes, and champagne bubbles. Damien whispers something in Kendall’s ear, and her laughter floats across the room toward me. Her dress is silver and cut low enough to start wars. Sequins catch the light like she wore it to personally blind me.
