The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

Before I can have my girls’ night in, I have to brave the fire swamp and endure Saturday morning with my parents.

I steel myself for my monthly breakfast with them. I meet them across the Golden Gate Bridge in Sausalito where they live, and go to Gigi’s Café—the same place we always go for our regular check-ins. Mom is dressed impeccably in navy slacks and a white blouse, with a fresh blowout of her blonde hair. Dad’s in khaki pants and a polo, looking like he’s about to work on a Saturday. Which he probably is, since the law business is a round-the-clock one, as he likes to tell me.

And only the strongest survive.

I say hello, then we make small talk as we settle into our regular table and peruse the menu. It’s pointless—Dad orders the same thing every time. Two poached eggs, no butter. Toast dry. Mom orders the fruit bowl and claims it fills her up .

I opt for French toast because Marie used to say life’s too short to pass up a good French toast . She was right—life is too short.

“And how’s everything going at work?” my mom asks after the server leaves, then prattles on before I can answer. “I’m so glad you have a good job. Let me tell you—all my friends’ kids are struggling these days, living at home. Barely doing their own laundry. But look at you. You’ve got it all figured out. It’s like the accident didn’t even slow you down.”

Yes, Mom. I almost died and I didn’t miss a beat. That’s exactly what happened.

“Well, she’s not a director yet,” my dad points out since nothing is good enough for him. Nothing ever has been.

My gut churns. “I’m applying for a promotion though.”

“And she’ll get it, Russ,” my mom says, patting his hand.

“Nothing’s in the bag till it’s in the bag,” he says, since he’s always right.

“That’s why I’m devoting every bit of energy toward it,” I point out, doing my best to hold my own.

“Good. Everyone your age is obsessed with work-life balance,” he says. “But that’s bullshit. You have to work hard. End of story.”

It’s always been the end of the story with him.

“Now, Russ,” Mom says, chiding him. “You don’t have to work all the time these days.” But she stage-whispers to me, “But when your father works, I have plenty of time for my book club. And my yoga. And my volunteer work.”

She’s the one who has the work-life balance figured out, but maybe it’s simply that she’s balanced being married to a workaholic hard-ass by savoring every second when he’s at the office. Heck, his eighty-hour weeks are probably why they’re still married.

Dad downs some coffee, then turns to me, expression still gruff. “And how’s everything in the romance department, honey?” That’s his pet name for me. The one he uses when he downshifts to what he must think is his softer side . “If you let us set you up with a good guy, maybe you’d finally meet a good guy.”

It’s said upbeat, like he’s oh so helpful, rather than delivering a dig.

“But then I wouldn’t have time for work,” I say, slinging his words right back at him since two can play at his game.

“Good point,” he says, cracking a rare smile.

Yes, this is when I make him the happiest—when I prove I’m devoted to the desk.

Josie knocks on my door Sunday evening with the world’s loudest bang. I swing it open to find her brandishing a grocery bag. “I’ve got boxed wine, lime chili-pepper tortilla chips, and instructions to take you to Maeve’s favorite bowling alley instead of here,” she says with a please say yes to the change of plans grin.

I groan, gesturing to my leggings and a hoodie. “I have to go out? A girls’ night in is supposed to be, you know, inside. I was going to wallow before we strategize.”

“I can see if the bowling alley allows wallowing and bowling?” Josie asks playfully.

I sigh, then acquiesce. “Let me change into jeans. But what should we do about the boxed wine and chips?”

“Dude, they’re portable. ”

“Another reason why I love wine.”Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

Twenty minutes later, we’re at Spare Time Alley in the Mission, not far from Fable’s place.

Maeve and Fable have already claimed a lane. Maeve is wearing a 60s-style outfit—a pink button-down bowling shirt and capri pants. Her golden-brown hair is curled at the ends, a retro do, while Fable’s wearing a letterman jacket. Briefly, I imagine Marie walking in here with me. She’d wear a black leather jacket and matching pants, declare it her bowling garb, then promptly forget the game because she’d want to hear all the details of everyone’s week first. She’d fit in perfectly. I know that. It’s a lovely picture, the five of us, and one of the first ones that doesn’t choke me up.

But I can’t live in my head.

“Hello! Did anyone think to tell me there was a dress code?” I glance disapprovingly at my very casual clothes.

Fable plucks at the coat. “I just grabbed this from work.” It’s a Renegades jacket.

“Did the team owner give it to you?” Maeve asks her, arching a playful brow.

Fable rolls her eyes. “No.” It’s said like it has ten syllables.

I laugh. Maeve has never let go of the idea that the team owner has a crush on Fable. Not even now that Fable’s started seeing a new guy—a stockbroker named Brady who’s friendly and fun, Fable has said.

“Someday, you’ll admit the truth,” Maeve tells her, then looks to me. “And there’s no dress code. The style is be yourself. And you look cute in a lavender hoodie. You hardly ever wear colors besides blue, black, or gray. But you should. They suit you. ”

“Thanks. It’s my job to blend in though, so I try not to stand out at work.”

“This isn’t work,” Maeve says, then cracks open the box wine.

“Thank fuck,” I say.

Maeve peers at me with studious eyes. “I bet you can bowl. I want you on my team.”

“Why do you think I can play well?” I ask.

“Because you do pole like a badass babe and you spend all day doing strategy things at work. That’s why.”

But I don’t do pole like a badass babe. I do it like I’m grocery shopping with coupons, and I’ve found a cheaper way to make chickpea salad. I find substitutions. I don’t go all in. I do it like I’m holding back because…I have to hold back.

“I don’t feel very strategic these days,” I admit, since I’m more than ready for the wallow hour. “Either in pole or life.”

Maeve sets down the box wine. Fable shrugs off the jacket and pats the seat next to her. I take it.

Josie sits next to me, wrapping an arm around me. “What do you mean?”

I lower my face for a second, considering whether I’m going to say this or not. But they have to know. They go to class with me, and really, it’s easier to talk about pole than to deal with the wild mess of my feelings for Max. I look up and face them. “I just…sometimes really want to do…these other tricks. Ayesha’s a dream move. So is Iron X. I’d love to be strong enough someday. But also, I’d just like to do a real outside leg hang. Without holding on, you know? Or…anything. And I should try, but I don’t, which is so dumb. ”

“It’s not dumb,” Josie says, emphatically. “It’s where you’re at right now.”

“The fact that you go to pole class at all after what happened is a big fucking deal,” Maeve says, squeezing my thigh. “The PTSD has to be real.”

I sigh. “Sometimes it is,” I say. “But is that really an excuse?”

“That sounds like someone else talking,” Fable says, then gives me a gentle but firm stare. “And as someone who’s got a dad who takes up too much space in the room too, I bet that’s where it’s coming from. But don’t beat yourself up because you’re not ready to try a new thing,” Fable adds, and way to read me.

“She’s right,” Josie seconds.

“But it’s just such a…vain reason,” I say.

Maeve shakes her head. “It’s not vain. It’s how you feel. You went through something huge, and you don’t have to recover at any particular pace. Do it at your own speed. And if I could do a stargazer at all I’d be seriously impressed with myself. Don’t knock what you choose to do. Maybe the strategy you’ve taken with pole is exactly the strategy you need.”

I mull on that for several seconds. She might be onto something. Perhaps I have been strategic in the way I need when I go to the studio. But I need to be strategic about Max now. I need to stop feeling. I need to move forward. “I need a strategy for how to deal with all these wild feelings,” I say, squaring my shoulders, looking for help.

“For the sex pirate?” Fable asks.

“Yep. Because I need to resist him. I mean it this time,” I say, then because I’m trying to be more strategic, I peer around, checking my surroundings. You never know who might be here. Satisfied that it’s not crowded in the alley tonight, I turn back to my friends and lower my voice as I update them on everything from Elias to the equipment room to Max’s shirt, while Maeve pours the wine.

“Damn, he is down bad for you,” Fable says, with a low whistle.

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he hates me.” But that doesn’t ring true anymore at all.

Josie shakes her head. “I think hate turned to not hate pretty quickly.”

My chest tingles, but that’s the dangerous feeling I’m trying to avoid. “Same for me. That’s the issue,” I say with a helpless shrug, then asking the big question. “How do I handle seeing him again? Every time I see him I?—”

“Take off your panties?” Josie offers.

I laugh, but I’m laughing at me because she’s so right. “Yes, get me panties that lock, please.”

With a thoughtful gaze, Maeve taps her chin. “I saw a pair just like that at Risqué Business. They have a padlock. And you have to open the padlock with your tongue,” she says, and she’s totally serious.

“That’s a whole new form of tongue exercise,” Fable remarks.

“Yes, and if a man can open a padlock with his tongue, I’m not sure I want to resist him,” I point out.

“That’s sort of the point of the panties,” Maeve stage-whispers.

“Gee, thanks. I didn’t realize,” I say dryly.

“But the point is, you need the equivalent. What if we’re your padlocks?” Maeve suggests.

I arch a brow. “Um. Explain.”

“We can be your accountability buddies. If you’re tempted, just text us instead,” she offers.

“And you’ll be my…no-sex-with-Max sponsors? ”

Maeve smiles. “Exactly.”

Josie’s eyes light up from behind her glasses. “If you want us to be, yes. Just reach out and say I’m tempted to rub myself against him like a cat. Come toss water on me .”

“That sounds fun,” I say, but the truth is it’s a good idea—this impromptu support group. So good that Josie takes out her phone and makes a production of changing the name of our group message thread to The Padlockers.

I breathe deeply, feeling like I can do this. I can actually resist the irresistible Max Lambert. “He’s behind me now,” I say. “I’m going to focus on the makeover. The first event is later this week. And I need to make sure his public appearance goes off without a hitch.”

“You’re going to do a great job. Because, see my earlier point—you are a badass babe. Who can throw strikes,” Maeve says.

And I do throw a strike when it’s my first turn at the lane.

Because I’m here, trying to live my best life, and it turns out I’m pretty damn good at bowling. When the night ends, I’ve drunk some boxed wine, eaten some spicy chips, and found a little bit of my power again.

I’ve found it with my friends, and that’s what matters—not this brief tryst with a sexy hockey player I used to hate.

Someone I definitely don’t hate now.

Everything is ready for Wednesday. We have an afternoon game that day against our crosstown rivals, the Golden State Foxes. When it ends, the Zamboni will clean the ice and then we’ll lead right into a dog adoption event with Little Friends. The players will be in their jerseys. They can play with the dogs on ice, and then we can hopefully send all the pups to new homes that day. The rescue will bring the dogs over before the third period and they’ll hang out in a media room till the game ends and then it’s showtime.

It’s going to be great, even with Elias popping by my office every day this week to check on details. To remind me that Donna is sooo excited. That he is sooo excited that I got in touch with his contact at Little Friends.

“I even wrote a press release,” he says on Wednesday morning when he catches up with me in the hall.

I turn to him, taken aback. That’s my area, and he’s encroaching. “I did that,” I say, trying not to let on I want to kick him in the knees.

He flashes me a smile that probably charms others. “Maybe just combine them? I have some fun facts in there. I know you love fun facts. Since you pitched The Sports Network to put them on the broadcast,” he says, which he knows from our departmental meetings when we all update Zaire on what we’ve been working on. “And they did. Go you.” Then he swivels his tablet around and shows it to me.

I read it, my jaw ticking. I’m annoyed that I like his fun facts about dog adoption. Annoyed I didn’t think of it too. I have to do better. But then I remind myself, it’s natural that the competition would be fierce. I’m going after a coveted post. The Sea Dogs don’t want to hire lightweights. Elias, for all his annoyances, isn’t a lightweight.

And if I want to be the director, I need to get along with everyone. Hopefully, even guys who might—gasp—work for me. I look up, returning his tablet to him. “This is great, Elias,” I say with a professional smile. “If you email it to me, I’ll layer them into mine as you suggested. I appreciate your collaborative spirit.”

He beams. “Thanks, Ev.”

The nickname from him grates on me, but I don’t let it show. “You’re welcome.”

I’m about to head down the hall when he adds, “And speaking of collaboration—I’ve got that hockey stick signed from Max. Is there a time when you want me to give it away?”

I rack my brain, trying to figure out what he’s referring to, but I draw a blank. “What giveaway? What stick?”

He gives me a curious look. “You know,” he says, taking his time. “The one Max was getting when you were in the equipment room with him last week.”

What the hell does he know about the equipment room? A damning flush crawls up my neck, threatening to reveal my secrets. I swallow roughly. Don’t let on, don’t let on, don’t you dare let on . “Oh. Okay,” I say, buying some time, trying to figure out what he knows—or thinks he knows.

“Where Max signed the hockey stick for me,” he prompts, rolling his eyes like he can’t believe I forgot.

But I did because I wasn’t there to remember it. I’m guessing, though, that Elias must have run into Max after I left, and Max finessed the situation with an excuse about signing a stick. Smart move on his part, playing into Elias’s love of giveaways. Now it’s my turn to finesse an explanation as to why I was there. “Yes, I was chatting with him there before the Dallas flight so reporters wouldn’t overhear me giving him tips on how to handle the media,” I say, spinning my ass off like I’ve never spun it before.

Elias’s eyes light up, twinkling even. “Damn. That’s smart. Seriously smart. ”

It is? I mean, yes it is. “Thanks. That’s your pro tip for the day,” I say playfully.

He taps his temple. “I’ll have to remember that.”

I’m about to leave having gotten away with murder, when I remember—he asked when to give it away. I can’t leave without answering. “Oh, and why don’t you decide when to give the stick away? You’re so good at the fan stuff, and you really know best.”

It’s actually the truth, even though it sounds like I’m sucking up to him. So I add, as earnestly as I can, “I mean it.”

“Thanks, Ev. I’ll find the perfect time.”

I grin and bear the nickname, then head on down the hall, whipping out my phone to text Max. I should let him know that Mister Hockey Stick might be onto us.

But I stop when I open his contact info.

Our last exchange was the photo the night he left town. I have resisted him. He’s resisted me. And he’s going to hit the ice in a couple hours when the puck drops. I don’t need to text him about Elias before the game starts since there’s nothing to really worry about anyway.

Instead, I text The Padlockers.

Everly: It’s been more than a week since I even texted him. I want a prize for my resistance.

Maeve: I’ll send you a new vibe tonight as a reward! That is impressive!

Josie: Gold stars for you, strategy queen.

Fable: Is anyone else wondering if we can all get that reward? Just me?

Everly: Yes, Maeve, make it a group reward.

Maeve: Bankrupt me, why don’t you?

Josie: But it’s for a good cause.

Maeve: You don’t need one, Josie! You have a hot man obsessed with your pleasure at your beck and call.

Josie: That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy vibes!

Fable: I’d like to say TMI, but I’m mostly just jealous.

Maeve: Me too.

Everly: Me three thousand.

I smile, then put my phone away as I march down the hall, doing a double take when I pass the coach’s office.

“Leighton!” I say when I spot the back of the pretty brunette sitting across from her father.

She must not hear me though, because she doesn’t turn till her dad tips his chin in my direction, as if he’s letting her know I’m here.

When she looks my way, her eyes brighten. “Hey, Everly! How are you? Good to see you again.”

I step inside and give her a hug. I met Leighton a few years ago when she was still in college and interned at The Sports Network as a photographer. “Did you graduate last year?”

“I did. I’m doing some freelancing now,” she says.

“She’s so talented,” her father says proudly, and gone is his usual tough guy coolness. He’s all dad now, praising his daughter .

“I should have hired you for today. To take pics of the dog adoption event,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were back in town. I’ll just have to hire you the next time I need a photographer. I’m guessing you won’t have a problem with that, Coach?” I ask playfully, turning to her dad.

He adopts a faux stern expression. “Let’s see. A job for my amazing, talented daughter? I’d have no problem with it.”

“Can you come to the event today?” I ask her.

“I’m not sure. I actually have another freelance job with the Renegades.”

“That’s awesome. Seriously excited for you. Let’s catch up soon. Want to grab a bite to eat with my friends and me? One of my girlfriends works for the Renegades.”

“I’d love that,” she says, then I say goodbye to her and her dad.

I spend the next few hours before game time hustling my butt off. I haven’t even seen Max since he’s returned, but that’s okay.

We are just player and publicist—that is all.

With everything set for the event, and all sorts of media coming for photos, I head to the press box as a high school choir sings the national anthem. I arrive right before the one o’clock puck drop. The game begins, and two minutes into it, everyone’s eyes are drawn to the Jumbotron.

Lyra Raine’s face is on it, and she’s here at center ice, sitting in the stands.