The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

As I pull on the bralette the next morning, I try not to think about its misadventures last night. Like a twelve-year-old might, did Max slingshot it across his room for fun? Toss it up and down in the air for kicks? Inspect it like it was an item in a curio shop? Or just laugh at me for wanting something like this?

Something extravagant. Something pretty.

I believe in splurging on underthings but I have my reasons. Ones he’ll never know. Especially since he assumed I must have sexy lingerie for a man. Please. My reasons have nothing to do with a hot date.

But as I adjust the bottom of the cherry-red lace bralette, I picture his big hands on the soft lace and I unexpectedly shiver. What an annoying reaction to an unbidden image. I squeeze my eyes shut to get rid of it, but that does nothing to erase the image of Max touching my lingerie, or the chill that rushes through me .

I open my eyes and shake my head in frustration, then pluck at the left strap. Maybe I should just retire this bralette. I don’t need the reminder every time I wear it of a man I once stupidly crushed on when I was a reporter. Before I worked for the team. Then, when I stuck a phone recorder in his face post-game, he’d toss me a useful comment or two, offering something fun for my network— what can I say about all those saves? Sometimes you just get lucky . He was friendly then. He’s an enemy now.

And yet the fucker still makes my skin tingle. Why am I wired to be attracted to men who don’t give me the time of day?

Nope. Don’t answer that, brain .

But rather than get lost in my thoughts of all the things I need to change about myself, I wiggle the strap around a little bit more, lifting it gingerly over the scar cutting across my left shoulder. As my fingers skim the raised, reddish-pink skin, a familiar image flickers through my mind—a painful one and I wince, feeling the inexorable pull of time. The way it wants to swallow me into that evening three years ago.

But rather than let it, I fight back. Rooting myself to the here and now, I take the opportunity to catalog my surroundings. How does the wall look? Beige. What about the floor? The creme-colored carpet has a diamond pattern on it. How many windows are there? Three, and then beyond the glass is Mount Rainier, rising up, steady, strong, powerful.

With that strength in me, I cross the room to the full-length mirror, hanging by the door. Time for the hardest parts of the getting ready ritual. The last thing I do before I leave every morning for work, whether at home or on the road .

I look.

I’m wearing black slacks and a bralette. My arms are toned. My body is tight. My legs are strong.

I look pretty and powerful, I tell myself. I say it out loud anyway. “You’re pretty and powerful.” Maybe one day I’ll believe it.

I turn sideways and gaze at the jagged row of scars that travel from my shoulder down across my back to my hip, cutting zigzags into my skin. Most are pale, faded over time, but they still mark a map on my body. Some are mean, refusing to go quietly into the night. Together, they are all a story told in one act of what happened one horrible night.

I am pretty and powerful.

I return to the bed and grab the shirt I left on it. Then, with a simple silver gray blouse I cover up the lingerie that makes me feel like I’m more than these scars. When I do the last button, it’s hidden. No one would know I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t simply like wearing pretty things—but I need to.

Max doesn’t know. And he never will.

I leave my hotel room so I can head to the lobby to meet up with one of our centers, Miles Falcon. Miles is from Seattle, and we’re going to meet with a local sports talk podcaster, who I pitched doing a feature piece on one of our players from the Pacific Northwest. The podcaster—a persistent and affable guy named Ian Walker—liked my idea, but kept asking for our star goalie too, who grew up here before moving to the Bay Area as a teenager. I kept saying sorry he’s not available.

There’s a coffee shop-slash-recording studio right across from the Seattle team’s arena, and the shop hosts several podcasters, including some sports-centric ones that draw live audiences. The guy who runs the whole coffee shop-slash-podcast setup—his name is Joe—has emailed me a couple times to let me know there’s a full house this morning. The place holds about seventy-five. “They better not heckle my star center,” I said to him in my last email.

As I head to the elevator, I spot Joe’s reply on my phone. “Fans’ll be fans,” he writes, but there’s a winky face, so that’s good. Plus, Miles is a veteran who’s been playing for ten years so he won’t be bothered by a rowdy crowd member if one speaks up.

After I push the button for the lobby, another email lands on my phone from Ian. Last minute, but I had this idea! We do this segment on Five Fun Places to Go in the PNW. Would Max do that? It’s not even hockey talk. I promise I won’t ask about that game.

Hope really does spring eternal. And maybe it does in me too. My boss would be thrilled if Max started talking to the media more, especially in a feature-style piece. It’s a low-risk way for him to get back out there, and the powers that be have been telling me for months to keep asking him to chat with the press now and then, especially in safe forums like this. I send Max a cheery text. I don’t even sass him. I opt only for directness.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

Everly: This would be such a great chance to make a rare appearance in a controlled environment. He’s not going to ask about that game—just about your favorite places here. We’ll do it at the Pick Me Up coffee shop right across from the arena. You can join in at the end, and you can even talk about your favorite cat café in Seattle. C’mon, you know you have one.

His reply comes quickly.

Max: I do. I’m there right now. There’s a calico rescue cat draped around my neck, and she refuses to budge. Which means I won’t be able to make it over to the coffee shop in time. Shame.

I roll my eyes, then drop the upbeat attitude for a few seconds as the elevator chugs down.

Everly: If I had a dollar for every excuse of yours…

Max: What would you do with all that dough?

Everly: I’d have enough for a lifetime supply of blowouts from my stylist Aubrey .

I wish I could say I don’t understand his reasons but the thing is—I do. I get that we all have secrets and scars we don’t want anyone to see.

The coffee shop is massive, even by Seattle standards, and this city worships its beans. Pick Me Up started as a college radio station several years ago, then expanded into podcasts recently, and now has a state-of-the-art studio, a dais with comfy chairs for interviews, and, of course, coffee by the IV drip. As Miles grabs an espresso, the fans filter in, some of them wearing gear for the Seattle team, some for the Sea Dogs, and most just in hoodies and jeans. I’m by Miles’s side the whole time, and as he downs his drink, Joe emerges from behind the counter. He’s in his late thirties, sports a goatee, and has warm brown eyes. He looks like he never sees the sun, which is probably true here in this city.

He smiles a little awkwardly when he sees me. “Good to see you again, Everly. Would love to show you the setup if you have time. We’ve done some cool stuff with the space.”

“Sure. That would be great,” I say, since it can’t hurt to be nice to the guy who hosts so many sports shows from here.

“Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be ready.”

“I will,” I say.

He returns to the counter. As the fans fill the seats in front of the dais, I snag a chair off to the side. Miles and Ian take the seats on the stage in front of two standing mics set on a table. Once the interview begins, I answer emails quietly on my tablet but keep my ears trained on the conversation as Ian chats affably with Miles about playing in his hometown. It’s an easy conversation and after twenty minutes, Ian asks him his five fun places to go in the area—the question he also wanted to ask Max. I grit my teeth. Would it be that hard to answer those?

After a thoughtful pause, Miles rattles off a hiking trail he likes, the Hello Robin cookie shop in Capitol Hill, anywhere at all in the entire region but The Gum Wall in Pike Place Market, Snoqualmie Falls, and then, with a happy sigh, he says, “And Dick’s.”

I sit up straighter, my ears pricked.

Ian nods, a friendly grin coasting across his weathered ebony complexion. “Right on. Love that place. You all do too, don’t you?” he asks the audience, and they hoot in agreement, nodding heads, shouting hell yeah.

Oh, right. Dick’s is the drive-in fast-food chain here that the locals love to drop into casual convo. From the stage, Miles looks to me, sliding a hand through his floppy hair to push it off his forehead. “Everly, you ever had them? Their fries are next level. Back me up here, Ian.”

A stocky guy in a ball cap jerks his gaze to me, then shouts at me from the front row. “Falcon is right. You gotta eat a bag of dicks, lady.”

Lady. It’s such an annoying thing men can say, but I fasten on a brighter smile. “I will take that under advisement.”

Miles turns back to Ian, intensity in his eyes. “When they opened one up in Bellevue, the local paper said, The town welcomes Dick’s with open mouths .”

Another guy, this one with a Seattle jersey, barks out, “Fact: dick jokes never go out of style. ”

I might beg to differ. But since Ian has the crowd under control, I keep my head down as they wrap up with zero heckles. I seriously don’t get why Max can’t do this. It was…painless. Miles and Ian chat briefly, then Miles hops off the dais, shakes some hands, signs some autographs, and finds me a few minutes later. He points his thumb toward the door. “Thanks for setting that up. I should hit the weight room for some cardio before morning skate.”

“I’ll stick around to talk to Ian and Joe, but thank you again for doing this,” I say.

“Thank you again for the opportunity,” Miles says, then takes off, and I join Ian at the dais as he breaks down his podcast gear, folding up the legs of the mic stands.

“I’ll post that interview before the game. We get the best traction then,” Ian says as the crowd thins, most of them filtering out.

“Awesome. I appreciate that.”

“Nah, I appreciate you making this happen. Shame we couldn’t get Max, but maybe next time,” he says, as he tucks the mics into a sturdy silver case.

I don’t have the heart to say maybe never so I reply, “I hope so.”

As he rolls up the cables, he stops suddenly mid-roll. “Oh, did you hear?”

The words did you hear never lead anywhere positive. I glance around, making sure no one’s within earshot. “Did I hear what?” I ask with false bravado, pretending this will be good news when my gut already tells me it’s not.

Ian flashes an apologetic smile. “Lyra Raine’s in town.”

My smile takes a dive straight into the Puget Sound. “She is?” I scratch out.

A sigh of resignation comes from the podcaster. “She’s here for a surprise show tonight. Although I guess her concert’s not a surprise anymore,” he says. “She dropped it on social this morning.”

This is bad. This is really bad. The entertainment press will leach onto Max after the game, trying to corner him, to find out if this means he’s back together with the pop star who broke his heart more than a year ago. The press loves a second-chance romance, and they won’t stop until they get a response or a rise out of him.

I’ll have to run some serious interference for the goalie who hates me. “Appreciate the heads-up, Ian,” I say, grateful for the tip and ready to track down Max and warn him. “I should get out of here. I’ll find Joe and let him know I have to take off.”

The tour will have to wait.

“Take care, Everly,” Ian says, then snaps his podcast case closed.

“And hey, be sure to eat a bag of dicks,” I say as he heads to the door.

With a chuckle, like he can’t believe what he’s saying, he calls out, “And you…eat a bag of dicks yourself.”

Laughing, I shoo him off, then spin around and beeline to the coffee counter. As I walk, I tap out a message to my counterpart on the Seattle team, asking for some help tonight with security. When I reach the counter, I look up again, tucking my phone away. Joe’s serving a customer, and once he’s done, he flashes me an awkward smile. “Can I show you around?”

“Actually,” I say, frowning apologetically, “I’ve got a pressing thing I need to take care of.”

He frowns too. “Shoot. I’m sorry to hear that.” In no time, he moves around the counter, leaving a tattooed gal with a pierced nose to handle the rest of the customers, while he comes to me, standing awfully close. I don’t need to know what he ate for breakfast—sausage and coffee, I think.

I inch back, and now I’m the awkward one. “Me too. I was looking forward to the tour. Maybe next time.”

He steps closer again, not getting the hint. “Definitely. Also, I’ve been expanding in San Francisco and would love to get your thoughts on that.”

Hoisting up my bag higher on my shoulder, like I’m using it as a wedge to shoehorn myself a little bit of personal space, I inch away a second time. “I’m not sure how I can help, but if I can I’ll do my best,” I say. It’s not quite a no, but I’d like it to be one without being rude.

“And maybe,” he says, his lips crooking up as footsteps echo behind me, likely coffee shop customers milling about and grabbing their drinks, “I could take you out to dinner there? They might not have a bag of dicks but I’m sure we can find something good.”

Well, that escalated quickly.

“I’m not sure,” I begin, working on an excuse that’ll be diplomatic since we sort of have a business relationship.

He slides closer, cuts in with, “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

But before I can say another word, a wall of a man is right next to me. Like he came out of nowhere.

He’s tall and glowering as he stares at Joe like he wants to rip him apart. “She’s busy that night.”

Max Lambert is here, turning down the date for me.

What gives him the right to speak for me? I scrunch my brow and turn to him. “How do you know?” The question flies out of my mouth.

Max lifts a coffee cup, then takes a long, leisurely sip. When he’s done, he says, “You’re booked most nights.” There’s zero remorse for butting in—only certainty that he’s done the right thing .

I narrow my eyes at the big hockey star who’s inexplicably here. “You don’t know my schedule or when he’s coming to town.”

Max shrugs, like he’s completely unfazed. “I took a guess. Bet I’m right.”

I’m so shocked he’d turn down a date for me, even one I was hunting for a way to turn down myself, that I don’t even know what to say next to him.

But Joe, evidently, does. He holds up his hands in surrender. Now it’s his tone that’s awkward as he says, “My bad. I’ll let you two sort this out.”

“No worries,” Max says, in an offhand way. Like the guy just bumped into him on the street. That’s all. “She’s got a packed sked.”

“I don’t,” I say, because he should not be turning down dates for me. I can say no myself.

But Joe is well past the rejection it seems, since he directs his gaze to Max. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but hope you lose tonight.”

“We won’t,” Max says confidently as Joe gets the hell out of my space at last. He disappears behind the counter, then into the back of the shop, out of sight.

I swivel back to Max. He’s got another cup of coffee in his other hand, probably for one of the guys. But other than that—he’s standard Max. Inscrutable and broody. I flap my hands. “What was that about?”

He gives a careless shrug. “You didn’t want to go out with him.”

True, but that doesn’t even matter. “It’s not your job to turn down my dates.”

“He’s not your type, Everly.”

“How would you know what my type is?”

“Not that guy,” he says .

He’s exasperating. “Okay, I’ll take the bait. Why not that guy?”

“He’s a little crass. The bag of dicks thing?” he says, dismissively. “C’mon. You can do better.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out what is going on with Lambert. “Why are you here?”