The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

I’m in the locker room and in my gear early. I’ve taped up my stick. My pads are on. My skates are laced. We have an early puck drop tonight, so we’ll hit the ice soon for warm-ups.

A couple of my teammates are here, too, getting ready. Wesley’s next to me, lacing up.

I could hit the ice now and do some stretches, but my mind isn’t on hockey. It’s on Everly. I hope her meeting’s going well, and I also don’t want her to be blindsided. I do something I never do. I google myself—to make sure nothing’s gotten out yet. That Elias hasn’t tried to preempt Everly by dropping that picture of us online.

Even if she’s going to neutralize him with her badass approach, even if she has a brilliant plan, and even if she’s one thousand times smarter than that prick, I need to be ready.

I swear, if I see him …

I breathe past the anger then plug my own name into Google. The first result is the brief interview from the shutout the other night. Then something about the documentary from today. Next are photos and social posts and articles from the charitable events Everly shepherded.Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

Fine.

That’s all fine.

There’s nothing to worry about, and Erin’s piece hasn’t aired yet. It will in a couple more minutes. I hunt around a little more when something catches my eye on the second page of results. Something I didn’t expect to see at all.

A photo of a jersey. A jersey that has a signature of my name on it, with a paw print beside it.

“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself. That’s the jersey I signed a few weeks ago.

I click on it and do a little digging on the site. It’s a sports auction site and there’s a whole new set of memorabilia for sale right along with a photo of five jerseys spread out on a table. Mine, Miles’s, Asher’s, Wesley’s, and Hugo’s. It’s not the set that Little Friends auctioned off the other week—I know because those were indeed auctioned off.

This is the set that I gave to Elias weeks ago. The name of the seller is CollegeSportsGuy. That little fucker has been selling our signed gear all along.

What a liar. What a thief. What a total piece of shit. And I’m smiling so wide because this right here is better than punching the guy.

Though punching him would be so gratifying. Only I’ve learned that fights don’t do me any favors. Good thing I can use my brain.

I mull this over for a minute until I come up with the perfect play. At least, I hope it is. I don’t have much time. We need to be on the ice any minute. I turn to Wesley. “Do me a solid, will you, Bryant?”

“Sure,” he says as he tightens his laces.

“Can you call Elias and tell him you have a stick for him? A signed stick?”

He arches a brow in question. “Okay, but why?”

“I need some bait to get him to come down here. And I’m pretty sure he won’t take my call.”

His easy shrug says yes. “I’m in.” He grabs his phone and dials the main number for the front office, asking for Elias. I fucking love my teammates.

Next I hunt around for Coach. I need him—or someone like him inside the Sea Dogs—to pull off this play. But he’s the best place to start since he ought to be easy for me to find right before a game. Only, he’s not in the locker room. Or the athletic trainer’s room. He might be in his office, but first I pop into the video room, since he’s often there with his assistants before a game. Yup. The captain of the ship sits in a leather chair with an assistant coach, peering at a tablet, probably reviewing plays.

“Sir, how’s it going?” I ask.

Coach raises his face, his expression serious because he’s always serious. “Good, Lambert. And you?”

I scratch my beard, then sigh. “Pretty good, but you gotta see what’s going on with Bryant and this stick. It’s messed up.”

He takes a breath, then asks, “And you need me? About a stick? Not Quinn?”

Quinn’s the equipment manager, and honestly, that’s not a bad idea. But the clock’s ticking, so I say, “Both of you would be great.”

Coach rolls his eyes. “I’ll let him know if I see him.” He tells the assistant coach he’ll be right back, then pushes up and follows me.

He’s a little irked, but I can handle an irked coach. I’ve got the crew assembled now. Timing is everything in sports and if I’ve engineered this play properly, Elias ought to be in the hallway outside the locker room right as we walk up to him.

Like…now.

Wesley’s handing a signed stick to my enemy as we turn the corner. I fight off a winning smile as I call out, “Hey, Elias.”

The prick turns to me, his beady eyes flickering with worry. But he tries to cover it up with a, “Hey, Max. How you doing?”

Like we’re friends.

His gaze shifts nervously to the man in the suit next to me. “Hey, Coach. Good to see you too,” Elias says, playing up the buddy-buddy card with him.

“Elias,” Coach says, with a crisp nod and a tone that clearly says, Max, why the hell did you pull me out of my meeting for this?

I tip my chin toward Elias, playing innocent. “I saw you were selling our stuff online. Sweet, man. You must have a nice side hustle there?”

Elias freezes. Aww, poor baby didn’t expect to get caught. “Um…”

That’s all he says. Um.

“But good for you,” I add, then clap him on the shoulder before I turn toward Coach, since I need to deliver this message to someone internal to the organization—someone with power. “Finding workarounds and whatnot. Right, Coach?” I turn back to Elias. “That’s the kind of sportsmanlike conduct the Sea Dogs really embraces, and you are an enterprising young man, selling signed gear from players instead of giving it away. And well, the other side hustle you tried to launch this morning.” Then I whisper, low and menacing in his ear, for him only, “Do not ever fuck with Everly again or I won’t be so nice. That clear?”

Elias gulps and nods.

I back off right as Coach sighs heavily, then peers at me like I do not have time for this shit . “This is what you called me out for?”

But I have faith in Coach. He runs a squeaky-clean ship. He doesn’t like weasels, and he doesn’t like distractions, and he really doesn’t like people who fuck with his team.

The man with more power than me grabs his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call Clementine and let her handle this.”

My mind throws a ticker-tape parade. Yes! Fucking yes! I pulled off the play.

“Good call, sir,” I say, like he needs me to approve of his decision. “I should have thought of that. But that’s why you’re the man.”

He waves a dismissive hand. All is forgiven with these athlete shenanigans . “Clementine, I need you to deal with something,” he says into the phone, and I flash a very, very satisfied grin at Elias.

Wesley lifts a finger the weasel’s way. “Actually, I’ll give this stick to Donna,” he says, then takes the bait back.

I hit the ice for warm-ups and a few minutes later, my future wife walks to the gate, like she owns the world.