The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

I’m still in a damn fine mood a few hours before game time. Maybe because I spent a good long time in my hotel room in Dallas on Tuesday and Wednesday night with the pic Everly sent of her looking like sin in my shirt.

Spent extra time with that snap last night, and this morning, too, here in Nashville.

With the endorphins still fueling me, I’m damn near strutting down the hallway with Asher at the Nashville arena, all cold concrete and an intimidating atmosphere that only fuels my desire to beat the other team tonight.

“Hey, Miles,” I call out since he’s up ahead several feet, and I can’t resist giving my teammates hell. It’s part of my good mood.

Miles turns back to me with a chin nod. “What’s up?”

“You’re avoiding me, and I know why.”

Miles isn’t a gamer for nothing, since he adopts a blank face as he asks, “What would I be avoiding you for? ”

Like he doesn’t know. “My three-of-a-kind last night on the plane. I beat you in poker. Bryant and Callahan paid up. You did not. You owe me one hundred bucks too. Don’t try to get out of it again.”

Miles glares at me as he stops, lifts his phone from a pocket, and makes a show of Venmo-ing me the money. “Someday I’m going to figure out what your trick is with poker,” he says, defeated, like he was last night too.

Shame.

Asher snorts. “Good luck with that. Lambert’s unbeatable.”

I want to bask in the praise and the truth of it. But I can’t let either of them think that or they’ll never play poker with me on the plane again. “Not true.” I scratch my beard, as casual as can be. “I lost the other week. Don’t you remember?”

That’s a bald-faced lie, but I try to sell it with a lazy shrug.

Asher lifts a doubtful brow, studying me for several seconds. “You’re bluffing.”

Miles’s jaw drops. “Holy shit. He is. That’s your tell, Lambert.”

“You scratch your beard when you’re full of it,” Asher adds.

Well, fuck me. I only meant to throw them off the scent, not reveal my hand. So I double down, scoffing as we stride closer to the visitors’ locker room. “Don’t have a tell.”

“Everyone does,” Miles says.

I wave a hand to move on. Maybe my good mood has softened me up. “Fine, I’ll go easy on you next time.”

Miles stares dead-eyed at me. “You will do no such thing. Ever. ”

“That’s what I like to hear,” I say, patting him on the back. “Now, let’s go make Nashville cry.”

As Miles turns into the locker room, Asher hangs back, stopping outside the door. “How’s everything going?”

“Good. Why?”

“I saw your comments from the other night got some pickup with the sports press.”

“You did?” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Asher noticed—he’s observant.

But then he surprises me when he says, “Maeve was texting me and telling me. She said she was trying to scroll through calming, time-lapse videos of people painting murals—they’re her favorite, and it’s fucking adorable—but then hockey infected her feed.”

There’s a whole lot going on in that intel drop. I’m not sure where to start, so I say, “That’s awfully specific.”

“She’s a painter,” he says, a little proudly. “Anyway, just checking in to see how you’re doing.”

I’m a lucky guy that some of my friends are so emotionally astute. “I’m actually okay,” I say honestly, opening up some more to him. He makes it easy enough, like he did at the smoothie shop the other week, like he does in my car, too, when I drive him to the rink. “It wasn’t as awful as I’d thought it’d be.”

“Proud of you,” he says.

“I just put blinders on, you know?”

“That’s what you gotta do,” he says. “I’m glad you’re finally realizing you don’t need to make things harder on yourself. You don’t need to fight it. You’ll see it becomes painless after a while—talking to the press.”

But I’m not buying that yet. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. ”

“I’m not worried. You’ve got this,” he says.Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

I wave him along. “All right. If I spend too much time with you and your happy attitude, I might not be a dick during the game.”

He scoffs. “You’ll always be a dick,” he says, then nods toward the locker room. But my phone rings and when I grab it from my pocket, it’s my agent’s name lighting up the screen. A dart of tension stabs me in the chest. I waggle my cell at Asher. “I’ll catch up with you inside. I need to talk to Garrett.”

“Good luck, man. Let me know how it goes,” he says.

“Will do.”

I hit answer then turn around, pacing away from the locker room to a quieter corner of the corridor. “What’s up?” I ask with more trepidation than I’d like to feel with my agent. But that’s how things have been since this whole makeover project started with veiled threats from my very unhappy team.

“Guess who’s not getting fined?” Garrett asks.

Pretty sure I know what he means, but I can’t resist teasing him either. “Is it you? Did you get a parking ticket again? I know you like to park that ridiculous Lambo wherever you want. The one I make possible for you.”

Garrett groans, all over the top. “You say that like it’s a problem that your success and my hard work funded my sweet ride.”

“Fine, you deserve your sports car. And ten more. Anyway, what’s going on?”

He’s clearly in a good mood, and I’m damn curious.

“I heard from Clementine and Zaire this morning,” he begins, businesslike. “They’re both going to be at the dog adoption event next week, and they were very happy you talked to the press earlier this week. Zaire even said the producers at The Ice Men noticed it, and they’re glad to see it too. No idea what inspired you but keep that shit up.”

I picture Everly. Her effort. Her commitment. Fact is I wanted to do something for her. She’s done a hell of a lot for me.

“What can I say? I guess it was just the right time,” I reply instead.

“Now, was it so hard to say something nice the other night?”

I roll my eyes but I’m glad Garrett is happy. “You think we can get some sponsorships now?” I ask, shifting gears though I immediately want to take it back because I sound a little desperate. But the fact is, I’d like to start moving forward on this front again. Make some progress with my financial plans. Put away enough to take care of Sophie and Kade for life. Help my parents out even more with a big retirement plan for them too.

“We’re not there yet,” he says. “I’m not fighting off phone calls to sign you up as a spokesperson. We’re gonna need a whole lot more of this if you want that to happen.”

I sigh, wishing it were easier. “Can’t fault a guy for trying.”

“But we’ll get there. You keep that up and I know it will.”

“Here’s hoping,” I say. “I’ll see you at the event.”

Then I go into the locker room. As I’m getting ready for the game, my phone buzzes with a text. Briefly I hope it’s Everly. That she’s sending me another pic. Saying hi. Wanting to know how I’m doing.

But am I wanting to hear from her too much when I’m supposed to be resisting her? For both our sakes, I do the right thing—I refrain from checking my messages.

When the game is over and we’ve won, I head to the team jet that’ll take us to Detroit. As I’m boarding, I hop over to my texts at last.

But I stop dead in my tracks at my row. It’s not from her. It’s from someone who hasn’t texted me in a year and a half, since the night I came home early to a hell of a surprise.

Lyra: Hi, Max! Can we talk?