The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

Let the record reflect that I am not a gardener. But I’m playing the role of one today, and I’m going to win the Stanley Cup of gardening.

That’s my goal—be as excellent on the soil as I am on the ice.

It’s Thursday morning and we’re helping The Garden Society with its final plantings for the fall season. It’s the second community outreach event that Everly had planned as part of step two in her so-called Max Makeover Tour. I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived this morning and Lyra wasn’t floating over the garden in a hot-air balloon, waiting to rappel down and crash the event with a fake-ass smile.

I didn’t think she would since Everly told me Lyra had returned to going out on the town with Fletcher, breezing in and out of LA establishments with him. What she does with him means nothing to me, but it was sexy as hell that Everly’s theory on Lyra was right. The return to her so-called “regularly scheduled programming” seems to prove that.

But even if she shows up, I’m not letting a damn thing go wrong today as I plant peas at an abandoned-lot-turned-community-garden at the edge of the Mission District. The Sea Dogs are one of the sponsors of these community gardens, along with the Renegades, so there are hockey players and football players here planting veggies in November for a spring harvest.

Since it’s a promo opportunity, a handful of photographers are here too, snapping pics, along with Everly, who’s capturing the event on her phone. She’s next to a brunette a few years younger than she is, who’s got a big Nikon in her hands and is snapping images too.This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

I’m digging up the soil to plant some pea seedlings when Asher says, from his row of peas, “Dude, you’re doing it wrong. They need to be two inches apart—not one.”

I glance down at my row, then his, then him. “You know how to plant?”

“What? Do you think I’m just a pretty face?”

Miles coughs from a row over. “That’s kind of what I thought.”

From his spot on the other side of me, Wesley shoots Asher a deadpan look. “Aren’t you, though?”

Asher sets down his garden shovel and lifts his gloved hands our way, like he’s going to flip us the bird, since we’re classy like that.

Laughing, Miles makes a subtle slicing motion at his throat. “You can’t do that right now. There’re photographers around,” he whispers, nodding to the pack with cameras, but the end of the sentence dies off when his gaze lingers on the brunette next to Everly.

But Asher’s eyes widen, then he mutters a curse, like he’s pissed with himself for forgetting the media. “This is your fault, Lambert. It’s like I’ve been infected with your grumpy attitude. I almost flipped you assholes off in front of reporters,” he says under his breath.

Wesley wiggles a brow. “Maybe this is like one of those movies where someone trades souls with another person. I saw that in a flick the other night on Webflix,” he says. Then more earnestly, he asks me, “Come to think of it, how’s everything going with the Webflix doc? When does that start?”

“Supposedly they’re coming to town pretty soon for some pre-interviews,” I say as I plant more seeds, two inches apart this time, like Asher the Gardener told me to. “Sounds like everything’s on track from what my agent’s told me. And Everly.”

I steal a glance at the corner of the gardens where Everly’s now chatting with a lifestyle reporter and a couple influencers, I think. Maybe garden influencers? She’d said some were coming along with a few of the usual sports crew, but not the beat reporters. But I don’t linger on the press here. I linger on her, in her black slacks and gray blouse, a silky scarf around her neck, her blonde hair high in a ponytail, and damn, my heart thunders. My chest swells with pride, too, for how she’s pulled this event off.

She wanted a different type of community outreach than the rescue dogs one—something where we had a chance to help people living right here in this city.

I want the event to go well because I want everything to go well for Everly—every job, every chance, every opportunity. I return my focus to the soil and shoot the breeze with the guys as I pull weeds and plant peas.

A little later, I grab a bag that needs composting and walk across the gardens to drop it in a bin. Everly’s standing next to a raised silver planter, chatting with a man who looks familiar. He’s wearing jeans, but his shirt is clearly custom-made. Pretty sure that’s Wilder Blaine, the owner of the Renegades football team.

Is she networking with him? Oh, hell yeah. That’d be a smart move. When I’m closer, I pick up their conversation as he says to her in a cool, confident tone, “You did a great job with this event. Thank you for putting it all together.”

“It was my pleasure. I’m so glad both teams could do it,” she says.

He glances around once more, his gaze shrewd, assessing. “I’m a good businessman, so I’m not going to poach you, but I appreciate what you’re doing and how you’re handling your team.”

She beams. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s a good thing I love what I’m doing.”

“Keep up the good work. You’ll go far.”

That makes me think…what if, what if, what if?

When the event winds down, I grab a minute with her in the corner of the gardens as I’m gathering the little shovels we used. “Would you work for him?” I ask quietly.

“He’s not going to make an offer. He has a great relationship with the Sea Dogs team owner, so he meant it when he said he wouldn’t poach. But it was nice to hear he admires my work.”

“Who wouldn’t? You’re amazing.”

She offers a closed mouth smile before she says, “My, my. Isn’t your tune changing, Max Lambert? ”

I scoff. “I’ve always thought you were good at your job.”

“You had a funny way of showing it before.”

And a good way of showing it now , I want to whisper, and I’m tempted to, especially since Elias isn’t here. But reporters are, and this is how rumors start. A whisper here or there. I know what it’s like to be the subject of them, and I can’t let that happen to Everly.

I have to find the will to tear myself away. “Good job with the event,” I say, perfectly businesslike, then I return to my friends without giving her a second glance. But I pull out my phone and tap out a text.

Max: I deserve a medal for resisting kissing you just then.

Everly: I want one for not flirting with you.

Max: And I’ll accept mine for not touching you.

Everly: I’ll take another for not getting in your car and leaving with you when this ends.

Max: Fuck, baby. I want that.

And I do want that. Badly . How to get it is the question though. When I’m heading to the gate of the garden to take off, a reporter calls out to me. It’s Jamie, a hockey podcaster. “You’ve been doing a lot of appearances lately,” he says, and he sounds incredibly skeptical.

Here we go again. But I smile, waiting for the question that’s coming any second—the one that tries to call my bluff.

“Is this a new Max? A Max who’s focused on charity, or is this just an image makeover? Now you see it, now you don’t?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Everly striding over. This is her turf, and she’s not going to let a reporter corner a player. Even though I know the answer to his question, I still wait till she arrives before I answer him. “This is the real me. I just haven’t shown it before.”

Jamie blinks. Maybe he wasn’t expecting that reply. He recovers quickly though, adding, “So will we see more of this you?”

If this me helps me win the woman, then yes.

I don’t tell him that. I don’t let on, either, that most good stories start with a woman. That most people change when they realize there’s someone worth changing for. I don’t tell him any of that because we’re still a secret. But if I can help her rather than create more problems for her, that has to assist our cause.

“You probably will,” I say, meaning it.

He asks a few more questions, and when he wraps up, she thanks him, then says I’m free to go. When I slide into my car, there’s a text waiting for me on my phone.

Everly: I could kiss you for those answers. They were so good! So natural, so real, so simple. The Real Max Lambert indeed !

My chest is warm. A little glowy even. I’ve made her happy. That’s something. No, that’s everything.

I don’t turn on the car yet. I stare at the message for a good minute, enjoying this feeling till I catch sight of her in the rearview mirror, heading to her car.

But that feeling in my chest shifts. Turns into a pang. An empty ache. I want to be the man to walk her to her car, open the door, and kiss her cheek—the kind of kiss you could give your girlfriend in public.

As she drives away, I mull on what it’s going to take to make that happen somehow. How many jerseys do I need to give to Elias to solve this? How many upbeat comments do I offer up to the press? And would all of that even be enough to counterbalance the weight of an unwritten rule that she has to bear?

Is she going to have to take a job someplace else for this to work? Could I ask her to? Could I schmooze Wilder Blaine on her behalf?

Not if you want to keep your nuts.

I shut down those ideas so fast. I can’t do either of those things. Or ask her for either of them. That’s not fair to her and all she’s worked for as she aims to live her best life.

I resign myself to figuring that out later. For now, I need to focus on something that’s in my control—winning her heart.

Without that, I’ve got nothing.