The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

That’s a really good question. And an easy enough one to answer. I lift my drinks. “Can’t a guy get a cup of coffee or two?”

“At the place where the interview you turned down was being held?” she counters, one eyebrow raised. Fuck, she’s hot when she’s irritated. How is that possible? Witchcraft, I’m guessing.

I look around the massive space as if I’m seeing the exposed brick walls, the dais and the lounge chairs for the very first time. “Hate to break it to you, Everly. But it is a coffee shop.”

“Max,” she says, exasperated. “Why did you…” She waves to where that pushy dude was crowding her but then shakes her head, like she’s letting go of the whole thing. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

Good. The less she asks, the better. I’m not even entirely sure why I pulled that shit other than I had a feeling he was going to ask her out since I walked in, and she doesn’t need that kind of hassle in her day. From the second I stepped in here to get in line to grab a cup, his eyes were tracking her as she helped Ian pack up. He was totally unable to focus on making a latte for the customers in front of me since his gaze was lasered in on my publicist.

So yeah. I butted in. Everly barely needs a defender, but she got one anyway. “Look, if I was wrong, I’m happy to go find him and play matchmaker for ya. Maybe you two can have a nice stroll in the park and a cup of tea,” I say dryly.

She heaves a sigh as we walk to the door. “No, Max. Obviously I don’t need you to set up the date you already turned down for me.”

“You don’t want to date someone in Seattle anyway, do you?” I ask casually, grabbing the door and opening it. “I mean, aside from last night. You had company, right?”

I’m fishing. I’m totally fucking fishing.

“How would I have had time to see someone last night? With my packed sked and all,” she says, throwing my words back to me.

“So I was helpful, then, to turn that dude down for you,” I say. And I’ve just learned, too, that she didn’t have a hot date last night, which makes me way more pleased than it should. “Bummer that you didn’t get that cake from room service though.”

“What goes better with working late in your hotel room on upcoming publicity plans than cake?” she asks, then quickly types something on her phone. She puts it away once we’re outside the shop-slash-studio and shoots me a serious look. “Why are we having this conversation about dating? ”

That’s a fair question too. I don’t care who she dates. Or where she dates them. She vexes me. She pushes me. She drives me crazy. The feeling’s mutual. But it was the principle of it. Some men are just pushy fuckers, and he was looking like he was veering too close to that territory.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

And she deserves that answer. It’s not the easy answer I gave her at first, but I should probably say it. “Because you shouldn’t have to deal with that,” I grumble as we head to the arena. “And before you can say it, I know you had it handled.”

“I did,” she says firmly. “I was going to turn him down. You didn’t have to do it for me.”

True. I didn’t. Guess I wanted him to get the message loud and clear. “Look, I didn’t like his dick joke, and he was getting in your space, and it was rude.”

She whips her gaze to me, brown eyes flickering with curiosity. “You noticed that?”

“I noticed it, and I didn’t like it,” I say. “He looked like he was trying to touch your arm. You kept stepping away. He kept stepping closer.”

“True, but he was never inappropriate.”

“Good. He shouldn’t fucking be,” I say, breathing fumes. There’s a special place in hell for men who don’t listen to women. “Look, I saw the crowd of guys he courts. They’re all kind of…a little crass. Shouting stupid jokes. I could tell you didn’t want to be near any of them, let alone him. I took care of it. So sue me.”

She chuckles, rolling her eyes too. “ So sue me ? That’s your answer?”

“Well, yeah,” I say as we reach the crosswalk.

While we wait, she pins me with her sharp gaze. “See, Max? You do something borderline nice, then you’re kind of flippant. ”

I arch a brow. “Was that nice? Not sure I’d agree.”

“It was a nice intention,” she says.

I shudder.

“Aww. Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone about your kind thoughts,” she says.

“Good,” I say, as the pedestrian light blinks green. We’re quiet as we cross, and she seems like she’s mulling something over. When we reach the other side, she tilts her head in question, her brow furrowed, like she’s adding something up that doesn’t quite equate. “You heard the whole thing. You were in line right as he was asking me out?”

I take the alibi she’s offering—the idea that it was a coincidence. Like in a movie when the guy overhears the villain monologuing. Mostly it was. I won’t let on I’d popped into the shop for a cup of coffee, but when I heard those dick jokes I hung around, keeping an eye out. Good thing. I’d figured it’d be a fan getting fresh with her instead of the owner of the shop and the podcast network. So yeah, maybe I was on patrol. Not like I’m going to tell her. She doesn’t need to know I was playing the bodyguard. “Yup. Needed a morning boost. Glad I left that calico at the cat café when I did. But she was so darn cute,” I say, then since I don’t want any of this to seem like a big deal, I nod toward the players’ entrance. “I should go join my teammates for practice. I like to give them a target they can’t get past.”

“Actually,” she says, but her expression is soft and so is her voice, “there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

That sounds serious. “Let me guess. I’m in trouble again.”

“Would that even matter? ”

“Probably not,” I reply before she pulls me aside outside the arena entrance to a quieter area.

She moves closer to me now, so close I’m distracted by the whoosh of her hair in that high ponytail, the way it swishes as she moves into my space. “Lyra’s in town. I don’t know if you know.”

The blood drains from my face. “Seriously?” I croak out.

It’s not my ex I don’t want to see. I’m so over the woman I was going to propose to.

It’s the attention that comes with her. The attention that comes to me. I’d give my left nut if it would erase from existence the breakup song she wrote about me. The one that was a lie. But, then again, I like both nuts a whole helluva lot. Maybe I’d give up my spleen to make “Surprise Me” disappear from every playlist in the world and public memory.

“She’s doing a surprise show,” Everly adds.

“How nice,” I mutter.

“I’ve got it covered,” she says, then holds up a finger. Quickly, she scans her phone, then looks up. “I checked with security for the Seattle team. There’s a back exit out of the locker room that’ll help you avoid the press. I can let the team bus know what time and to look for you, and you should be able to leave unnoticed after the game.”

Wow. I’m seriously grateful for that. And for what’s unsaid. She won’t even ask me to talk to the media tonight. “Thanks. Appreciate it,” I say, then I square my shoulders. “I do.”

“And don’t worry. This changes nothing.” She narrows her eyes and holds up a finger. “You get one night off from my requests. And then it is on again.”

“I would expect nothing less. ”

She’s made a one-upmanship-style approach of asking me to talk to the press after every single game even though I’ve made it crystal clear I don’t do media.

This is merely a brief detente—not an end to our battle. Then, because she might have noticed I’m holding two cups, I thrust one her way. “For some reason, they gave me two London fog lattes,” I say, then offer one of the Earl Grey concoctions to her. “You like them, right?”

Curiosity flickers across her eyes, and she studies me for a beat, her lips curving up. “I do.”

“Cool,” I say, waggling the cup. “It’s yours then.”

She takes it. “Thanks. They’re my favorite.”

“Even better,” I say, as if I didn’t know that already.

Once inside, she heads one way and I go the other way to the locker room, then hit the ice, the one place where no one really bothers me.

That evening, the Seattle winger barrels toward me, swift, determined. But I’m not in the mood to let any goals in.

Nothing to do but deflect the puck.

A minute later, one of their guys is flying around the back of the net, flipping the little black disc to a forward who aims then shoots.

Not on my watch. I drop to my knees, my leg pad blocking the shot.

Better luck next time.

And the next time, the puck flies at me and I knock it down, where it lands harmlessly on the ice.

For another period, they come at me, as they should. But I’m feeling impenetrable tonight.

Imagine that .

By the time the game clock winds down, I swear every player in their lineup has tried and failed to take a shot.

When the buzzer blares, I’ve nabbed a shutout.

My closest friends on the team, Wesley Bryant and Asher Callahan, skate over to me, clapping me on the back as we head off the ice.

In the tunnel, I rip off my helmet, and as promised, Everly’s waiting at the end. She gives a crisp nod, and I nod right back, then move on as she asks some of the other guys to talk to the media. Technically, all players are supposed to be accessible.

Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my suit and out of there, earbuds in, an online course playing that I really need to focus on as I head for the team bus that’ll take us to the airport.

But when I hop on it, the driver is nodding her head, rocking out to “Surprise Me.” It’s so loud, I can hear it even as the instructor in my ears rattles on about navigational tools used in the eighteenth century.

“Can you shut that off?” I ask.

“Lyra? No way. She’s the best,” the driver says, but then her eyes widen, her lips part, and something must click. “Oh. Shit. You’re…”

Yeah, I’m the guy who inspired the break-up song that America’s sweetheart sent to the top of the charts. Only that’s not the way things went down.

“Whatever,” I mutter.

Doesn’t matter. I head to the back of the bus, slump down and listen to the class so I can take a quiz later this week to see how much I’ve memorized. I don’t miss the way things used to be. Really, I don’t.

The next morning, I’m back home in jeans and a Henley, about to head out to see Garrett at the kebab place. I’ll be skipping today’s team yoga class for this, but I’ve got the distinct impression that this meeting with him will be more important than one with the yoga mat. I’m heading downstairs, phone in hand, when a text from him lands.

Best we have this meeting at the office, Max.

Doesn’t take a genius to know bad news is coming my way.