The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

That little stunt ought to buy me some time to get used to this invasion of privacy. Where’s she going to find a circus after all? It’s not like they’re popping up all over the place. The era of circuses is over. So score one for this guy.

“Are there even circuses anymore?” I ask Asher on Monday afternoon as I’m driving to the rink for our game against Chicago tonight. I gave him the download on the three-step-stab-my-eyes-out-with-toothpicks-battle plan . “Besides Cirque du Soleil.” Oh, shit. I groan as I flick my turn signal. “Fuck me. What if she takes me to Cirque du Soleil in Vegas this week?”

We’re heading there next for a stretch of away games, first in Vegas, then Denver.

He shoots me a look from the passenger seat. “And that’d be a problem for some reason? What’s wrong with Cirque du Soleil? That shit is cool. Also, what’s your deal? ”

“What do you mean?” I ask him as we near the players’ lot.

“You want to do this, right? This whole reputation rehab.”

“I wouldn’t call it want ,” I say dryly.

He makes a rolling gesture with his hands as I pull up to the gate. “Right, right. You don’t want to. You have to. Whatever. Point is you’re doing it. Why don’t you just lean into it and get it done?”

Is it not obvious? “Because I hate social media? Because I hate false things? Because it all sucks?” I point out as I steer the car into the lot.

“But you’re doing it because of the potential benefits for your career, your future, your family,” he says, and I snag a spot and cut the engine.

We get out. “Right. I am. What are you getting at?”

“So just do it instead of giving her a hard time about it all,” he suggests, like it’s no big deal to smile and wave and shake hands, because to him it’s easy. He’s a natural at this stuff. Asher has the Midas touch.

“Not everyone is you, dickhead. We’re not all naturally nice,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “Not the point, dickhead . The point is you know you need to do this. You seemed resolute the other morning. Why not just tackle it like it’s warm-up drills and get it done? Instead, you’re setting up circus dates to toy with Everly. Like it’s a game. An escape room or something, but you’re not really solving the clues. You’re dicking around and being difficult.”

“I wouldn’t call it a date.”

“Walks like a date, talks like a date…”

“But it’s not a date,” I add .

“Keep telling yourself that. All I’m saying is you’re making this harder than it has to be.”

But he wasn’t there when Everly was sassing me at the sushi restaurant on Friday night, tossing out options for my favorite things. The woman has made a game of our one-upmanship. We bicker professionally. There’s probably a leaderboard somewhere of our barbs and arrows. “I couldn’t just give in. You don’t get it. She expects me to be?—”

“An asshole?”

I tap my finger to my nose. “Bingo.”

“Ah. I get it,” he says, nodding in understanding. “Everything makes perfect sense now. You’re prolonging spending time with her.”

My smile drops like a fly in the summer swelter. “What the fuck?”

“You kind of are. You’re going to the circus with her…” He pauses for effect, then cups his mouth. “For a social media post.”

Dammit. I feel a little triggered. “Because I have to,” I point out defensively.

“And you’re finding every way possible to huff and puff and drag your feet.”

“Look, you might like everything, but not all of us are wired to wake up on the right side of the bed with the coffee cup already half-filled. Just because I know I have to do something doesn’t mean I have to like it. I change cat litter but I don’t love it,” I say as we near the door to the players’ entrance.

“I would think going to the circus with Everly is better than changing cat litter,” he says dryly.

I arch a skeptical brow his way. “Have you ever met a clown? ”

“Wait. Do you have that same issue as Dallas Bright?” he asks, mentioning the forward on the Toronto Terror. “Dude is legit afraid of clowns.”

“Reasonable. John Wayne Gacy was known as the clown killer. I get where Bright is coming from.”

“You afraid of clowns too? Tell the truth,” Asher says.

I scoff. “No. I just don’t want to watch jugglers. Or contortionists. Or clowns. Or people pretending to be happy.”

Asher nods, long and understanding. “Right. I get it now. It’s happiness you hate. This makes so much sense. I bet you hate picnics and sunrises too.”

I shudder at the thought of dawn. “I’m not a morning person.”

“Called it,” he says.

We go inside where he spends the rest of the way to the locker room listing things he suspects I hate—stargazing, parks, movie nights with popcorn. Actually, that last one sounds surprisingly good.

“Wait. Was that a flicker of a smile?”

“Fuck you. No.”

“Dude, I like popcorn too,” Asher stage-whispers.

But as I move through my pre-game ritual—a light jog on the treadmill as I listen to one of my hard-rock playlists—my mind wanders back to his observation—the ridiculous idea that I’m trying to prolong spending time with Everly. Please. This makeover is already torture. No way would I try to drag it out. And no way will I pretend I like it. She knows the truth. She’d expect nothing less from me than who I’ve been.

But who you are is unapproachable , a voice whispers darkly in me .

My own voice from inside my fucking skull. Annoying voice.

It follows me as I text with my parents while I jog. Still thinking about those bagels from last week. A good son would send them every day , Dad teases. Mom replies with A great son would send my favorite Italian food for dinner.

I write back with one word: Done .

Then Mom says she was just kidding and tells me to kick butt tonight.

I always do , I reply then I finish my workout, put on my pads, and lace up. But the voice chases me as I hit the ice for warm-ups, stretching my hammies, hips, and inner thighs, then shuffling back and forth in the crease before my teammates take easy shots on goal.

I don’t smile as they shoot at me. Why would I? No one wants an approachable goalie. You don’t stop goals by being approachable. You stop them with grit, glower, determination, and absolute unapproachability.

That’s really what the team pays me for, and I intend to deliver that tonight. I dial up the unapproachability way past ten once the puck drops.

No one wants a nice guy guarding the net when we’re down a man in the second period when one of our defenseman, Hugo Bergstrand, winds up in the box for holding.

This is when Chicago will be hungriest. The second the power play begins, the Chicago center attacks the net, but I block the puck cleanly with my leg pad. It bounces sharply to their winger, who skates around the back of the net, and I track him like a hawk.

Just try me, fucker.

When he comes around again, he takes a shot, but it doesn’t stand a chance. I lunge for it, pushing off the posts while scanning the action in the zone. There’s Ryker Samuels nearby, but down by center ice is Bryant.

Open. Ready. A long shot.

Fuck it. I go for it, slapping the puck and making a long pass to him. There’s barely a chance, but like the brilliant motherfucker he is, Bryant grabs it and tears down the ice, hell-bent on the visitors’ net, where he lifts his stick and holy shit.

He sends it rushing past their goalie. The lamp lights.

“Yes! Fucking yes,” I shout.

Asher flies by. “Nice assist!”

We go on to win the game, proving my point. Don’t need to be nice to get the job done. In the tunnel, I’m ripping off my helmet right as the beautiful blonde who I swear I am not trying to spend extra time with strides toward me.

“Did you know the average goalie scores zero to three assists in a season? A season, Lambert,” she says, sounding pleased with her research.

“That so?”

“It’s so rare when a goalie gets one, it’s the kind of thing that would be worth giving a quote to the press about.” Her voice pitches up with hope. Damn, she’s sexy when she’s hopeful. Which means she’s sexy all the time. She tilts her head, the sleek ponytail bobbing to the side. “You could even, say, gee, exactly what I just said to them. Just use my words. Easy-peasy.”

She’s sing-song, selling this talk-to-the-press idea to me.

Like I’d bend that easily that soon. Besides, Everly wouldn’t want me to. Everly expects the volley. She’d think I was an imposter if I didn’t give her a ferocious game of ping-pong. No way am I backing down so soon .

I flash her a smile as my teammates walk down the hall around us. “But wouldn’t you rather put a pic of me and my man Bryant on my social and say just that?” I drape an arm around my friend who nabbed the goal itself.

She huffs, then mutters a “fine” as she lifts her phone.

Ha. I won that round, wiggling out of talking to the press even when I really should. It’s a once-in-a-blue-moon hockey event after all. But instead I pose with Bryant for a pic.

As I walk off, I feel a little cocky. Okay, a lot, so I say to her, “Score one for the goalie.”

“In what, Max?” she asks sweetly, innocently.

I spin around, trying not to get distracted by her pretty pink lips and those big, brown eyes that hold thousands of stories. Right now, they’re etched with a curiosity she can’t hide.

“In the game with the publicist,” I say.

“Oh, we’re playing a game now?”

“Sunshine, we’ve always been playing and you know it,” I toss back.

Wesley points his thumb toward the locker room. “I’m heading off. You two maybe should get a room.”

Best to ignore that comment as he trudges down the hall. I turn my focus back to Everly.

“I thought we were playing a game, so that’s why I made this move.” She swipes a polished silver nail along the phone, then spins the device around, showing me— The Real Max Lambert.

The feed she set up. The fresh pic of Bryant and me is the only thing on it. I furrow my brow. “Right. That was the point,” I say, like it’s obvious.

She smiles, far too Mona Lisa-style for my taste. “ Score’s tied, grump. I’ve got a pic of you on social, and I didn’t even have to take you anywhere to get one of your favorite things. Also, it’s a real favorite thing,” she says with the most confident, winning smile I’ve seen—one that sends heat roaring through my body. It’s annoying, my attraction to her. So annoying I don’t even have a comeback.

But she does. She waves, then says, “By the way, see you at the circus in Vegas. We’re catching an early flight before the team.”

Damn her. She’s good. No, she’s better than good. “Is it Cirque du Soleil?” I ask. I haven’t seen it, but if Asher likes it, maybe I can stomach going.

She sears me with a look. “In your dreams.”

But my dreams last night involved her spreading her legs on a trapeze so she might be right.