The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

On a red mountain bike, a man sits tall and proud, his furry chest on full display, a pair of bright green bike shorts painted on his thighs as he pedals in the city. He rides next to a woman on an electric bike, who’s dressed in only a pink bikini, which is painted on her breasts and pelvis.

A pack of men with Superman logos on their chests and tight red thongs painted on their penises cycle along Hayes Street in the Naked Painted Bike Ride.

I can’t believe this is where Max took me today, but I’m begrudgingly admitting to myself that he’s good. He’s damn good at this game. But I will never let on to him. “So this is one of your favorite things?”

“Big time,” he says, resting his muscular arms on the parade barricade on the sidewalk as we join the other onlookers here on Sunday afternoon, now that we’re back in town. After a quick stretch of away games—the Sea Dogs won in Vegas and in Denver—we’re back home in time for what’s become a San Francisco tradition each fall. “Come here every year. It’s a great cause, don’t you think?”

“Sure is,” I say, meaning it. This bike ride—where cyclists wear nothing under their painted on costumes—raises money for more bike lanes in the city. It’s one of the city’s green initiatives funded in part by the city’s best-known billionaire, the football team owner Wilder Blaine, who’s also a noted green philanthropist. “I didn’t realize you were such a supporter though.”

“Definitely. I donate to it every year, and I walk the walk,” Max says, laying an easy target for me.

I fire away. “Why aren’t you out there riding then?”

If he’s going to sabotage my date to take me to a naked bike outing for our makeover project, I might as well wind him up.

But he’s not a ferocious competitor for nothing. He scratches his jaw carelessly. “My body painter was busy this year. Such a shame. I was going to go as a Sea Dog. That would have been great for the team’s image, right? Me, naked, with only a painted dog tail covering my dick?”

This man . I’m thinking of his cock now, and that is not fair. He shifts his gaze to me, his eyes sparkling with trouble. So I give it right back to him. “Absolutely. A naked hockey star raising funds as he flies free with his wiener,” I say.

“Next year. That work for you? The whole ‘try new things’ mantra and all.”

“Why wait? You don’t need a body painter. You can just go au natural,” I challenge. “I’ll go grab someone’s bike for you. Feel free to strip down. ”

He sweeps out a hand toward the bike parade. “Let’s do it. I’m all for trying new things.”

I walk toward the edge of the barricade, calling his bluff, when he darts out a hand, and tugs me back, right next to him.

“I’m joking,” he says, his hand still covering my arm. His chest, close to mine. We’re inches away, and for a few silent seconds under the midday sun, I swear he’s going to kiss me. He’s staring at my mouth. He can’t seem to look anyplace else. And I don’t want him to.

But then he shakes it off, reorienting perhaps, as he says, “Next year for sure.”

“Definitely,” I say, with a feathery breath. “I’m putting it in my calendar now.”

A group of riders dressed as woodland creatures pedal past us, colorful leaves adorning their bodies. My gaze lingers next on a particularly eccentric rider sporting nothing but a rainbow cape billowing in the wind. But what’s also billowing in the wind? The guy’s balls.

I appreciate the fundraising and all, but how do they do it? A woman with flapping breasts, painted like peaches, pedals by. “How the hell does she sit like that?”

“No idea,” Max says, like it hurts him to watch.

Same here. I wince a little, thinking of my lady parts. I would not want my free-range vagina perched on a bike seat anywhere. Let alone in public. But more so, I wouldn’t want to show…my scars to the world. I reach for my shoulder, briefly touching the one that won’t fade.

Max must notice, since he lifts a brow my way in question. Perhaps concern too. “You okay?”

“Of course.”

He tilts his head, his sharp eyes that see everything on the ice cataloging me now. “Did you…hurt your shoulder at some point?”

The man is a hawk. He misses nothing. It’s literally his job, but still I’m thrown off. “Why do you ask?”

“You touch it sometimes,” he says gently. “Like maybe you injured it. That’s happened to me. I’ve had a couple hits in the past—elbow, knee. And it’s like I’m always checking to see if it’s still injured.”

I don’t want to talk about the accident, the injuries, or the surgeries here in public. Not when I run the risk of emotions surging up my throat, and memories pulling me under. But I don’t like to lie either. “Car accident,” I admit, then try to make light of it with a quick, “It’s fine though. I’m fine.”

His eyes flood with concern and immediate understanding. “The same one?”

I close my eyes for a second. I don’t want to lose myself in time. Don’t want to feel that uncomfortable surge of anxiety as images from that night flash before me. I know how to handle them if they do. But I don’t want to handle them right now, while I’m working. I don’t want to explain everything about me either. The last time I explained that to a guy he shut me out as soon as he could.

“Yes, but I’m okay. Thank you for asking,” I say, trying to be kind, because I know it’s easier for most people to never talk about hard things. I have to give Max credit. At least he doesn’t shy away.

“If you ever want to talk about it…” he adds. The offer is tender, and I’m tempted to take him up on it. But there’s a time and place—and now is not the time nor place.

“Thanks. Maybe,” I say, upbeat, but noncommittal. I nod toward a pack of cyclists, quickly changing the subject. “So since you’re such a regular, what’s your favorite view? Front or back?”

Maybe sensing I need an out, he jumps on the changeup. “The 360-degree view, Everly.”

“Like that one right there,” I say, subtly gesturing to an older man riding by, probably a grandfather’s age. He has a soft belly and saggy skin, and he’s balls naked, smiling and riding.

Max shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. I do so love torturing him, but maybe I should let him off easy. I nod toward a bar up the street. The sign on the window of Sticks and Stones reads: Have a clothed drink after your naked ride!

“Want to get a drink?” I ask.

With that cocky grin I know too well, he shrugs. “If you can’t handle the view anymore…”

I lift my phone and snap a pic of him as a pack of zombie riders in their birthday suits cruise past in the background. “That’s it. You’ve figured me out.”

“I get it. It’s a lot of naked. I understand it’s too much for you.”

Nope. He’s not winning now. I hold my ground, staring at the cyclists, musing. “I can’t keep from thinking though…what the bike seats are like right this very second.”

He frowns, cringing. “Dude. You won. I’m tapping out.”

I pump a fist. “Victory is mine.”

“You’re too good at this game of chicken, woman.”

“Chicken? We’re playing chicken? I had no idea.”

“What a surprise, isn’t it,” he says dryly as we walk to the bar. He opens the door for me, and we go inside.

The sound of clinking glasses and lively chatter fills the air, providing a stark contrast to the catcalls and hollers outside at the parade. As we settle into a cozy booth, the dim lighting casts shadows across Max’s face, highlighting the chiseled line of his jaw, covered in that scrumptious beard. What would it feel like to touch that beard? To run my fingers along the scruff on his handsome face? To feel him rub it against my…

I blink off the entirely unprofessional thoughts as Max spreads his strong arms across the back of the booth.

Which doesn’t entirely clean up my mind at all. The move shows off the muscles in his chest, stretching that gray T-shirt he wears. He’s so stupidly hot he makes me ache. I’m tingly all over.

“So, Everly,” he begins. “How are you going to dress me down in a social media post today?”

I’d like to undress him.

But I ignore that inappropriate thought too. “Thoroughly, Max,” I tease, tracing patterns on the wooden table with my finger. “With a rousing appreciation of all the flesh we witnessed.”

He groans, clearly aggrieved. “Right, of course. I can’t forget who I’m dealing with.”

“Never forget I’m fearless.”

“You could never let me,” he says, but there’s no taunting or teasing. It’s like he’s talking about something else entirely. But there’s no time to figure out what since a server arrives to ask for our order.

I opt for an iced tea, and he picks a beer but then he tips his forehead to me. “You hungry?”

“Sure,” I say, then choose a spinach salad while he picks a chicken sandwich. When the server leaves, I say, “Lunch on a Sunday. Isn’t that weak, as you said?”

“Nope. Because it’s not a date. ”

No kidding. “You have a lot of opinions on my dates,” I say. But I probably shouldn’t linger on the way he turned down Joe for me back in Seattle, then announced he wanted a pic taken at the same time that I happened to have a date with Lucas.

Like Max knew I’d prioritize work over a date.

“I have a lot of opinions on a lot of things,” he says, evading the question. Maybe he doesn’t want to linger on the why either.

I glance around, spotting a couple a few tables over on an obvious date. “I bet you have an opinion on whether they should be here. Want to tell them it’s a bad idea for a first date?”

“Nah. Damage is already done,” he says, then clears his throat. “So where’s your date taking you next? Bingo? Bridge? Mahjong?”

His sweetness never lasts long. “No, Max, we’re having a drink next Monday night. At The Spotted Zebra. Does that meet your approval? Or do you need me to reschedule it yet again?”

He scowls but then grumbles. “That’s better.”

“Glad to have your approval.”

“I wouldn’t call it approval,” he says.

“What would you call it?”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he pins me with a serious stare, his eyes searching my face, his jaw ticking. “Who is this guy?”

Like he needs to know I’m seeing my former therapist for a second date. “Just a guy.”

“A nice guy?” It’s asked like that’s a terrible thing.

“Yes,” I admit. “Is that so bad?”

“If that’s your type.”

“Do you think I prefer unapproachable men? Difficult men? Grumpy men?” I counter before I think the better of it.

A flicker of a knowing grin coasts across his lips, but then it disappears. “No idea.” He holds my gaze, a new form of chicken, a new type of challenge. My heart rate stutters. My skin heats. His eyes roam over me, then he slides his teeth along his bottom lip before adding, “It’s hard to say, sunshine.”

I swallow roughly, trying to get my bearings. When he looks at me like that, I feel as if I should cancel my date with Lucas entirely.

But it’s not like I’m going to date Max. That simply can’t happen so I lift my phone, segueing to work mode. “I should post some pics,” I say.

“Have at it,” he says, looking particularly delectable right now with the lighting and the snug T-shirt and the don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world attitude.

“Can I take a pic of you here?”

It takes him a beat to decide, then he says, “Sure.”

I snap a shot, and he looks too good for my own good. All broody and intense, but somehow…approachable too. The goalie out of the office. But who is this man for real? Is he the jerk who taunts me, or is he the man who gently offers to talk anytime?

I don’t know.

And I want to.

As I prep the post, the server returns with my iced tea. I down some quickly, then show Max the images from today before I upload them. I covered any naked parts of riders with stickers of hockey pucks and added the shot of him here. The caption reads: Today a friend brought me to this event.

He lifts a brow in curiosity. “Are we friends now? ”

“Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” I say.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Anytime,” I say, then hit post. But I can’t keep wondering who he really is. Even though I vowed not to do this—I do it anyway. I let down my guard. “Look, I’ve got to hand it to you. From the circus to the naked parade, you’ve done a great job keeping your real self off social, and from me.” Then I take a chance. “But I’d love to know what you’re really like.”

Max is quiet for a beat, his brow furrowed, the cogs turning. He takes a deep breath. “You free Thursday afternoon? We don’t have a game that night. I can show you.”

He didn’t pick my night with Lucas, so I say yes in a heartbeat.