The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

I’m on my way out the door Friday night when Zaire stops me in the hall. “The documentary filmmakers are going to be stopping by next week for B-roll,” she says.

My ears perk all the way up. “Does that mean it’s officially happening? Are they going to feature Max in an episode?”

Zaire crosses her fingers. “It’s an excellent sign. It’s not a done deal yet and B-roll is the kind of thing they can toss if they decide not to feature him. But it’s a positive indication that they want to have it in the can. They said, and I quote, ‘We’re happy with how things are going so far.’”

I smile brightly. That’s what we’ve been working toward. “That is great news.”

“And let me tell you something, Clementine is happy, too, so you know what that means?”

“You’re happy?” I ask playfully .

“I am cautiously happy,” she says, then spins on her heels and leaves.

I’m glad she feels that way. I don’t want anything to destroy that happiness. I have a father who’s disappointed with me most of the time. I have a mother who barely cares. But I have a job that has given me a lot of joy and I don’t want to risk that.

That’s why this thing with Max has to stay a secret. Truly it does.

Even if I’ve started entertaining possibilities for the future.

Even if I’ve started wondering if we could make a go of it.

Even if sometimes I think about smashing unwritten rules to smithereens.

The more time I spend with him, the less I want to be hidden.

This woman has serious shutterbug skills. “These are amazing,” I say to Leighton a little later at Elodie’s Chocolates because why have business meetings anywhere else?

She already showed me the pictures I hired her to take at the gardening event yesterday. I posted some on the team’s social and one on Max’s, but now we’re reviewing the rest of them for a bigger photo drop over the weekend.

“I love this shot of all the guys huddled together planting,” she says, and I peer at it on her tablet. It’s such a cute picture of Max, Miles, Asher, and Wesley.

“The hockey players planting the seeds of victory,” she says, then laughs—at herself. “That’s super cheesy. Do not use that as a caption. ”

“Don’t worry. I won’t,” I say with a playful smile, then pick the photos I like best and ask her to send them to me. After we’ve done our work, Maeve, Fable, and Josie sail into the chocolate shop. I smile even as nerves flutter in my chest. But they’re butterfly nerves.

“I’m excited for my friends to meet you,” I say, and I know they’ll like her since I do. Leighton and I have become friendlier over the last week or so. I sort of feel like a friend matchmaker tonight.

I wave the group over then make quick introductions. “This is Leighton McBride. She’s a freelance photographer I hope to work with more. She’s phenomenally cool so I wanted you phenomenally cool ladies to meet her too.”

Josie flashes her trademark welcoming grin. “That’s good enough for me. How about us phenomenally cool ladies get chocolate and hang out?”

“I’m game,” Leighton says.

The five of us order a chocolate sampler and catch up on our weeks, but mostly my friends want to get to know Leighton.

“What kind of photography are you into?” Josie asks, ever the inquisitive one.

Leighton smiles, and it’s both a little bit sneaky and a little hopeful. “I’m trying to figure that out, and I’m dabbling in a bunch of things,” she says, then lowers her voice and says almost in a confessional whisper, “But I actually kind of like boudoir photography. I’ve been assisting at a studio and helping out a bit with that. I’ve done a couple shoots so far.”

Maeve clears her throat as her eyes bug out. “Ma’am. Show us. ”

“Really?” Leighton asks, but it’s clear she wants to share.

Fable nods, then makes grabby hands. “Now. Show us now.”

Leighton swipes her finger across her tablet. “Just don’t tell my dad. I don’t know exactly how to have that conversation with him.”

I give her a playful look. “Right. I was totally going to tell the coach,” I say, then gasp when she shows us her shots.

They’re artful and sultry, pretty and powerful.

“I’ve been researching why women do boudoir shots, and some do it for their partners, but a lot of times it’s because it makes them feel…beautiful in their own skin,” Leighton says.

I sit up straight. She can’t know how that hits, but it’s like she’s speaking to my soul.

“I’m in,” Maeve says. “I want to do one.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Fable teases.

“Me too,” Josie says. “But I also want to give them to Wes. He’d like them.”

Max would too, I want to say.

Then another surprising thought hits me—a few weeks ago, I might have slammed the door entirely on a boudoir shot. I’m not saying yes to one, but it’s no longer an immediate no.

That change in me feels like something I can be proud of.

This is a project I took on just for me. An image makeover for how I see myself. One that is further along than I’d suspected.

After we finish our flight of salted caramel chocolates, I say, “I have an announcement. ”

Josie gapes at me, like she’s worried I’m about to tell everyone that I’m involved with Max even though pretty much everyone knows how I feel for him except Leighton.

But instead, I say, “Why don’t we go lingerie shopping right now? I happen to be a huge fan of satin and lace, and I can help you pick out the best sets for your shoots?”

They’re pushing back their chairs and getting up and out of there in no time. And that’s another thing that feels empowering—shopping for pretty things with my friends.

And I make sure to pick out something special for me because I have a feeling I’ll be ready for it on a secret date very soon.

But not in Vancouver, where we go on Sunday for a quick away game. Though Max and I do have a secret date there. That is, if you count Max sneaking down to my hotel room to rip open a bag of popcorn and watch Pretty Woman —since we’re still in our makeover movie era.

When the credits roll, he says, “I have an idea for our next date. Something you owe me.”

I arch a brow. “I owe you now?”

“You offered me a raincheck.”

Oh. Right. When he asked me to skate. I actually haven’t been on skates in a year. No particular reason. I’ve just been busy. “You were serious about that?”

He holds my gaze, his blue eyes intense. “I’m serious about everything when it comes to you.”

Talk about subtext.

My heart catches then speeds up, beating too fast for my chest. How is this man my former nemesis and now he’s romancing me like no man has romanced a woman before?

“Yes,” I say, then I tug down his gray sweats and show him how much I appreciate him sneaking down to my room.

We return with a win and some good media coverage, including a feature on Wesley Bryant. Feeling accomplished, I get ready for my next secret date with Max. It’s Wednesday evening, and I slip into the new lingerie I bought for him the other night, looking at myself in the mirror in the white lace before I put on a sweater. It’s my morning ritual but I’m doing it before our evening date.

I don’t do it because I need to, but because I want to. Maybe, too, because I believe in my mantra now. Completely. “I am pretty and powerful,” I say, and I believe it. I am pretty and powerful.

But it’s not because of how I look in lace.

It’s because of what I can do with my body.

I have a body that’s strong. That can climb a pole. That hangs onto it while letting go at the same time. I have a body that takes me to work, up stairs, around the city, and out with friends.

I have a body with a wild, beating heart.

And tonight, I can use this body on the ice.

I walk into the rundown rink on the outskirts of Oakland with Max. It’s empty. The quiet is serene. “No one’s here,” I say, stating the obvious .

“I rented it out for the night,” he says. “I get to have you all to myself.”

And my heart somehow impossibly beats faster. If he keeps doing this, I’m going to…

Actually, I don’t know what I will do. I truly don’t, and it’s a little terrifying. But then again, so is ice skating so I focus on that.

“This is ridiculous,” I shout, feeling like a baby foal as I try to glide down the ice alongside the man who could truly do this in his sleep.

“You’ve got this,” he says, encouraging me as he spins around, so he’s now skating backward. In slow-mo. And doing it perfectly. Of course he does it perfectly. It’s literally his job.

“Why isn’t this like riding a bike?” I ask, my ankles wobbling.

“Hockey is the best sport there is because it’s hard. But if you can pole dance, you can skate.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure pole dancing and hockey have nothing in common.”

He shrugs. “They have us in common.”

This man.

Another minute or so later, I bend my knees and lean forward like I was taught to do.

“There you go,” he says with pride in his voice. “Now push off with one foot, glide on the other.”

It’s a basic move and I do it. Soon, I’m getting the hang of skating again. I’m pushing off with both feet and gliding with both skates on the ice.

“Beautiful,” he says.

Then, I do a snowplow stop out of nowhere. “How about that?” I say, smiling like I’ve pulled off an Olympic feat .

“I knew you could do it, Ice Queen,” he says.

“Is that a new nickname?”

“No. It’s how you were with me till I melted you,” he says with a playful wink.

“You are so ridiculous,” I tease, “but I love it.”

“I know you do,” he says, then offers me his hand.

We’re not about to audition for the Ice Capades, but we don’t need to because he takes my hand and skates slowly and easily with me. We go round and round, picking up a little more speed each time. But mostly we’re just laughing and having a good time. It’s as perfect as a night can be.

After several laps, we stop in the middle of the rink, and I’m breathless but exuberant. He tugs me against him, then runs his knuckles against my cheek. His eyes blaze with need. “I want to kiss you on the ice.”

A shudder rushes down my body as I lift my chin, offering him my mouth. “Do it.”

But he pauses, his eyes holding mine. “I mean at our arena.”

My heart catches. Does he know what he’s saying? Of course he does. “Yeah?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say.

“I do. I really do,” he says, as serious as he was when he asked me on this date.

“I want that too, but I don’t know how to get there,” I say honestly.

He leans in, presses his forehead to mine. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Will we though? I don’t know how we can do that. So I don’t make any promises. But I can give him this . “Until then…practice now. ”

He cups my cheek and kisses me like I matter. Like he means it. Like he wants more than secret dates.

And the more I feel that certainty with him the more I start to think about how much I want to find a way to get there.

But I’m also thinking about something else entirely. Something I’m finally ready for. I break the kiss, then say, “Come to my place now. Say yes.”

“You had me at come .”

We’re out of there in seconds.