The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

What do you wear to an execution? I want to make a good lasting impression and go out with a bang, so I trot back upstairs and grab my best dress shirt from the closet—a light blue one along with a pair of black slacks. I change quickly, trying my best not to obsess on what might happen in my agent’s office.

Dun dun dun…

With my best ready-for-the-guillotine attire on, I head downstairs again and stop in the hallway with a groan. A little silver tabby with white paws is hanging from the blinds on the window overlooking Pacific Street but trying to hoist herself higher. She’s determined to reach the ceiling for fuck-all-knows-what reason. I hustle over to Athena and do my best to untangle the kitten from the blinds without losing an eye.

Not sure that’s likely, since she is stronger than ten men. “How are you four pounds and a hellion already?” I ask, extricating her from the wood slats, then setting her on the floor, where she shoots me a look of utter disdain, then jumps right back up on the blinds, hurling her way up like a ninja warrior.

“Let’s do this again,” I say, then remove her once more. “Try to be a good girl and not climb to the ceiling for the rest of the day,” I tell the kitten I’ve been fostering for three whole hours.

The rescue volunteer dropped her off bright and early.

As I set her down on the floor, Athena attacks my forearm, wrapping her little ones around me. Carefully, so the she-devil won’t scratch me, I unwrap her from my wrist. “Fine, have it your way. Climb the blinds,” I tell her because cats are going to be cats.

They’re going to do whatever the hell they want and fuck you.

I get it. I really do.

But instead she scurries down the hall, done with the find-the-ceiling plan. With the terror off to terrorize a lampshade or a mug, I head to the garage and hop into my car, where I tune back into the online course. Something I’m taking to keep my brain sharp, but it also keeps my mind off the blade that’s coming down on my neck any minute .

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Garrett’s agency just off the Embarcadero, a prime location since it’s near both one of the city’s baseball parks and a football stadium. I nab a spot in the underground lot easily. That’ll probably be the last thing that goes my way today. Maybe I’m a pessimist but I like to think I’m a realist. The world is a dumpster fire, so it’s best to meet the world on its own terms. Bonus? With my attitude, I won’t get blindsided. Been there, done that. Don’t want to get blindsided again .

I go to the parking garage elevator, then I hit the button for my agent’s office. When the elevator dings open on the seventh floor, I turn down the hall, making my way to the corner suite. The Garrett Emerson Sports Management Agency is a force. My agent left one of the big agencies a few years ago to branch out on his own, and the dude can pull. His client list is impressive across the major pro sports, as well as the Olympic ones.

I push open the sleek, modern doors. Glass walls reflect the sunlight on this October day in San Francisco, polished wooden floors gleam underfoot, and sports memorabilia is tastefully displayed around the waiting room.

The air is filled with a faint scent of leather and success.

The second the receptionist sees me, he flashes a courteous smile. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. “So glad you could make it on short notice, Mr. Lambert,” he says, ready and eager to help. “I’ll let Mr. Emerson know you’re here.”

“Thanks,” I say, but before he can even dial the boss, Garrett’s already here in the lobby, a warm smile on his face as he strides over to me and extends a hand in greeting. “I see you dressed like you’re meeting with the team owner,” he says wryly, knowing me too well.

“I can read subtext,” I say.

He claps me on the back. “Let’s head to the conference room and talk business.”

And he doesn’t deny that I’m reading his text tone correctly. I follow Garrett down a corridor lined with framed jerseys and signed tennis rackets and golf clubs. There’s even a volleyball in a glass case from one of his gold medalists in that sport .

Are these other clients as difficult as I am? But I dismiss the thought. I brought him a cup a few years back. Doesn’t get much better than that. We pass by offices bustling with other agents making deals over the phone. The conference room we enter is just as swank as the rest of the office—a long mahogany table surrounded by comfortable leather chairs.

I stop in the doorway though, tilting my head. We’re not alone. A young woman I don’t know is here. She shoots me a cheerful smile that lights up her curious green eyes. She’s with my financial advisor too—John Saito. He played baseball in Japan, where he’s from, for a brief stint. Love the straight shooter and his investment strategies, but I’m not sure what to make of him showing up. Plus, there’s a whiteboard in the corner, with a sheet of paper covering it.

What the hell have I just walked into?

Garrett gestures to the woman. “This is Rosario Valdez, who’s in our branding division. And you know John.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosario,” I say warily as I shake her hand. I’m not used to meeting with the whole crew, but then again, it’s been a long-ass while since Garrett called me to his office. Come to think of it, has he ever?

A sense of foreboding wraps tighter around me as I take a seat. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t skipped the team yoga class for this meeting, since I bet I’ll be needing something to chill the fuck out after this meet-and-greet is over.

“Good to see you, Max,” John says, but I’m wondering— is it? “Do you want water, coffee, tea?”

He doesn’t offer me an energy drink. It feels like a purposeful omission. “I’m good,” I say, and the tension in the room is obvious in their smiles and their graciousness.

Not one to mince words, I sit back in the chair and say heavily, “Just get it over with. Thrive dropped me. I’ve put that together already.”

Garrett’s smile of acknowledgement is at least kind. “Max,” he begins as he sits, his tone more serious than I’ve ever heard it. “Thrive has decided not to renew their sponsorship with you.”

Even though I knew it was coming, my lungs feel crushed, like I’m gasping for air. Thrive had been my biggest sponsor for years, providing not only financial support but also a sense of legitimacy in the sports marketing world. Without them, I’m going to lose more than just a paycheck.

It’s weird that you can brace yourself for something, that you can read the writing on the wall, and yet it’s still a gut punch when it happens. But I don’t want to let on how disappointed I am. When you let down your guard, that’s when you get sucker punched again. “Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Any reason in particular?”

Well, besides the obvious. I’m one of the most hated men in America. That’s what happens when the world thinks you broke up with America’s sweetheart.

Garrett exhales, then steeples his hands together. “It comes down to visibility, Max. You’re not as active on social media as they would like. You’re not seen at events or engaging with fans. You’re not in the game highlights on ESPN.”

I scoff. “I beg to differ. I was the highlight of the game last night.”

“Yes, a shutout is impressive. It’s even better when you give a comment to the media,” he adds, then with a hate to mention this smile, he adds, “Also, you are kind of supposed to be available to talk to the press after games.”

I give him a look. “You know what happened when the press tried to talk to me last year. It was not about hockey.” It was all about the split with Lyra and about her new guy.

“We know,” Garrett says. “And the front office is certainly aware of the media attention that came with your last romance.”

“The breakup,” I correct, since there’s no need to be coy here. “You can say it out loud. I do know we’ve split.”

Garrett moves on with the smoothness of a good agent. “And the front office understood that a lot of things happened?—”

“A lot of things happened? That is the fuck-all euphemism of the century. The press showed up at my sister’s house.”

Garrett nods, still the picture of calm. “Yes, and the front office understood you needed a break. And then, after that, they tried to help by having their PR ask you to do features and soft pieces.”

Features—like the thing Everly asked me to do in Seattle. I don’t mention that though. He probably already knows I refused. Dude probably knows what I ate for breakfast too. I stay quiet, waiting for him to keep going.

“But it’s been over a year,” he adds. Translation: the team’s patience is running out. “And it’d be good for you to get out there. Give a softball comment now and then after a game.”

“Like, I’m just focused on helping the team ,” I say, rolling my eyes.

Rosario clears her throat, beaming as she chimes in. “Actually, that’s a great start. Our market research shows that a simple team-centric comment to the press can go a long way to endearing the public to a professional athlete.”

“Long enough to make them forget a pop star wrote a song about you that was dead wrong?” I counter. Not to mention the fight that came before that too.

Garrett levels me with a serious stare. “Not gonna lie—it’ll take some work, but it’d be a start.”

“You want me to tell everyone, too, why we split? Does the world need to know the truth of that?”

“No, Max,” he says, deadly serious. “It doesn’t do you any good to air dirty laundry. But it doesn’t do you any good to be so reclusive about yourself and the sport either. As it is, your reluctance is sending you backward.”

I sigh heavily. “There’s a reason I don’t talk to the press,” I say. And it has little to do with that song. Little to do with the fight. It has everything to do with what happened a week or so later when the press tried to track me down at my sister’s house after the fight. I burn with anger as I remember that night more than a year ago.

“We know,” John cuts in, his voice even more no-nonsense than Garrett’s. “But still.”

Then I get pissed. Like I would if I missed a save in a game. “This is bullshit from Thrive. I’ve promoted their product in every way possible. I did promo shoots and commercials.”

Garrett nods solemnly. “I know, Max. But the numbers don’t lie. Your marketability has decreased significantly. And they aren’t the only ones who have moved on.”

I bristle at the reminder. I lost Power Kicks, a sneaker company. I lost the watchmaker Victoire. Hell, I couldn’t even get a sponsorship with Seductive, the company that owns the cologne I actually wear every day.

The last year’s been a long, slow march away from me. I’m nuclear to brands. But Thrive felt like a lifeboat, consistently keeping me afloat.

“We have nothing compared to the other season,” John adds.

The one before I discovered Lyra’s lies. The one before the world blamed me for her lies. Lies she spun in her song of heartbreak. “Surprise Me” in-fucking-deed.

“And it’s affecting your likeability quotient,” Rosario puts in.

Frustration bubbles inside me. “What the hell is a likeability quotient?”

“It’s a measure of how appealing you are to audiences, Max,” Rosario chimes in gently, popping up from her chair and heading to the whiteboard. She rips off the paper covering it and shows a thermometer drawing, with only a small section at the bottom colored in red. “And right now, yours has gone way down.”

I scoff. “That sounds like a BS marketing term they use in ad agencies in TV shows. Or like a sign at a bank that’s trying to raise funds for something.”

Garrett nods, giving me that much. “Maybe, but the thing is, market research matters. Brands use it. They rely on it. Guys like Carter Hendrix?” he says, naming the star receiver for the San Francisco Renegades. “Very high likability quotient.”

I groan. Love the guy. He’s a friend. But of course he’s beloved. “He took his best friend on dates to farmers’ markets and chocolate shops and shot videos for a dating app. Of course everyone loves him.”

“So you understand how the likeability quotient works,” John says, his tone precise, ready to move on.

Wait. Hold the hell on. “Are you about to suggest I fake date someone? Because no, no, and more no. That is not going to happen.”

After a far too public relationship with a pop star went south, no way am I smiling and kissing for the camera. Besides, I don’t want to lie. I’d rather have zero sponsors than spin a fake love story for the world.

Rosario chuckles as she returns to her seat. “No, we’re not suggesting that. Studies show in your case that’d be worse for your image.”

My head spins with all their market research. “You did studies on the possibility of me fake dating?”

“Of course. But we don’t phrase it like that. We have subtler ways of asking the audience if it would be good for someone. But we feel that based on the, how shall we say, rather public attention of your last romance, a fake romance to improve your image is just too risky.”

Translation: I’m too risky.

“You think I’d fuck it up,” I say to Garrett.

He holds his hands out wide, an admission. “We think there are better ways for you to improve your likeability,” he says.

I roll my eyes. I’m not sure I can do anything but roll them. “I’m fine. I make enough playing,” I bite out because let’s be honest—pro athletes are not hurting for dough in most cases.

John lifts a finger. “Sure. But we’ve talked about your future plans frequently.”

I grit my teeth, hating that he’s right, but he’s right.

“We’ve talked about this,” John continues, “you want to make sure you have enough for your parents.”

We had so little growing up. Money was more than tight. My parents were and still are teachers. Hockey’s not cheap, so they put anything extra into the sport, including money they didn’t have. I was lucky I played at an ice rink where a pro hockey player had donated funds for the program. I want to take care of them now that I can. “Right,” I grumble.

“And we know that you could, god forbid, get hurt,” Garrett says sympathetically.

“Don’t remind me,” I say. A sprained wrist sidelined me for a few weeks my rookie season. It was hell. I was sure my career was over. The dark cloud of dread that followed me around those weeks off the ice has never fully cleared.

“That’s where sponsorships come into play because they provide that security even when a career ends,” Rosario says, cheerful and chipper.

I’m about to argue that smart savings of my salary will help, and they will, but why argue with them? They’re on my team. Besides, facts are facts—I want to take care of my parents, since they took care of me, and I can do that better if I have more guaranteed income. I draw a big breath, ready to let go of my irritation. It’s not going to win me any friends, and fact is, they’re right. I do want to save more and do it quickly. You never know what could happen tomorrow. And you never know what could happen later in life, when you’re older, when you can’t play, when you can’t maybe do a lot of things.

Briefly, I picture my grandfather in his final years, and my throat tightens. I breathe deeply, past the pain of those visits, and focus on the present. “So what do you have in mind? A new sponsor? A shoe company? A body spray company? A dating site? I mean, I don’t have to use it, do I?”

Garrett pushes his palms toward the table, like he’s saying slow down. “Actually, we think you need to rehab your image before we can get you a new sponsor.”

“It’s that bad?” I ask with more vulnerability than I’d expected.

Rosario smiles kindly, like she wants to pat my head in kindergarten class. “Your LQ is so low—it’s a one,” she whispers, nodding surreptitiously to the thermometer drawing on the whiteboard. “But we know how to boost it right back up,” she says, pointing to the top of the thermometer with a certain amount of…market research glee.

“Okay,” I say, hesitantly. “Why do I feel like I won’t like this?”

“That’s a good question. But does it really matter?” Garrett asks, sitting forward in the chair and parking his elbows on the table. He takes a beat, then pulls no punches when he says, “Max, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the team isn’t happy with you. They could fine you for not talking to the media, but they don’t want to do that and we don’t want that, do we?”

That’s bad. That’s basically at the level of you get one more strike and we don’t renew . What’s more, everyone in the league would know I was a problem child.

I gulp. “What do I have to do?”

“Well, we’ve been talking to the team about a great opportunity for you.”

I have a feeling my likability quotient for this idea will be below zero.