The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

Finishing my London fog latte, I work my way through emails and interview requests back at the office. As I go, I catch up on listening to podcasts and on-air interviews our players have done over the last few days.

Most I already sat in on, but if I can’t be there—since, well, I can’t be everywhere at once until I can clone myself—I like to listen to them. I don’t want to be blindsided with something I’ve missed. I hate surprises, which is weird since I work in sports, and literally every game is a surprise.

But sports are at least predictable.

What I aim to avoid is someone tipping me off to something I should have known—a problem I should have anticipated. I’m done listening right as I finish answering emails before they can pile up. When I hit send on the last one, my phone rings.

Perfect timing .

It’s Erin, the on-air talent at one of our broadcast partners, and I’ve been eager to hear from her. After researching other sports broadcasts, as well as the ways fans interact on social media, I proposed they add some new segments to their broadcast to increase engagement. Crossing my fingers, I pick up the call, hoping she’s keen on my ideas. I chat with Erin for a bit about the game plan the next few nights, then she says, “And we liked your engagement ideas and want to start doing some fun facts about the players. The fans really love that, especially since fun facts are all the rage,” she says, almost apologetically.

“Fun fact: I can tell you’re wishing for the end of the fun fact era.”

She laughs. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, but I’ll keep your secret. Especially since fans love them, and I can make this happen.”

I’m already thinking of the first few players to ask. Our team captain, Christian Winters, our outgoing center and all-around charmer, Chase Weston, our rising star right winger, Wesley Bryant, and our fan favorite left winger, Asher Callahan. Briefly I think of Max Lambert, and I roll my eyes. Fun fact: he’d rather eat nails than supply fun facts.

Erin and I chat some more about the project, then catch up on the latest sports news. We’ve been work friends since I started in the business—there weren’t many of us women covering the team, so we bonded. But I check the time, then say goodbye since I’ve got a meeting with my boss in twenty minutes, and I’m never late. I made a vow three years ago, after my life shattered one evening, to never run late again.

I grab my tablet and leave my office to meet my boss on the other side of the arena. It’s only a five-minute walk but not only does this allow me to arrive early, it also gives me a chance to catch up with anyone I run into in the hallways, which is always a good thing as the team’s PR person. You learn the most about the people you work with from these casual, unexpected moments.

It’s part of what I need to be good at my job, and my goal is to be the best publicist possible. Work got me through one of the hardest things I ever had to deal with, and this job in particular helped me to finally emerge from the darkest days of grief.

It’s funny in some ways, since being a publicist wasn’t ever part of my life plan. When I went to college, I thought I was going to study environmental science, which didn’t make a lot of sense because I’m not a science person. I liked the planet though, so it seemed like a good idea at the time—until I met college science classes.

I shudder at the memory of formulas and equations.

Briefly I toyed with English, but it turned out I didn’t want to read a lot of outdated books written by dead white men. I didn’t want to read modern essays either. But I did like trying to understand the world and how it worked, and I liked helping people. When I was twenty and drinking boba and eating French fries during spring break with my best friend Marie, she plunked down her milk tea and waved a fry airily, saying, “Why don’t you study journalism? You like to make sense of how things work. And it’s a helper’s profession. You’re helping the public understand the world too.”

I hadn’t seen it that way at first, but like with most things, she was right. Journalism was a perfect fit for me, and after I graduated I landed a coveted job with The Sports Network, then worked my way up to become the beat reporter there, covering the San Francisco Sea Dogs hockey team.

At first I loved it, but a few years ago I became disillusioned with the sports reporting world. It’s cutthroat and relentless, and it started to feel like a race to the bottom. Trying to devise new ways to say “slapshot” or “shutout” was stressful, and I didn’t need that kind of stress in my life then. It was a fight to be more creative than the competition even as readers and listeners increasingly tuned you out.

Mostly, though, I wasn’t sure I was helping anyone.

When Zaire Mandavi, the VP of Communications for the Sea Dogs, pulled me aside after a hockey game one night and said, “I like your style. You’re not afraid of anything and you hold your own in a male-dominated field. Would you like to interview for a post?” I agreed faster than a puck flying down the ice.

And when they offered me the gig, I leapt. I had a feeling that Marie would have told me to go for it, even though I couldn’t ask her anymore. But her mantra was “if you can say yes, say it.”

I’m now more than a year into the job, and I’ve learned I’m damn good at being a publicist. For a lot of reasons, but first and foremost—I like helping people. It’s in my DNA, and while the job is stressful, it’s also joyful. Sports bring out a lot of emotions in people, and when fans love a team, it’s such a thrill to help bring the team and the players even closer to the community. Makes me feel like I’m bringing a little joy into people’s lives as well. We could all use a little more joy in our lives—that’s definitely good for the planet.

I head down the corridor to debrief my boss on the latest press requests, as well as my plans for an upcoming slate of charitable events, which I’m sure Max will try to wriggle out of.

As I walk toward the executive suites, I cut to the hallway that’ll take me past the locker room when I spot our yoga instructor up ahead, her lavender yoga pants like a calling card. “Hey, Briar,” I call out.

She stops and turns around, a smile coasting across her face. “Hey, Everly. You ready to join us for class today? No heels though.”

I snort-laugh as I glance at my Louboutins. They definitely make me feel pretty and powerful, and the latter helps especially on days when I meet with my boss. “Doing yoga with thirty rowdy hockey players sounds like a whole new level in the world’s hardest video game,” I say.

“It is. But I keep them in line.”

“You sure do,” I say, then remember a debate I heard on the flight home. “Also, isn’t yoga supposed to be non-competitive? Wesley and Asher were arguing on the team plane about whose half-moon pose was better. What’s the deal with that?”

She smiles, shaking her head. “Next thing you know, they’ll try to have a contest in class.”

“And they’ll place bets. But what even is a half-moon pose?”

With zero hesitation, she shifts into a wide-leg stance, turns her torso to the right then drops her right hand to the floor. Once her palm hits the concrete, she lifts her back leg up, flexing her foot and tilting her hip toward the ceiling. It’s daunting and gorgeous at the same time. “You look like a beautiful half-windmill,” I say, and I also can’t decide whether to applaud or check if she has any bones left after contorting herself like that .

“Thanks. It’s all about having fun,” she continues when she pops out of the pose as seamlessly as she moved into it. “If you ever want a one-on-one session, I’d be happy to teach you. I bet you can do it,” she says, and my brain latches onto those positive words— I bet you can.

That’s what Marie said, too, when I told her I’d never be able to pole dance. Fun fact: I was wrong. Though, the un-fun fact is this—there are things in pole I can’t do. Or really, things I don’t do.

A memory of the night that changed my life three years ago grips me tight for a few seconds—the sounds, the sirens, the pain—but I do my best to shake it off and stay in the present. I continue down the hall as the guys start streaming out of the locker room, presumably to Briar’s afternoon class.

Wesley and Asher are the first to enter the hallway and Wesley tips his chin toward me in greeting. He’s involved with our team captain’s sister, Josie, who’s become a good friend of mine, so Wesley and I are sort of friends now too. “How’s it going, Everly? Anyone new you need to keep out of trouble? Besides Asher.”

I go on high alert as I shift my focus to our left winger by his side. Asher is one of the golden guys. He never causes problems. “Asher, what could you have possibly done?” I ask with some alarm.

But he simply flashes me one of his trademark nice guy grins, then says, “I was arguing with some fans online today.”

Worry slides down my spine, though I try to shove it aside and focus on fixing the problem. It’s triage time. “What did you say? Where did you say it? And who was there?”

Once I know that, I can devise a solution .

“Ev,” Asher says reassuringly. “You don’t need to worry. I do this all the time.”

And that does not help whatsoever. The hair on my arms stands on end. “That doesn’t make it better, Asher.”

“It was from my burner account, and I was only arguing about baseball. No one knows it’s me,” Asher explains.

Oh thank god. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it doesn’t last long. I stare sharply at him, waggling a finger. “But why? Why is that necessary, Asher?”

This guy signs autographs after every game. He rolls down his window when he leaves the players’ lot sometimes to snap selfies with fans. Why would he be arguing about baseball, even from a burner account?

Asher’s clever green eyes spark, like a flame’s been lit in them. “Because the trades some of the teams are making in the off-season are insane. Did you know that the Cougars let go of one of their big bats, and now the New York Comets think they’re going to land Julio Martinez, and it’s ridiculous. We needed Martinez and his RBIs. I swear I should have been a baseball general manager because I could do this better in my sleep.”

“And I ask again,” I say, kind but firm, “why are you arguing with fans online?”

“They don’t know it’s me,” he says with a casual shrug.

“Yet, Asher. They don’t know it’s you yet .”

Wesley clears his throat. “Asher likes to get in fights online because if he does it in person, Max always points out where Asher might be wrong. But with the Internet trolls, Asher can just fire off scathing insults about the other teams, so it’s a more satisfying argument for him.”

Asher shoots Wesley a look like his teammate has wounded his heart, when it’s more like Wesley wounded his pride. “Dude. You don’t like my arguments?”

“Dude, I tune them out,” Wesley says.

“So, you can see why I need to argue online. It’s an outlet.” Then Asher looks around, spinning in a full circle. “Speaking of Max, where is our resident Eeyore?”

Wesley shrugs as he scans the hallway. “Good question. Max usually tries to make it to yoga class.”

It is odd that he’s not around, but Max tends to follow the rules less than guys like Wesley and Asher, who show up for every morning skate and every yoga class.

“Goalies. What can you do?” I ask with a shrug as Hugo and Miles emerge from the weight room.

Hugo’s our teddy bear of a defender, a burly guy with a happy grin. He must have heard most of the conversation, since he says like an announcer, “And today, playing the role of Max Lambert is Hugo.” Then, he clears his throat, narrows his eyes, and adopts a dry tone, sounding uncannily like Max as he grumbles, “Dude, it doesn’t matter who the Cougars traded for. They’re gonna suck next year anyway.”

The guys all crack up, and I fight off a laugh since I can’t be seen laughing at a player’s expense. I clear away any remaining amusement in my tone, then look again to the winger with the golden-streaked light brown hair. “Why don’t you just argue in person with Max then?” I ask Asher.

Miles strides over to Asher and claps him on the shoulder, taking the question. “Because Asher’s trying to keep up his points streak in his baseball Reddit group.”

Oh for Pete’s sake. I’ve heard enough. I press my palms together, imploring Asher. “Asher, my sweet Asher who makes my life easy, I promise if you keep this up it will bite you in the butt. Please stop. Someone will find out it’s you.”

Asher sighs, frowning. “Do I have to?”

I can tell this is hard for him. It’s a hobby he clearly enjoys, so I try harder. “I’ll find you a support group if I have to for former online arguers. I’ll help you find some employees here in athletic training or equipment who like to debate baseball trades, but no more burner accounts, okay?”

Another frown. “If you say so,” he says with the world’s most forlorn sigh.

“I do. And I appreciate you so much. We could even include the fact you’re a big baseball fan in the fun facts our broadcast partner will do about our players,” I say, then quickly explain what we’re doing with that initiative.

Asher’s trademark cocky smile returns. “Can mine be—fun fact: he’d be aces at managing a Major League Baseball team?”

Since I know he’ll actually stop arguing now that I’ve asked him to, I nod, giving him that victory. “Yes.”

“Mine is: can imitate all his teammates uncannily,” Hugo puts in.

“And mine is: beats all his teammates easily in pool,” Miles says.

Not to be outdone, Wesley reminds them he bests the boys in poker. I have a feeling they’re going to stay on this alpha male competitive merry-go-round until it runs out of steam so I excuse myself and say goodbye.

As I head down the corridor to my boss’s office, my phone buzzes with a text from my former physical therapist. Who I went out with once over the summer after I was no longer his patient. Interesting. I didn’t know he was back in town. But I don’t need a single distraction now, so I set my phone to do not disturb .

A few minutes later, I’m knocking on Zaire’s office door when heels click against the concrete floor behind me. “Actually, we’re meeting in the GM’s office today.”

I try not to flinch in surprise at the sound of her smooth, rich voice. Or worry. Because that’s serious, if we’re meeting Clementine Carmichael on her turf. I don’t let the GM’s sweet name fool me. She’s the ice queen. If she says you’re not unpleasant, that’s a compliment.

But she’s British so everything sounds lovely coming out of her mouth.

I turn around to face Zaire. Her parents named her after where they’re from, and she looks like a woman who can pull off being named after a country. She’s statuesque and strong, with elegant box braids. I put on my best roll-with-it face and head to the general manager’s office with her. Along the way, she lowers her voice. “I need to warn you—Clementine is going to want a yes.”

Yes. There’s that word again. But the context feels ominous. “For what?” I ask, trying to mask my worry.

“A project that should be perfect for you.”

Why do I feel it won’t be?

We enter Clementine’s immaculate office. Her black lacquer desk is so shiny, she can touch up her makeup in its reflection, and she is dusting more blush onto her porcelain cheekbones as we enter.

She looks up and sets down the brush. “Good to see you, Everly. How are you doing these days?”

She asks that of everyone, but I’ve learned it’s best to never truly answer with anything but “great.” For all the talk about employee mental health these days, the mental health most companies want is theirs—that you’re not going to sue them. And I’m not, so it’s true enough when I say, “Great.”

“And has Zaire informed you about the promotion you’re up for?”

I do my best not to smile. Clementine might perceive it as a sign of weakness. “Yes, she has. I am excited about the possibility.”

“Good. I’d love to have a healthy competition for the Director of PR job.”

Not me. I just want the job, not to fight for it. It’d be a step up from manager, my current post—more pay, better benefits, a chance to grow…“I’m ready for it,” I say, since my job is to spin things.

Zaire clears her throat and says, “As I was telling you, Clementine, Everly has increased our social media engagement by fifty-two percent in the last year, which has led to a thirty-nine percent increase in jersey sales coming from our social channels.”

Clementine barely cracks a smile as she looks at me. “Which is why we have a wonderful opportunity that will help you show exactly what you can do for the team,” she says in her cool British voice.

“I’m up for anything. I’m currently assembling fun facts from all the players,” I say as if that proves my mettle.

Clementine shoots me a curious look but it’s one that says don’t bother me with the details when she waves her hand dismissively. “Then this shouldn’t be a problem.” She leans back in her white faux leather chair. “We have an opportunity for one of our players to be featured in The Ice Men .”

I sit up straighter. “The Webflix documentary?” I squeak out, then quickly correct to, “The Webflix documentary. I love that show. ”

“Yes. Team bank accounts do too,” she says.

The top-rated sports documentary premiered last year and airs about six episodes a season. Each hour-long episode follows one player around for several weeks with behind-the-scenes access to him. The ratings for the show are off the charts, and the subsequent viewership for teams’ broadcasts have shot up when their players are featured. I’ve pitched Webflix a few times on featuring one of our players, but I’ve never heard back.

“That’s exciting. Is it Christian? Chase? Asher?” I ask. “Those guys would be great choices with their charm and stats.”

Clementine laughs, then shakes her head. “Darling. I wish it were that easy. It’s Max Lambert. And we need you to whip him into shape before the shoot begins in January.”

My face falls. I can’t even fashion a cheery publicist face right now. “You do?” I gulp.

“He’s like a diamond in the rough, isn’t he?” Zaire says with a grin.

“More like a piece of coal,” I mutter, and oh, shit . Am I getting myself fired for that?

But Clementine is laughing, for the first time ever. “He truly is, darling. And you’ll have your work cut out for you to make him likable. But the thing is—we want this. Badly. He has the stats. He certainly has an interesting reputation. Webflix wants the league’s best players for The Ice Men , and Lambert is indisputably one of the top goalies. I’ve heard what this kind of exposure has done for other teams. My friends in Calgary, Boston, and Miami have all been bragging about the revenue it brings in,” she says, dollar signs flickering in her eyes, and lust in her voice. That’s the magic word—revenue. This opportunity will bring attention and money to the team. “We need this to go smoothly. And you, my dear, are a wunderkind.”

As much as I want to relish in the compliment, I’m fighting off a grimace. This is an impossible mission. I can’t give Max Lambert an image makeover. Especially in less than three months. He hates everything. “I can’t wait,” I say, as if I mean it.

“Fantastic,” Clementine says, then clicks on her computer, and hits the mouse. “There you go. All the details on The Ice Men episode should be in your email. I assume you’re in.”

It looks like I just became a makeup artist and manners coach in one afternoon.

And because I can fake it when I have to, I say brightly, “I’m in.”

A few miserable hours later, I’m packing up to leave, bracing myself to text Max to schedule our first…is it a session? A lesson? A debrief? I don’t even know. When I hit pause on the text, my gaze drifts down to the earlier message from Lucas. He worked with me when I was rehabbing after the car accident, then we reconnected over the summer and went on a date. But he was called out of town shortly after to work in a clinic in Los Angeles for a few months. We never hung out again.

Looks like he wants to now.

Hey, Everly! I’m back in town and would love to take you out again. Let me know if there’s a statute of limitations on a second date. I hope not .

We did have a nice time. He’s kind and caring, like you’d hope someone in his profession would be. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. But my head’s too full right now to respond. It’s pinging with this new assignment and what it’ll require, and thoughts of Max and what a pain in the ass he is. I’m a little frazzled, so rather than write to either guy, I compose a message to my friends instead, texting Josie, Maeve, and Fable. It took me a few years to even want to have friends again, but I love this group of women and need them now more than ever.

I ask if they can get together with me tonight. Then I grab my things and leave, working on a text to Max as I head down the corridor to my car.

But I stop short at the weight room. He’s alone in there, on the leg-press machine, pushing an ungodly amount of weights with his thick thighs, bulging with muscles. The scowl of all scowls is etched on his too-handsome face. His blue eyes are ice. His cheekbones could cut glass.

Welcome to a new hell, Everly.

My stomach twists. I rap on the doorjamb, but I’m not sure he’ll hear me, since he’s wearing earbuds. But he’s a goalie, so his peripheral vision is better than a hawk’s. He must notice me out of the corner of his eye, and he looks mad as hell. He presses hard down on the weights one more time, then lets go of them. The loud clang they make rattles my heart.

Pushing up to sit, he pops out his earbuds. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my brand-new babysitter.”

Fun fact: this is going to suck.