The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)
The Romance Line: Chapter 45

Everly

I’d thought this trick would be hard. But after I invert to a leg hang and drop my right arm, it feels smooth and easy enough to release my back leg.

“Yes! I knew you would get your butterfly on the first try,” Kyla says as she spots my hips.

I swear her faith in me before I had my own has helped me pull this off. I’m smiling stupidly, even with my nose against the pole since I’m fully upside down. Or maybe because of it—I didn’t expect to see this view. I like this view.

After a few seconds, I flip back over, releasing from the move I didn’t truly expect to nail on the first try. “I didn’t think it would be that easy,” I say, kind of amazed. “But thank you—for everything.”

“You did it all. You’ve been doing inverts and you’re strong,” she says and there’s that word again— strong —one I’m trying to step into more and more. I feel stronger every day.

“We knew you’d get it too,” Maeve says proudly, clapping from a few feet away.

Josie’s cheering too, and so is Fable. The whole class is, actually, including the woman with the blue hair who nailed this move a few weeks ago—when I longed to be like her.

I still feel self-conscious walking around the Upside Down studio in only a sports bra and shorts, my scars on full display. I’m still hyper-aware of the ways my body is different. But one look around this place with women of all shapes and sizes—tall, short, pear-shaped, plus-size, rectangular, thin, athletic—and I should have known no one would look at me differently. But some things you just have to experience to believe.

When class ends, we leave and for a brief second, I imagine Max waiting for me after class—well, when I don’t go with my friends. I picture us grabbing a bite to eat, doing life together like that.

It’s such a lovely image it makes my chest ache. Because I know it’ll be hard to get there.

On the street, Maeve declares, “We need to celebrate your butterfly with lunch.”

I put Max out of my mind. But that’s easier said than done since once we’ve ordered at our favorite diner, Josie turns to me and says thoughtfully, “Your makeover project is almost over, and it looks like you’ve pulled it off. The perception of Max is way more positive lately.”

“You’ve been checking?”

She gives me a look like what did you expect . “I’m a librarian. I like information. I like understanding things. So yes, I did a little poking around into how the Max image makeover was going.”

“I love you,” I say with a laugh.

She preens, then says, “I know.”

Fable looks my way. “Maybe that makes you the kickass movie heroine who takes down bad images in a single bound.”

Maeve shrugs happily. “Whatever you’re running for, Everly—you have my vote.”

Their support, both of my efforts in pole, but also with work, lifts me up. Makes me think I really can take the next step. And because they are such unapologetic friends, I don’t need to call upon Herculean strength to say the next thing. In fact, it’s really easy to tell them what I told Max last night, “I think I’m going to try to talk to my boss about that whole unwritten rule.”

Maeve’s hazel eyes sparkle. “And you’re going to smash it,” she says excitedly.

“We’re here for you,” Fable says, and I think that’s exactly what I needed to hear.

“Yes, we are,” Josie seconds.

“You’ve got this,” Maeve adds. “Because you two have that no-question-about-it love.”

I pause, tilting my head. “I didn’t use the L-word.”

Maeve smiles. “My sweet summer child, you didn’t have to.”

“Is it just that obvious?”

Josie snort-laughs. “Like an open book.”

But Maeve sighs contemplatively, her eyes a little dreamy. “With love, I don’t think you handle it. It handles you. It’s like a painting you’re working on, and you think you’re making the art but really the art’s making you.”

I let that soak in—the idea that there’s an inescapability to love. With Max, I feel like there’s a riot in my heart, and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it. Still, I want to be prepared. “So what happens next in this inescapable love story? When I go into the office and talk to my boss?”

Maeve reaches into her bag and takes out her tarot deck. “I could ask Tatiana?”

Fable stares at her, too amused. “You named your deck?”

“Of course I did,” she says, then shuffles and proceeds to draw—rather deliberately— the Three of Cups, an image of three maidens holding up three chalices. There are four of us here, but it feels like Tatiana knows something. “Tatiana says we’re here for you, babe,” Maeve says.

“We are,” Josie and Fable echo.

Maybe that’s some of the strength I needed too.

After I shower and get ready for a game night, I slide on the panties Max sent me, admiring the way I look in them. Claimed. Then I take a very sexy selfie.

Everly: Some pre-game inspo.

Max: I fucking love them. And I have never been more inspired in my life.

That evening I’m watching from the press box as Max maneuvers a puck around the trapezoid, flipping it to Miles, who tears off down the ice. For a few seconds, I think Max might get another assist, but New York blocks Miles’s shot and one of their forwards gets the rebound.

The New York forward flies down the ice, trying to score on a breakaway. But my sexy beast of a goalie drops to his knees, leg pads spreading out to the sides, saving the goal.

I gasp audibly. “Yes,” I say with a quiet fist pump.

Someone gently nudges me.

It’s Jenna.

Oh, shit. Maybe I wasn’t so quiet. I’m not supposed to show favoritism, even though of course I want us to win.

She smiles my way.

I whisper a quiet thank you.

I bite my tongue the rest of the game, but it’s getting harder to swallow this four-letter word.

After the shutout, I’m waiting by the tunnel when Max emerges, sweaty and victorious. “Want me to get you a yacht tonight to talk to the press?”

“Yes, sunshine, a four-hundred-footer,” he says.

I freeze. But then I remind myself he’s called me sunshine in front of people before. At least I think he has? I rack my brain. Yes, he has. I breathe again.

But working with him is starting to feel like watching my own back all the time and that’s a tall order. I ask, as professionally as I can, “Can you talk to the media? Shutout and all.”

“Yes.” His eyes sparkle when he says that one word, and I bet he’s thinking of our say yes mantra. But that’s a problem too. Everything between us means something else. Everything could trip us up .

When he finishes chatting with the press and strides back into the corridor with me, he nods toward a man with a similar jawline to his and a woman with cool blue eyes, who are waiting there along with Max’s cutie-pie nephew.

I home in on Kade. “Did you see your uncle save all those goals tonight?”

The kid beams. “I did and he blocked alllll of them.”

“He’s very good at that,” I say, then come face-to-face with the parents of the man I’ve fallen for. I stick out a hand to shake with his mother, then his father. “So great to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Lambert.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Everly,” his mom says, and her smile is knowing.

“Max raves about your work,” his dad says, his eyes twinkling with a secret.

My throat is tight with emotions from this simple fact—that his parents are playing along. But I wish none of us were. I wish this were real. I wish I were telling them how hard I’ve fallen for their son. What a good man they’ve raised. What a wonderful person this grumpy, broody, storm cloud of a goalie turned out to be.

But I can’t here so I smile and say, “I’m so glad. Max is great to work with.”

And I’ve never felt like more of a publicist, spinning a story, than right now.

“What’s wrong?” Max asks me later that night at his place.

“Nothing,” I say flatly as I play with the kitten, dangling a feather toy I bought Athena .

“Something’s wrong,” he says, setting a big hand on my thigh.

This man can always read me, so I sigh and let go of the toy. “I loved meeting your parents but I wanted to tell them how amazing you are. I wanted to say your son is incredible and he takes care of me and adores me and I adore him, and I couldn’t say that. I just couldn’t.”

His lips quirk up. “You adore me.”

I roll my eyes. “As if you didn’t know.”

“Say it again though. I like the way it sounds on your lips.”

“I adore you,” I huff.

“Still like it even when you’re irritated.”

“I just…I want to speed up time,” I admit. And I want to tell him how deeply I feel. But I don’t want to say I’ve fallen in love with him while we’re only together in the dark. I want to tell him outside, under the sun, when I don’t have to hide. I’m tired of hiding. I’ve stopped hiding my scars in pole class. I’ve stopped hiding them from him. I don’t want to hide us any longer.

“Me too,” he says with a sympathetic smile, then he runs a hand down the buttons of my blouse. “But until then, I know how to pass the time.”

I’ve learned how to not slide back into the past thanks to my grounding exercises. Surely, I can root myself in the present. In his touch, in his scent, in our…inescapability. I hold all that close as we head to the bedroom. I undress to my bra and panties, and while it’s obviously not a pole I grab hold of the doorway like I’m doing a trick, strike a sultry vixen-like pose, then toss my hair back.

From the bed, he growls as he sheds the rest of his clothes. “Get over here in my jersey. ”

“Oh, these?” I ask, hooking my thumb in the waistband of my very sexy panties.

“Yes. Been thinking about them all day.”

I undo my bra and drop it to the floor as I walk over to him, teasing at the waistband of the lace as I do. Running my fingers down the thirty-three on the front. “So what exactly were you thinking about?”

“That you had my number against your very pretty pussy. Now why don’t you put this gorgeous pussy on my face,” he commands. “Because I’m really, really hungry.”

I take my sweet time, sliding off the panties, then tossing them to him. Because my man’s addicted, he brings them to his nose and inhales before he lets them go. “Now, sit on my face. Since what I’ve really been thinking about all day is eating you. You’re mine, Everly. All mine.”

I feel like his. But I’m not yet. Not really. That doesn’t stop me from climbing over him and straddling his face. He eats me like I’m his last meal.

I come so hard, I nearly black out. I nearly forget that everything we share is a secret.

Maybe soon it won’t be.

And maybe, like the butterfly, it’ll be easy.

This is hell.

A few days later we’re back and in an SUV we rented. Max is driving, Zaire is in the passenger seat, and I’m in the back seat with Jenna and Elias. I didn’t hire Leighton or another freelance photographer for this job since it’s more personal. A cell phone camera seemed the right speed for today .

But Elias evidently made a pitch to Zaire about taking the photos, so he’s here like he’s Ansel freaking Adams with his iPhone. We’ve already visited a number of homes, with Max delivering meals for seniors who still live alone but have diminished mobility. Now, we’re making the final stop at a senior center. “You know,” Elias begins as Max nears the Aquatic Park neighborhood, “I volunteered with Meals on Wheels during college.”

Of course he did .

“And it was so eye-opening,” he says, bloviating even more. “I felt like I learned so much. Truly, it’s been an honor to be a part of this today. Thanks, Zaire. Thanks, Max.”

Zaire inclines her head, giving a crisp nod while Max grunts out a thanks.

“Where did you go to college?” Jenna asks, seeming intrigued.

Thank god she’s here to handle him. It’s too hard being in this space with all these people and all this pretending. It’s wearing me down. It’s stressing me out. It’s driving up my anxiety. I feel claustrophobic.

As Jenna peppers Elias with more questions about his supposed glory days, Zaire asks Max if he’s given more thought to Date Night.

I feel queasy as he says blandly, “Every day.”

My thoughts start spinning, so I do one of my grounding exercises, focusing on things I can see, hear, and sense, till Zaire says, “Would that work for you, Everly?”

I snap to it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“I thought it would be nice to have dinner with Garrett and Clementine again. And you and Max later this week. Just to go over everything you’ve done and make sure we’re all set with this project.”

And to decide on Date Night .

The clock keeps ticking. Louder and louder still. “Of course,” I say quickly, then brace myself for Elias to invite himself.

And on the count of three…

“I’d love to come too,” he offers.

“That won’t be necessary, but thanks for the offer,” Zaire says, and I fight off the world’s biggest grin.

When we arrive at the senior center, Max gathers the meals from the back while Elias snaps more pictures of him taking out the food. Once inside, Max drops them off in a community room that’s bustling with older San Franciscans. I hang back near the entrance, staying out of the way as the once grumpy goalie chats with nearly each person there, saying hi to some women knitting, asking questions of a couple guys doing a jigsaw puzzle, and making small talk with some men playing cards. Max said he wasn’t naturally affable, but here he seems most at ease. I bet it comes from how he helped take care of his grandfather. As he moves from table to table, it looks like his cup is full. Like this is more than part of his image makeover. Like this is The Real Max Lambert.

It’s a good look, and I’m seriously proud of him.

A man with wispy strands of hair who’s hunched over his table calls Max over. The older man tilts his face toward Max and asks him something. Max shakes his head and replies. The man keeps asking questions and Max’s expression turns more concerned, more worried. I wish I could make out what they’re saying. It looks like Max is trying to reassure the man but doesn’t know how. Soon, a woman who works at the center comes over and intervenes.

With tension in his jaw and sadness in his eyes, Max heads for the exit where I’m standing with Elias. He swallows roughly, uncomfortably too, then mutters as he passes us, “Excuse me.”

And Elias has the audacity to snap another picture. But as Max turns into the nearby men’s room down the hall, I wheel on Elias, raising a finger. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” It’s asked so innocently.

“Don’t use that picture.”

“Why not?”

“He’s obviously upset.”

“It’s a real-life picture. It shows Max has feelings.”

Elias has no idea. “No,” I say firmly, standing my ground.

He gives me a look like I’m a Pollyanna. “This is the stuff people love, Everly. Seeing the real side of an athlete. I know it because I played sports.” Of course he went there. “And I know because I interact with the real people at every game,” he adds.

And he went there too.

“And I know that part of the job in PR is to protect our players. This is personal. Please delete it,” I say, standing my ground. I don’t care what Elias suspects about me. He’s not posting a photo of Max visibly affected like that.

Annoyed, Elias stares at me for several seconds then relents. “Fine.” He makes a show of deleting it.

“Thank you.”

Max comes out of the bathroom, dragging a hand through his hair. It looks like he’s been hit with bad news, and I want to run to him and comfort him.

But I can’t .

When we get to the car, I tug him back, a few feet away to quickly ask. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“That man was asking about his son. If he was coming to visit. And I tried to talk to him, but then the woman who came over, she said his son had already visited and—” He stops like there are stones in his throat, then he pushes on. “This is how it started with my grandfather. The forgetting.”

My throat swells. My eyes sting. “Max, I’m so sorry.” He takes a small step toward me before he must think the better of it.

I can tell he wants to hold me as much as I want to be his shoulder to lean on.

Instead, I have to wait till later that night, when he comes over for our movie night that he invited me to. It feels like an endless wait, but as I curl up in his arms, I try to believe that soon we’ll have more than stolen moments.

One more night.

That’s what I’ve been telling myself. That’s what Max tells me on Thursday evening as we get ready for dinner together at my place. I feel antsy but in a whole new way. In a Christmas Eve kind of way. Once we make it through dinner, I can devise a proper plan for talking to Zaire. One that’s thoughtful. One that shows this relationship with Max is serious. One that shows how much I want the promotion or at the very least to stay in my job. If she doesn’t make an exception to the unwritten rule, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I know I’m strong enough to handle it.

I button my blouse and fluff out my hair in the bathroom mirror. It’s down tonight. “Like my blowout?” I say to Max. I used one of the lifetime supplies this evening.

“Love it,” he says, then comes up behind me and presses a kiss to my neck. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you’re doing?”

I smile. “Yes. But I’m not doing it tonight. I have an early Zoom meeting at eight tomorrow with the East Coast and you have that interview tomorrow with The Sports Network,” I say, reminding him of both our schedules, and of the interview he agreed to do with our broadcast partner. Plus, I don’t want him to get too excited. I need to get some rest after this dinner—not come home and brainstorm how to save my job. There will be time in the near future. “Let’s focus on this dinner and we can start figuring it all out tomorrow. And come up with a smart plan. I promise.”

Tomorrow night Max leaves for a week-long stretch of away games on the East Coast—ones I’m not attending—so I’ll have some time to put plans into motion.

“I know, sunshine. I know. But I’m here for you.”

I turn around, smooth a hand over his purple shirt, then meet his eyes. “We’ve got this.”

“We do.”

He kisses me and then we head to dinner together in his car. It feels like the start of the next phase of us, even though we walk in side by side like colleagues rather than lovers. Still, I can’t help but feel that fizzy sense of hope. Soon, very soon, we might not have to pretend. We’ve made it through this project, and we’re almost out on the other side where we can sit down, talk, and figure out all the next steps.

That feels even more possible when we reach the table and Clementine is holding a glass of champagne. “To the makeover queen,” she says to me.

Her praise makes me feel like I’m valuable to them, regardless of who I love. That I’m useful even if I’ve bent a rule. That they’ll understand I’m too important to let go just because I fell for an athlete.

I hope so. I really hope so. “It was a tough job, but someone had to do it,” I say playfully, then we sit, and I take my glass and clink with the others.

But when I steal a glance at Max, something like suspicion passes in his eyes. I write it off though. I must just be seeing things.