The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)
The Romance Line: Chapter 7

Everly

The thing about jerks is this—you can’t kowtow to them. When they’re sarcastic, it’s best to disarm them. You do it by being honest, kind, and direct. I’ve read employee handbooks and guidelines about how to handle difficult people, be they reporters, colleagues, or fans. Defuse is the watchword.

Right now, I really should respond to the if it isn’t my brand-new babysitter with something like “I don’t plan to be your babysitter, but I do look forward to working more closely. Let’s set a time to review strategies.”

And yet the words that fly out of my mouth are dripping with pure sass and served with a syrupy smile as I fight fire with sarcastic fire. “Actually, I prefer professional babysitter, Lambert.”

Grabbing a towel and wiping his hands then the back of his neck, he says dryly, “I prefer none of this.”

“And I see we’re in the no stage,” I say like a preschool teacher. Wow, does he bring out my worst behavior too? I think he does. But since I’m on a roll, I stroll into the weight room and add, “Alternatively, you could call me your makeup artist,” I say then dust my fingertips against my cheekbones like a fabulous YouTube makeup influencer. I even add a pout for effect. “Would that be more amenable?”

After he sets down the towel on the weight bench, he grumbles, “I don’t wear makeup.”

And I don’t back down. I step closer. “Then think of me as your brand-new… attitude coach ,” I say with the most over-the-top smile. Two can play this game after all.

Slowly, he rises from the weight bench, stretches his neck from side to side, then takes his sweet time staring me down. His height is intimidating. That steely gaze is penetrating, unwavering. My pulse stutters from the way he stares, and I hold my breath. No wonder other teams are afraid of him. He arches a dubious brow as he eyes me up and down, then says with a smirk, “Coach? More like drill instructor.”

I breathe a small sigh of relief. At least he’s no longer saying no. “That’s me,” I say.

“I can’t believe I have a fucking drill instructor,” he says, as he drags a hand over his beard, a distracting move because his hand is so big, and his beard is so beardy, and my mind is so traitorous wondering how that scruff would feel against me.

Shake that all the way the fuck off, girl.

I fasten on a smile to counteract my dirty thoughts. “Then I suppose we should discuss when boot camp begins? Bright and early tomorrow at 0600?” I ask even though I know he won’t actually show up then, nor do I want him to. I need to devise a battle plan first .

“This is boot camp all right.”

“And I trust you’ll be a good soldier at Good Guy Boot Camp?” My smile widens, selling this most fabulous boot camp. Right. Sure . But a girl can try.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just picks up his towel, tosses it on top of his gym bag by the weight bench, then looks back at me, expression stony. I could snap a pic of him and slap the caption: The Max Lambert Glower across it right now. “Rosewood, you do know the last thing I want is a makeover, right?”

My smile promptly vanishes, and I heave a frustrated sigh. He makes it so hard to be sunshine sometimes. “Yes, Max, I picked up on that from context clues,” I say dryly, even though I know—I absolutely know—that’s the wrong approach with him. Like a GPS rerouting in a new direction, I try again, opting for straightforward and honest. “Listen, I get that this image revamp is the last thing you want. I understand it’s a personal affront to the—” I stop and wave an arm in front of him, dangerously close to the strong pecs that stretch his T-shirt quite nicely. Too nicely. I focus on finishing the thought. “…the whole fuck-off-world mystique you have going on. But the reality is?—”

He comes closer, his mouth amused. “Mystique? You think I have a mystique?” It’s asked with avid curiosity.

I should be nice. I should be nice. I really should be nice. “It wasn’t entirely a compliment,” I say.

His grin turns smug. “You sure about that?”

“Umm, yes, why?”

“Mystique does mean a fascinating aura of mystery, awe, and power surrounding someone or something.”

Fuck him. “Are you doubling as a dictionary?”

“No. I looked it up the other night when I came across it in this online class I’m taking. And you did say mystique, ergo, that sounds like a compliment.”

There’s entirely too much to unpack in that statement—Max takes online classes?—but now’s not the time to delve into his hobbies so I bookmark that in my head. “Yes, I know what the word means.” Deep breath. You can do this. Don’t let him get to you . If I’m going to have to give him charm lessons, I might as well lead by being charming myself. “Max, let’s give you a whole new mystique then.” I wave a hand toward him like a magician sprinkling, I don’t know, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t dust. “The mystique of marketability.”

He pauses for a second, his eyes hard, but then he sighs as he slumps down to the bench once again. He drags a hand through his wild, messy hair. It’s not quite shoulder-length—it’s more unkempt-length, and it works for him. It’s dark, a little long, a lot messy, like you’ve just run your fingers through it. “Yeah, I guess we have to. And I thought hell was line drills in full pads after a loss.”

I shudder. That does sound awful, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. This really must be hard for the man. “Does Coach McBride make you do that still?” I ask.

“No way. That was youth hockey. But the memory still stings.”

Be charming. Be sweet. Be upbeat. “I promise this will be better than line drills. Just imagine you’re the Beast when he has his claws filed and hair styled.”

He narrows his eyes and snarls like a beast when he says, “No bows. I will not wear a bow in my hair.”

And I’m replaceing my rhythm since I say playfully, “Someone knows his Beauty and the Beast .”

“Yes, I do, sunshine.”

I pause on that word. He’s called me that a few times, when we’ve been out with a group of friends, which happens not by choice but by default because of our friends in common. But maybe it’s a good sign. It’s not the worst nickname. “Good then. You’ll know what to expect. Just think of this good-guy boot camp as a movie makeover,” I say, then stop and consider that, holding up a finger. “But not one of the sexist ones.”

“The sexist ones? Which ones are those?”

I screw up the corner of my lips, thinking. “Actually, most movie makeovers are because they show the woman being transformed from having braces and baggy clothes to a brand-new hairstyle and tight top—no glasses, naturally—so she looks sufficiently hot for the male gaze. To which I say fuck off.”

That earns me the very first hint of a smile. “They can fuck off then too,” he says, then strokes his beard. “But don’t get any ideas about new hairstyles. The beard stays.” Then he shakes his messy mane. “Same for the hair.”

“Aww, I guess I am a makeup artist.”

He crosses his arms and stares me down.

I roll my eyes. “Fine, the hair and beard stay. But the bad attitude? It goes.” I hook my thumb toward the door.

He gives a small nod, then looks away. When he glances back at me, there’s a hint of some new emotion in those ice blue eyes. A flicker of sadness? Of hurt? I’m not sure. And I honestly don’t know what got him here besides a very bad breakup that he handled badly. But be that as it may, no one likes to be told they aren’t good enough. I certainly didn’t like it when my dad said that to me as a kid, so I try to both give Max the benefit of the doubt and also offer him a ray of hope. “Max, I know you don’t want this, but I’m going to do my best to make this work for both of us. I’ll devise a plan and then text you about a time to meet. You have my word that I’ll give this everything I have.” I meet his gaze, hoping he believes my sincerity, especially when I add, “Trust me.”

He scoffs. “That’s not my style, sunshine.”

I bite down a slew of comebacks, pasting on a smile I don’t feel as I head to the door.

Then I leave, knowing it’ll take more than movie magic to transform this beast.