The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

It’s a dilemma all right—do I go for a pineapple and coconut smoothie with honey or the banana one with peanut butter? I’ve always been a peanut butter lover, but then again, honey is really fucking good. But maybe I should skip a smoothie today. Wouldn’t that be the wiser choice for the wallet?

Behind the counter, a college student with sleek black hair and a smiley face apron covering her university sweatshirt patiently waits for me to give her the final order from our group. We’ve just finished morning skate, and I stare at the chalkboard menu for The Oasis a little longer, like the decision’s going to materialize before my eyes.

Wesley’s busy on his phone, but Asher’s in no mood for my antics since he cuts in, scanning her name tag, then saying, “Yuki, he’ll have the banana and peanut butter one, with added honey.”

I turn to Asher, annoyed and grateful all at once. “Am I keeping you from an important appointment with…your hairstylist? Massage therapist? Nail tech?”

Asher scoffs. “Please. I’m naturally beautiful. Also, you’re keeping me from something—namely, my bed and a nap.”

“There’s plenty of time before the clock strikes one, sleeping beauty,” I say, but facts are facts. Wesley and Asher ordered right away, and I took my time, hemming and hawing, like I usually do. Some days I still can’t believe I’m spending thirteen dollars on a fucking drink. My middle-school self who never went out for a meal and scrounged together every spare dollar for new skates would have freaked.

I turn to the server once more. “What he said. And, um, thanks for your patience.”

“No problem.” Yuki inputs my order, then she’s hesitant, maybe even nervous, for a beat as I take out my phone and open the wallet on it. She chews on her lower lip, then says, “And…I really hope you win tonight. I love the Sea Dogs so much. And I’ve been meaning to tell you that every time you come here, but I didn’t have the guts because everyone said you were unapp—” She stops, shakes her head, before she corrects to, “Because everyone said it’s not cool to fangirl, but I had to say it. Hockey is the best.”

“Yes, it is,” I say, and because I heard what she didn’t say—everyone says I’m unapproachable. And I hear, too, what Rosario and my agent said yesterday. That I don’t interact with fans, so I add, “And we’ll do our best to win tonight.”

“How long have you been a fan?” Asher asks, setting his elbow on the counter in the we’ve-been-pals-forever kind of way that he has about him. “And more importantly, how long have you thought I was better than Bryant?”

Looking up from his phone, Wesley thumps Asher on the head. Yuki laughs, then says to Asher, “I don’t know…Wesley had a pretty big goal the other night.”

Asher’s mouth falls open, as if he’s aghast. “Blasphemy.”

“Yep, and don’t you forget my blasphemy, Callahan,” Wesley says, then as he tucks his phone into his jeans pocket, he turns to Yuki as she begins making the drinks. “Really appreciate you rooting for our team instead of the Golden State Foxes.”

That’s the other hockey team in the city and one of our fiercest rivals. Though I hate the Los Angeles Supernovas more. Especially their starting forward, Fletcher Bane, who’d serve Earth better if he were shot in a spaceship to Mars and left to rot there forever.

But I do my best to never think about my biggest enemy except when we’re playing those cheating fuckheads.

“Never the Foxes,” Yuki says. “Sea Dogs always.”This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Wesley says.

“You chose well, Yuki,” Asher adds as she works on the drinks.

They chat with her more as I busy myself with finishing the transaction. I double the amount of the smoothies I bought for myself and my friends and set that as the tip. That’s not new. I always do that—tip well. Because I can, and because I was that kid behind the counter once upon a time, working at a quick-serve restaurant, taking orders and hoping for decent tips.

Normally, if someone recognizes me, and that happens from time to time, I say something nice and move on, stat. I figure shit can get awkward real fast, so a simple thanks is all that’s needed. But Wesley and Asher? These guys brought her into the convo for a while. Had a real chat with her.

Do I need to do more of that to help my likeability quotient? I hate fake conversations. They didn’t seem fake though…But I don’t know that me being more outgoing with the college student who makes our post-morning-skate smoothies is enough to change my…likeability quotient.

That stupid term makes me want to kick a garbage can. Instead, I grab my drink roughly when it’s done, grunting out a thanks as Asher picks up the pineapple drink while Wes grabs his kale shake. The dude loves his greens. As we head to our regular table in the back of the shop, Asher says, “Did you guys catch up on the end of Twisted Nights ?”

That’s the domestic thriller on Webflix we’re all addicted to. “That was wild,” Wesley says, sliding into the booth. “I can’t believe they crossed the border.”

“Don’t cross the border,” Asher booms in a deep warning tone, reciting the tagline for the show. I could jump in, but I’m a little lost in thoughts of what’s next, like what exactly it means to turn my reputation around and how painful that’ll be, especially with Everly breathing down my neck. But if even the server here knows my rep, it’ll be harder than unsticking a container ship from the Suez Canal.

As I take a thirsty sip, Asher tips his drink my way, catching my attention. “What’s up with you, Lambert? You usually mock Wesley for his theories on the next season.”

“And yet, all my theories came true,” Wesley points out .

Didn’t even realize they were debating what might happen in the future. Looking up, I blink off the haze of my own thoughts. “Have you ever heard of a likeability quotient?” It’s asked with some derision.

Asher’s brow furrows. “No, but I can figure it out.”

Wesley shakes his head. “Sounds like marketing mumbo jumbo.”

I’m not always the most forthcoming guy, but I trust my friends, and hell, they already know my rep—Asher’s the guy you bring home to mom, Wesley’s the guy who helps anyone out of a jam, and I’m the guy you’d send to the door to scare off strangers on your porch. “Evidently”—I stop to sketch air quotes—“my likeability quotient is in the toilet.”

I roll my eyes because I can’t not.

“Explain,” Asher says as he swirls his compostable straw—he picked this spot as our regular stomping grounds since everything’s compostable here.

I take a satisfying suck of peanut butter and banana, then lean back in the booth and ’fess the fuck up. “I lost my last sponsor yesterday,” I say, and hell, that’s more embarrassing to admit than I’d thought it’d be. They know that’s been happening to me ever since the fight against Los Angeles, but it still makes me feel like a fool to talk about the ramifications out loud. “And my agency’s marketing department told me to shape up. Basically, they put me on notice to make some changes, or else.”

“Ouch,” Asher says with obvious sympathy.

“Shit, man. That sucks,” Wesley says.

Trash talk is our first language, but they must sense my situation has reached code-red levels. I seriously appreciate them not giving me a hard time.

“And yes, I know it’s my fault because I don’t talk to the press, but man, that convo still kind of made me feel like shit,” I admit honestly.

“You gotta do your own thing. Make your own choices, Lambert. That’s what I learned last season,” Wesley says.

I mull on that for a few seconds. I suppose Wesley’s proof, though, that talking openly can be a good thing. Last season, he spoke up in a big way about his life. That kind of honesty and vulnerability made a huge difference to the team and the community and to his personal life—it’s the reason his girlfriend is happily back in town, shacked up with him.

“You did, man,” I say, offering a fist for knocking. He knocks back. “You showed the fuck up in all the ways.” I heave a sigh, and it’s not so much one of resignation but maybe…acceptance that I’ve got to make some changes. “I guess I have to do a better job of that. When my agent called me into his conference room and showed me a fucking whiteboard with the likeability quotient, it was a rude awakening. But then again, it was a pretty rude awakening a year and a half ago when I walked into the home I shared with Lyra and saw Fletcher Bane from the Supernovas balls deep in her, so…”

Asher shoots me a sympathetic frown. “That’s enough to make anyone shut down.”

But that was only the start of it. That wasn’t why I stopped talking to the press. It wasn’t why I killed my social media either. What happened a week or so later at my sister’s house was—after the fight on the ice with Bane. After the media wouldn’t leave me alone. After they hassled my sister.

“But apparently my attitude isn’t sitting well with team management, and I need to figure out how to be nicer…or else. ”

“Just let ’em know you treat us to smoothies—that’s nice,” Asher says.

“You could treat the whole city,” Wes puts in, and I smile, appreciating their effort to fix this.

I roll on, building up a head of steam. “But it’s not like I’m going to grab a mic or fire up social media I don’t have and say, well, folks here’s why I think the world is a shit show, and here’s why that song isn’t about me . I’m not going to air my dirty laundry. It won’t change anything and the media will demolish her,” I say, getting fired up. I can’t stand my cheating ex, and I despise Bane, but I detest the press even more. They twist everything and they’d contort the truth in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

I guess this reputation makeover is the only way through. I rake a hand through my messy hair, resigned to whatever’s next, including the details Garrett shared with me, the part where the team has an opportunity for me to participate in The Ice Men documentary series. “And all of this means I’ll be hanging with our cheery, chipper, smiling publicist more. Yay me,” I say dryly.

Asher snort-laughs, not even trying to hide his amusement. “Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, the whole thing is going to be hard, but especially because we’re like a bottle of tequila and good choices. We don’t work well together.”

Wesley clears his throat. “I think Asher means good luck with working closely with the woman you’re hot for.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re going to hate it,” Asher adds.

I narrow my eyes. “I never said I was into her.”

Said being the operative word. I’m not denying I think about her at night. I’m not pretending she isn’t starring in some seriously dirty dreams. I’ve just never voiced it to these punks .

Besides, there’d be no point in liking her, especially now. I can’t mess up this image makeover. It’s too important for my goals. For a life beyond hockey. For the future my parents and sister deserve. Everly’s the key to making this happen, so it doesn’t matter how sexy she is, how much I want to unbutton those staid work blouses she wears and discover the woman underneath—the one with the alluring lingerie. I’m dying to discover the other side of dangerously sexy Everly, with her pouty mouth and big brown eyes and that sleek ponytail that drives me crazy. The fact that she can’t stand me inexplicably turns me on more, which says something about me I’m not sure I’m ready to face. She’s a challenge, all right, and what’s even more messed up about this lust I feel for her? I can’t stand her either, yet she still haunts my mind late at night.

My brain is an asshole.

And I’m going to have to ignore its taunts.

Asher stares at me like he’s a lawyer busting me in court, pulling my focus back to the conversation and away from filthy thoughts. “You didn’t have to say you were into her,” Asher says. “It’s clear, man. You’re the boy who pulls on her pigtails in class.”

And yeah, I’d like to tug on that sleek blonde ponytail more than I should want to, so I do what I’m good at—I shut the hell up, effectively ending the talk about Everly. I drink my smoothie, then head home.

As I swing the door open, I call out, “Honey, I’m home.”

But I can’t find Athena anywhere in my penthouse. Where is that she-devil? I hunt all over, checking the laundry basket, the cupboards, the pantry, the guest room, my bedroom with its sweet view of the Golden Gate Bridge, until finally I look up in the kitchen .

She’s curled up asleep on an exposed beam cutting across the kitchen ceiling.

“How the hell did you get up there?” I ask, scanning the room for the cat path. She must have jumped on the stove hood, then the top of the cabinets, then the beam. Cat parkour.

Grabbing a step stool, I position it under the beam, then climb up and snag the little critter. She unleashes a wild yowl as I pick her up.

“I don’t like being woken up either, girl,” I say softly, then carry her in my arms down the steps till I can set her on the floor, where she immediately administers bathing protocol to wash the touch of human off her perfect cat-ness.

I head to bed for a nap, smacking the pillow a few times to get it just right before I settle in. Normally, I crash right away on game days. But Asher’s remarks gnaw at me. Sure, Everly’s beautiful. Yes, she’s smart. But we don’t get along. Hell, she looked like she wanted to hurl liquor bottles from the hotel room mini bar at me the night I returned her bralette and suitcase to her room. Probably wanted to chuck my cologne bottle at my head too. Admittedly, I’d have deserved her hellfire and fury. Still, she drives me up the wall day in and day out, always asking me to do this kind of feature, or that kind of feature, this cute piece, that little piece—devising her clever ways to try to get me to break. One time, she dangled concert tickets for me if I’d share with a streaming service ten songs I listen to when I work out. I told her to ask Bryant instead. She did and he gave them his entire playlist. Another time, she even said if I talked to the media after a late game, she’d hire a limo to take my teammates and me to play pool afterward. I told her I’d require a yacht .

I was a little surprised there wasn’t a yacht waiting for me after the game. The woman doesn’t back down. She’s as relentless as I am stubborn, and I’m sure it pisses her off that I don’t play her game. But it bugs me that she thinks she can wear me down and get me to talk to the media about anything. I don’t trust them, and I’m not even sure I trust her. Before she worked for the team, she was one of them. No, she didn’t show up at my sister’s house late that night, demanding answers and harassing her, but she stuck her damn phone in my face after games, asking questions.

Then, she switched sides, and came to work for the team.

But, as much as I hate to admit it, she did help me out of a jam the other night in Seattle when Lyra landed in town. Things might have been so much worse if not for Everly’s clever smuggling of me out the back door at the arena.

I smack the pillow again. Flip to my side. Try to crash.

But something else gnaws at me now—the fact that she helped me out in a big way. I should at least say thank you for what she did. Sighing heavily, I grab my phone, and google a bakery near the arena. Then I send her a slice of cake. Chocolate, since that’s the most sinful. I ask the bakery to add a card and the words— I hear cake goes well with working on upcoming publicity plans .

Like she said to me.

With that done, I close my eyes and drift off in no time.

When I wake up an hour later, Athena’s curled around my neck, purring up a storm, and I don’t want to get out of bed.

But I do it anyway. I have a game to win.