The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

As I’m chatting with our new communications assistant at the arena before the game Tuesday night, a gruff voice calls out to me in the press box. “Got the injury report, Rosewood?”

I turn away from Jenna Nguyen toward Gus Mitchell, the grizzled sports reporter who’s been covering hockey for longer than I’ve been alive—something he likes to remind me of nearly every time I see him. His face is weathered and his voice sounds like gravel.

He’s tough, but fair though, which is all I can ask for. “Don’t I always, Gus?” I say, then brandish my tablet and make a show of swiping my finger across the screen. “In your email.”

He narrows his shrewd eyes, shaking his head as he grumbles, “Why can’t I just have it on a piece of paper like the old days?”

“Because it’s not the old days, Gus,” I say with a smile. “ Why chop a tree down when I can send it to you in the ether?”

“I hate the ether,” he grouses, but he picks up his reading glasses from the string around his neck and shoves them on his face, hunching over his laptop. “Been covering this longer than you’ve been alive,” he mutters, as if on cue.

I smile at Jenna. “It’s his love language.”

She smiles awkwardly. “Really?”

“I promise. He’s more bark than bite.”

“I can hear you, Rosewood,” Gus chides.

“I know, Mitchell. It wasn’t a secret. I’m training a new department assistant on all the media team.”

I expect a surly comeback, but instead he snaps his gaze to me. “Volkov is out? He’s got an ankle sprain again?”

Jenna gulps, fidgeting with the silver bracelets on her wrists. She knows our center Alexei Volkov has an ankle sprain for the second time in a year. He should be back in a couple games.

“Just a minor lower body injury,” I say with a smile, giving nothing away.

“So it’s his ankle again?” Gus pushes.

I stare him down. “Gus, did I say it was his ankle? I did not. You have the report. He’s out with a lower body injury. And it’s minor. Anything else?”

He huffs. “Yeah, can you make sure I get one of those bags of salted chips with the media meal?”

“Salty for salty,” I say, then turn to Jenna. “Can you handle Mister Salty?”

“I can,” she says eagerly.

He rolls his eyes. “Make them extra salty.”

“As if we’d do anything else,” I say, then after checking in with a few other reporters, we leave.

In the hallway, Jenna brings her hand to her chest, like her heart is beating too fast. “I thought he was going to grill us, and then you went all badass boss babe.”

I laugh, making light of the compliment that I secretly love. “Thank you. And even if the press grills you on an injury, you don’t have to tell them the details.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. While we’re required to disclose injuries to the league and the public, we don’t have to specify the exact type so we usually share upper or lower body injury. Player privacy is an issue, but we also don’t want to reveal weaknesses to other teams. Reporters will try to push, but there’s a way around everything.”

“Like you did. Can I just imitate you if that ever happens to me?” she asks with a hopeful smile.

“Of course. And if you aren’t sure what to say you can always answer any question with a generic I’ll get back to you . It covers everything.”

“Good to know,” she says as we walk down the hall, then turn the corner as Zaire—my boss—walks toward us, head high, cutting a powerful image as she strides down the hall. “How’s everything going?”

“Great. We were just checking in with the press box before the game,” I say, stopping when we reach her.

Zaire turns to Jenna. “And you’re learning the ropes?”

She nods eagerly. “Everly is teaching me how to handle questions from the press.”

“Excellent,” Zaire says with a wry grin, then turns to me. “That’s what we like here at the Sea Dogs. We pride ourselves on a mentorship-style workplace. And the biggest tip is working with reporters isn’t that different from working with hockey players. It’s all about managing the big egos.”

“It sure is,” I say.

“Speaking of,” Zaire says, returning her focus to me. “Great work so far on the social media foundation. I reviewed the updates you sent over earlier. Step one looks great. Now that you’re ready for step two, let’s all have dinner with Max’s agent and myself. We can make sure we’re all set for step two.”

“I’m there,” I say without a second thought.

“Monday night?”

She names the time and I’ll still be able to fit in drinks with Lucas beforehand. At least I know Zaire isn’t trying to, well, cock-block me.

When she leaves, Jenna takes off for her cubicle, and I return to my office. Along the way, I spot the manager of promotions walking toward me. A clean-cut blond guy, Elias played hockey at his Massachusetts boarding school and for one year in college too—something he loves to remind me of. He’s the poster boy for East Coast prep school guys who have uncles who are general counsels for the team. He wears an Oxford cloth shirt and khakis, and looks like he’s off to play golf every time I see him.

“Hey, Ev. How’s everything going in com?” he asks.

“Great,” I say. “How’s promo treating you?”

“Fan-freaking-tastic. It’s the best. Soooo many fun things going on. I’ll tell you all about them soon,” he says. “Did you see that slapshot the captain made in Vegas? Not an easy one to make, and don’t I know it.”

“I’m sure you do,” I say with a smile.

He gives me finger guns for some reason, then aims them toward the rink. “We’re doing the T-shirt cannon tonight. Bam, bam! ”

He works with Donna, the emcee who hosts the fan promo events during each intermission for our home games. “Fans love the cannon,” I say.

“More than anything,” he says.

Well, not more than hockey, but I don’t correct him. He turns to leave, then spins back around. “Hey, did you hear about the new director opening?”

I square my shoulders. I have more experience. I have a great track record. He’s only got a few years under his belt. Is he gunning for the post with those ridiculous pistol fingers? “Yes,” I say, keeping my answer simple since I don’t know why he’s bringing it up.

“I bet you’d be great at it,” he says, then leaves, and I’m left wondering if he means that or if he’s angling for it too.

But I have to put him out of my mind, since there are a million other things I need to think about. Like the Max makeover, which is the key to me nabbing the job.

With less than three minutes to go in the game that night, Max lunges across the net to stop a ruthless shot from Montreal. He stretches so far I don’t know how he’s not pulling a muscle and winding up on the injury report for the next game. But he pops back up no problem and fresh excitement zips through my body, then an unexpected rush of tingles skate down my spine. I want to cheer. To thrust my arms in the air. That was a key play. But I’m working the press box tonight, and cheering is frowned on in here. I’m frowning on myself, too, because why the hell am I wanting to root for one guy when I work for the team?

Best not to think too hard on that as I leave with two minutes on the clock, making my way to the ice level. When the game ends shortly with the Sea Dogs sealing the victory, I’m already waiting outside the tunnel, rounding up the crew for the post-game interviews. Max walks toward me, ripping off his helmet and shaking out his hair. It’s sweaty at his temples.

“Nice save,” I say, still a little tingly from the last play I saw, which turned out to be the final save of the game. “That last one.”

“Thanks,” he says, then shoots me a suspicious look. “Is that all?”

He’s expecting me to bicker with him. To cajole him into talking to the press. But I like to keep him on his toes, so I don’t do that tonight.

“That’s all. I need to catch up with Asher,” I answer, then pick up the pace till I reach the left winger a few feet ahead. “I hear you and Quinn have become sparring partners.” Quinn’s the equipment manager and a huge baseball fan.

Asher nods. “He’s almost as vicious as the Reddit group members.”

“That’s what you want? Someone to fight you on baseball trivia?”

“Course. I’m a hockey player,” he says. “I live to fight.”

“As long as you’re not fighting online from your burner account anymore.”

“I can learn, Everly,” he says.

“I appreciate it and you so much,” I say, then continue down the hall. I’m pretty sure Max is watching me as I go. And I shouldn’t check, but I can’t resist. I turn my head, and yep. He’s shooting me a final curious look before he heads into the locker room, like he isn’t sure what to make of me .

I’m not sure either, especially since I’m looking forward to Thursday more than I should. I have no idea what he has planned, but I want to know him better.

On Thursday afternoon, Max leads me past dimly lit empty locker rooms and out toward a community ice rink, pointing to the stands. This place is nothing like the Sea Dogs state-of-the-art arena, with its high-backed vegan leather seats in every row. This run-down rink on the outskirts of Oakland has bleachers only. “Front row seats,” he says with a wry grin. “Unless you want to help me coach today?”

It’s asked with a challenge in his tone. A tease. “I’ll watch, thanks.”

“You do that,” he says as I take a spot in the first row. A smattering of parents and caregivers are here, bundled up in hoodies, hunched over phones or books. Others are simply watching the action on the ice as their six-, seven-, and eight-year-olds lace up.

Max trots down to the bench where he quickly laces up too. He’s wearing a warm-up suit, like the coaches usually wear for morning skate with the players since, well, it turns out he coaches young players. I had no idea. Of course I had no idea. But now he’s showing me, and I’m a little gobsmacked.

A woman with long, dark hair sits next to him, striking up an easy conversation I can’t hear. She wears a similar outfit and is lacing her skates.

I don’t want to miss a second, so I lean forward, perched on the uncomfortable, metal seat as Max gets right into it on the ice with about a dozen or so kids .

“Who brought their A game today?” he asks in a not-so-scary voice.

A young boy waves his hockey stick, shouting, “Me!”

A girl about the same age weighs in with, “Me too.”

More kids shout their me too .

The woman glides onto the ice. “That’s what Coach Lambert and I like to hear. And you know the drill.”

“Time for warm-ups,” Max says, then pushes backward on his skates. It’s an effortless move—one I’ve seen him do thousands of times on the ice. Except now he’s not doing it in a professional rink, in front of twenty or thirty thousand fans who pay top dollar. He’s doing it for kids. “Skating backward has to be as easy as skating forward.”

“But it’s so much easier to skate forward,” one of the boys says, not quite whining but getting very close.

“Of course it is. That’s because your brain wants to go that way,” Max says, tapping the side of his head, talking to them so easily, like he spoke to his nephew the other week. “But the more you do it, the more your brain treats backward the same till you can do it just as well.”

“I don’t think my brain thinks like that, Coach Lambert,” a girl with red curls flying out from under her helmet says.

Coach Lambert . That is too adorable. I’m smiling too big.

“You’ll train it to, Hannah,” he says. “And your body as well. You ready?”

They spin around, some awkwardly, some smoothly, and work on drills with Max and the woman as they skate backward. He’s patient with each kid but also tough. He doesn’t sugarcoat how hard the game is. He does talk up the rewards though—teamwork, fun, accomplishment.

“Don’t worry. You’ll all get the hang of it,” he says, spinning around and quickly shifting into crossovers, then stops. When they’re done with the basic skating drills, Max moves them into relay races to warm them up.

He didn’t even tell me where he was taking me this afternoon. He just said he’d pick me up at work, to expect a thirty-minute drive, and to wear a hoodie. But Max coaching kids the tricks of his trade in a rundown skating rink? Nope. Never had this on my radar screen. I don’t want to take my eyes off the ice as they work on puck-handling drills, maneuvering past cones with their sticks.

Who knew?

I’m shaking my head, a little awed, a lot shocked. He’s not the Max he is with me, teasing, goading, pushing. He’s a different guy here—direct, encouraging, totally approachable.

I’m clutching my phone in my hands, feeling a little giddy, a little fizzy even. It would go such a long way if people knew he did this. How can he hide this? Why doesn’t he tell his agent? Or Thrive? Or the team?

I lift my phone to take a pic of him at work—the approachable side of Max Lambert. The female coach is working with a group of kids on balance drills while Max is showing the kids how to keep the puck close to the stick. I capture this one and several more till a throat clears. Someone behind me shifts around, then clambers down two rows, parking next to me—a woman, dressed in a fleece, her eyes tired, but her smile kind. “Hey, I’m Becca. Just wanted to let you know we’re not supposed to take pics.”

“Oh,” I say, chastened, and setting my phone down. “I didn’t know.”

“I figured as much. That’s why I shared. Which one is yours? Mine is Hannah. The redhead. She wants to skate on a women’s pro team someday but she’s got a long way to go.”

“Don’t we all,” I say, then return to her question. “And I don’t have kids. I work with Max’s team.”

“Ah,” she says, understanding dawning. “Got it. It’s great that he does this when he’s in town. Even with Coach Gupta here at all the practices.” She nods toward the woman on the ice. She must be the regular coach. “But there’s no way we could afford this without him.”

Color me intrigued. “He pays for all this?”

“Covers the whole thing. The ice time, the gear, the training—everything. Coach Gupta’s time too.”

“Wow,” I say.

She tilts her head. “You didn’t know that?”

There’s no point playing it cool. “I didn’t.”

“You learn something new every day,” she says, seeming amused. But then her gaze is wary. “Is something changing here? Is that why they sent you?”

There’s real concern in her voice. Like I could take this away. I glance down at my outfit—a Sea Dogs fleece but also charcoal gray slacks, low heels, and a tablet in hand. Briefly I wonder what I represent to her. Corporate America? Rules? The proper public image? Whatever it is, it’s concerning to her. Somehow in her eyes, I might be the enemy that could end this lovely thing he does.

I shake my head. “He invited me,” I say, opting for the easiest answer.

Her brow scrunches then slowly, like the sun rising, her lips part. “Oh. Oh . You’re his—?” She’s waiting for me to fill in the dots.

Vociferously, I shake my head. “No. God no. We just work together. That’s all. It’s actually frowned upon, dating a player. It can go all kinds of wrong. Management wouldn’t like it. It’s a rule. Well, an unwritten rule, but those are just as powerful. Since reputation matters,” I say, and am I actually in PR? Does a professional sports organization truly pay me to craft and shape images and messages for a living, because I sound like I’ve never spoken in public before.

“Is that so?”

It’s Max’s deep, sexy voice. I snap my gaze to the edge of the rink and he’s mere feet away from me by the boards, amusement dancing across his eyes while Coach Gupta works with the kids. “So this is forbidden, Everly? You and me hanging out like this?”

Becca snickers.

“Yes,” I blurt, then shake my head because that was the wrong answer. He’s got me flustered. Again. “No. It’s not. I mean, they know. Of course they know I’m spending time with you. They gave me this assignment. Because it’s work. That’s all.”

Becca covers her mouth with her hand, chuckling the whole time, then finally lowering it to say to Max, “I think someone has a crush on you.” Only she’s pointing at me like I don’t know she’s doing it.

I do not , I want to scream at her, but that’d make it worse.

Instead, Max cuts in, saying, “Don’t worry, Becca. She actually hates me.”

Then he winks at me. He fucking winks and skates backward, waving and blowing me a kiss.

I’m…mortified.

Becca’s laughing.

And I feel out of place entirely.

As the practice continues, Becca excuses herself, presumably for the ladies’ room. Once she’s gone, a redheaded man with a freckled face appears at my bench. “Hey there. I’m Flynn, Jonah’s dad,” he says, then nods to one of the kids Max was coaching.

“Nice to meet you, Flynn,” I say, and before I can get another word out, there’s a spray of ice, then a giant hockey player has appeared at the boards right next to me.

“Flynn,” Max says with a smile I don’t quite buy. “Want to help me out today?”

Flynn’s face lights up. “Yeah. Sure. I’ve been wanting to.”

“I know. This seemed like the perfect time,” he says.

Flynn turns to me. “We’ll catch up later.”

Max chuckles. “We’ll be pretty busy,” he says, then parks his elbow and waits for Flynn to leave the stands and head around to the ice.

He flashes me one more smile—the kind that says I won . This man is like a dog sometimes. Shame I like dogs so much.

When the kids finish a little later, Flynn is finishing up on the ice, having done nothing but move a few cones around. But Max keeps him busy putting cones away. Becca gathers her things, then says goodbye to me, adding, “I was just teasing. But if you did have a crush on Max, I’d understand.”

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course.”

She sounds like she’s placating me, but there’s no point arguing with her so I smile weakly as she disappears inside the rink. Coach Gupta is gone too. And Flynn’s disappeared as well .

Then, it’s just Max and me. He’s standing at the boards, resting his elbows on them, smiling smugly my way. “It’s so professional, and I definitely don’t know about your… bralettes .” He says it like they’re sexy magic. Well, they are. He lifts a curious brow. “Are you wearing one today? Or maybe a lavender bra like you did at sushi?”

Does he have eagle ears as well as eagle eyes? “You remember the bra I was wearing?” I ask, when the real question should be how does he know which one I was wearing?

“Fuck yes,” he says, unapologetic.

“H-how?”

“Is that a real question?” His eyes are heated as they roam up and down me. “I remember my favorite things.”

Like my lingerie? Or all lingerie? But those aren’t questions I can ask. “I meant how did you know what bra I was wearing?” Then I hold up a hand. I shouldn’t go fishing for this intel. I shouldn’t know if he’s wanting me the way I want him. It’s better if I don’t figure it out. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Relax, sunshine. Your shirt sloped down your shoulder for a hot second when we got sushi. I caught a glimpse of the strap—that was all.” After a moment, he adds, “Your right shoulder.”

He knows the left one is the one I touch sometimes. He doesn’t know it has the scar though. But he seems to have sensed I’m cautious about it. “Oh. Okay,” I say, unsteady and I’m not sure why, but I feel like I’m walking across a ship’s deck in choppy waters.

“It was nice,” he adds, but nice comes out like hot . Or maybe like I want to fuck you. Or maybe that’s where my brain keeps going lately with him. I do my best to shake off this haze of lust. Trying to get my bearings, I focus on why I’m here and lift my phone. “She said there’s a no picture rule. Becca did,” I add.

“That’s true.”

Which means I’m even more confused. I cut to the chase. “Why did you invite me?”

“You didn’t like it?” He sounds genuinely hurt.

“I did. I loved it,” I say, truthfully. “I just…” I shrug. “I’m thrown off. I thought you were showing me something we could…” But I swallow the word use. It feels wrong to say that right now.

“To use?” he supplies, a hint of irritation in his tone.

“I want to help you with this project,” I say, pleading somewhat. Sure, he’s infuriating, but I truly want to improve his image. “That’s the point.”

“I want you to,” he says, curling his big hands over the boards. “That’s why I brought you here.”

I raise my hands, helpless. “I’m not getting it.”

He drags a hand through that wild, messy hair. “You asked me who I really am. I said I’d show you. So I brought you here,” he says, his tone stripped bare. He blows out a breath then glances around, gesturing to the space. “This is who I really am, but I don’t want this to be something you use. I want this to be something I keep for myself. I don’t do this to fix my image. I do this for those kids,” he says, glancing toward the exits, even though the children are long gone. When he returns his gaze to me, his blue eyes hold a new vulnerability. “I know what it’s like to be those kids whose parents worry about how to pay for a sport. I don’t have those worries anymore. So I do this.” He pauses for a few seconds, then adds in a quieter voice, “I know I need to be open and shit. To let people see who I am. And I get it. I dug this hole and all. I have the shitty likability quotient. And I have to fix it, so I’m trying. But this is the one thing that’s mine. That isn’t up for negotiation. This is for the kids.”Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

I do understand why he brought me here. He wanted me to know this part of him. The part he’s not going to share with the world. My heart feels squishy in a way it hasn’t in a long time. I hold up the phone and one by one delete the pics, but stop at the last one. It’s a little boy skating backward, looking up at the star goalie as if to say, Am I doing it right ?

I show it to Max. “Can I keep this for myself?”

“For when I’m a dick and you need a reminder I’m not?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“Sure,” he says, then nods to the exit, a sign we’re done. But instead, he says, “Flynn’s a nice guy.”

I laugh lightly. “Should I have lunch with him then?”

His smile vacates the premises. His eyes darken. “No.”

Well, that’s even more clear now. He’ll stop dates with guys he dislikes and guys he approves of. Max nods to the ice. “You want to skate?”

I shake my head. “Oh, no. I babysit hockey players. I don’t skate.”

“C’mon,” he goads.

I shake it again. “Nope.”

“One new thing to try. Say yes, Everly,” he says, and just like that I’m back in time again. Marie’s favorite words. The thing she said when she asked me to take a pole class with her on a Post-it note. She was always leaving Post-it notes around the apartment we shared.

Want to go to the movies tonight? Say yes.

Want to grab a glass of wine after work? Say yes.

Want to take a pole dance class? Say yes.

I said yes .

And then a car slammed into us when I was turning left, hitting the passenger side head-on with a horrifying crunch, sending my head snapping back, and the car fishtailing into a truck. The sounds and the sirens and the machines and the hospital come rushing back to me, like it’s happening all over again. The noises, the surgeries, the burns, and the news.

The awful, terrifying news.

I look away from Max, focusing on my breathing. Cataloging the surroundings.

The net is made of twine and red metal.

The ice is cold and scraped up from practice.

The metal benches have grooves in them.

The scoreboard. It’s a deep red, with home and visitors painted in bold white writing.

And there’s one more thing I can see. Right in front of me—there’s Max, with real concern etched in his eyes. But I’m okay. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m not trapped in that car, or feeling my heart rip out of my chest as I say goodbye to the person who was like a sister to me. I kept all her Post-it notes in a little wooden box in my bedroom.

I want to say yes to Max’s offer to skate. I said yes to the sushi. I said yes to the naked bike ride. But there are practical matters. “Yes, but I don’t have my skates,” I say, gesturing to my heels.

His lips quirk up, like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You have skates?” The question’s asked with surprise. Maybe wonder.

“Max, I work for a hockey team. Of course I have skates.”

“Then…raincheck?”

My chest warms. “Raincheck.”