A group of riders dressed as woodland creatures pedal past us, colorful leaves adorning their bodies. My gaze lingers next on a particularly eccentric rider sporting nothing but a rainbow cape billowing in the wind. But what’s also billowing in the wind? The guy’s balls.

  I appreciate the fundraising and all, but how do they do it? A woman with flapping breasts, painted like peaches, pedals by. “How the hell does she sit like that?”

  “No idea,” Max says, like it hurts him to watch.

  Same here. I wince a little, thinking of my lady parts. I would not want my free-range vagina perched on a bike seat anywhere. Let alone in public. But more so, I wouldn’t want to show…my scars to the world. I reach for my shoulder, briefly touching the one that won’t fade.

  Max must notice, since he lifts a brow my way in question. Perhaps concern too. “You okay?”

  “Of course.”

  He tilts his head, his sharp eyes that see everything on the ice cataloging me now. “Did you…hurt your shoulder at some point?”

  The man is a hawk. He misses nothing. It’s literally his job, but still I’m thrown off. “Why do you ask?”

  “You touch it sometimes,” he says gently. “Like maybe you injured it. That’s happened to me. I’ve had a couple hits in the past—elbow, knee. And it’s like I’m always checking to see if it’s still injured.”

  I don’t want to talk about the accident, the injuries, or the surgeries here in public. Not when I run the risk of emotions surging up my throat, and memories pulling me under. But I don’t like to lie either. “Car accident,” I admit, then try to make light of it with a quick, “It’s fine though. I’m fine.”

  His eyes flood with concern and immediate understanding. “The same one?”

  I close my eyes for a second. I don’t want to lose myself in time. Don’t want to feel that uncomfortable surge of anxiety as images from that night flash before me. I know how to handle them if they do. But I don’t want to handle them right now, while I’m working. I don’t want to explain everything about me either. The last time I explained that to a guy he shut me out as soon as he could.

  “Yes, but I’m okay. Thank you for asking,” I say, trying to be kind, because I know it’s easier for most people to never talk about hard things. I have to give Max credit. At least he doesn’t shy away.

  “If you ever want to talk about it…” he adds. The offer is tender, and I’m tempted to take him up on it. But there’s a time and place—and now is not the time nor place.

  “Thanks. Maybe,” I say, upbeat, but noncommittal. I nod toward a pack of cyclists, quickly changing the subject. “So since you’re such a regular, what’s your favorite view? Front or back?”

  Maybe sensing I need an out, he jumps on the changeup. “The 360-degree view, Everly.”

  “Like that one right there,” I say, subtly gesturing to an older man riding by, probably a grandfather’s age. He has a soft belly and saggy skin, and he’s balls naked, smiling and riding.

  Max shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. I do so love torturing him, but maybe I should let him off easy. I nod toward a bar up the street. The sign on the window of Sticks and Stones reads: Have a clothed drink after your naked ride!

  “Want to get a drink?” I ask.

  With that cocky grin I know too well, he shrugs. “If you can’t handle the view anymore…”

  I lift my phone and snap a pic of him as a pack of zombie riders in their birthday suits cruise past in the background. “That’s it. You’ve figured me out.”

  “I get it. It’s a lot of naked. I understand it’s too much for you.”

  Nope. He’s not winning now. I hold my ground, staring at the cyclists, musing. “I can’t keep from thinking though…what the bike seats are like right this very second.”

  He frowns, cringing. “Dude. You won. I’m tapping out.”

  I pump a fist. “Victory is mine.”

  “You’re too good at this game of chicken, woman.”

  “Chicken? We’re playing chicken? I had no idea.”

  “What a surprise, isn’t it,” he says dryly as we walk to the bar. He opens the door for me, and we go inside.

  The sound of clinking glasses and lively chatter fills the air, providing a stark contrast to the catcalls and hollers outside at the parade. As we settle into a cozy booth, the dim lighting casts shadows across Max’s face, highlighting the chiseled line of his jaw, covered in that scrumptious beard. What would it feel like to touch that beard? To run my fingers along the scruff on his handsome face? To feel him rub it against my…

  I blink off the entirely unprofessional thoughts as Max spreads his strong arms across the back of the booth.

  Which doesn’t entirely clean up my mind at all. The move shows off the muscles in his chest, stretching that gray T-shirt he wears. He’s so stupidly hot he makes me ache. I’m tingly all over.

  “So, Everly,” he begins. “How are you going to dress me down in a social media post today?”

  I’d like to undress him.

  But I ignore that inappropriate thought too. “Thoroughly, Max,” I tease, tracing patterns on the wooden table with my finger. “With a rousing appreciation of all the flesh we witnessed.”

  He groans, clearly aggrieved. “Right, of course. I can’t forget who I’m dealing with.”

  “Never forget I’m fearless.”

  “You could never let me,” he says, but there’s no taunting or teasing. It’s like he’s talking about something else entirely. But there’s no time to figure out what since a server arrives to ask for our order.

  I opt for an iced tea, and he picks a beer but then he tips his forehead to me. “You hungry?”

  “Sure,” I say, then choose a spinach salad while he picks a chicken sandwich. When the server leaves, I say, “Lunch on a Sunday. Isn’t that weak, as you said?”

  “Nope. Because it’s not a date.”

  No kidding. “You have a lot of opinions on my dates,” I say. But I probably shouldn’t linger on the way he turned down Joe for me back in Seattle, then announced he wanted a pic taken at the same time that I happened to have a date with Lucas.

  Like Max knew I’d prioritize work over a date.

  “I have a lot of opinions on a lot of things,” he says, evading the question. Maybe he doesn’t want to linger on the why either.

  I glance around, spotting a couple a few tables over on an obvious date. “I bet you have an opinion on whether they should be here. Want to tell them it’s a bad idea for a first date?”

  “Nah. Damage is already done,” he says, then clears his throat. “So where’s your date taking you next? Bingo? Bridge? Mahjong?”

  His sweetness never lasts long. “No, Max, we’re having a drink next Monday night. At The Spotted Zebra. Does that meet your approval? Or do you need me to reschedule it yet again?”

  He scowls but then grumbles. “That’s better.”

  “Glad to have your approval.”

  “I wouldn’t call it approval,” he says.

  “What would you call it?”

  But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he pins me with a serious stare, his eyes searching my face, his jaw ticking. “Who is this guy?”

  Like he needs to know I’m seeing my former therapist for a second date. “Just a guy.”

  “A nice guy?” It’s asked like that’s a terrible thing.

  “Yes,” I admit. “Is that so bad?”

  “If that’s your type.”

  “Do you think I prefer unapproachable men? Difficult men? Grumpy men?” I counter before I think the better of it.

  A flicker of a knowing grin coasts across his lips, but then it disappears. “No idea.” He holds my gaze, a new form of chicken, a new type of challenge. My heart rate stutters. My skin heats. His eyes roam over me, then he slides his teeth along his bottom lip before adding, “It’s hard to say, sunshine.”

  I swallow roughly, trying to get my bearings. When he looks at me like that, I feel as if I should cancel my date with Lucas entirely.

  But it’s not like I’m going to date Max. That simply can’t happen so I lift my phone, segueing to work mode. “I should post some pics,” I say.

  “Have at it,” he says, looking particularly delectable right now with the lighting and the snug T-shirt and the don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world attitude.

  “Can I take a pic of you here?”

  It takes him a beat to decide, then he says, “Sure.”

  I snap a shot, and he looks too good for my own good. All broody and intense, but somehow…approachable too. The goalie out of the office. But who is this man for real? Is he the jerk who taunts me, or is he the man who gently offers to talk anytime?

  I don’t know.

  And I want to.

  As I prep the post, the server returns with my iced tea. I down some quickly, then show Max the images from today before I upload them. I covered any naked parts of riders with stickers of hockey pucks and added the shot of him here. The caption reads: Today a friend brought me to this event.

  He lifts a brow in curiosity. “Are we friends now?”

  “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” I say.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Anytime,” I say, then hit post. But I can’t keep wondering who he really is. Even though I vowed not to do this—I do it anyway. I let down my guard. “Look, I’ve got to hand it to you. From the circus to the naked parade, you’ve done a great job keeping your real self off social, and from me.” Then I take a chance. “But I’d love to know what you’re really like.”

  Max is quiet for a beat, his brow furrowed, the cogs turning. He takes a deep breath. “You free Thursday afternoon? We don’t have a game that night. I can show you.”

  He didn’t pick my night with Lucas, so I say yes in a heartbeat.

  15

  RAINCHECK

  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.