Like when I’m on the ice, I’ve got blinders on. I’m single-minded in my mission.

  Stop. That. Date.

  When I reach the door of The Spotted Zebra, I yank it open, then scan the establishment. There they are, at a table by the window. My jaw ticks. I clamp my molars down. He looks sooo fucking nice, and I hate him on principle.

  I march over to the hostess. “We’ll grab a seat at the bar, please,” I say. Naturally, I’ll stop by her table first, but I don’t need to reveal the details to the hostess.

  “Of course,” she says, but as we’re heading over there, I look toward Everly’s table the whole time, waiting, just waiting for her to catch my eye.

  Doesn’t take long—all of two seconds till she’s looking my way.

  Like she wants to kick me in the balls. Her annoyance only stokes the flame inside me.

  A hand curls around my forearm. “Max.” My sister’s tone is low and dripping with accusation. “She’s why you came here.”

  I turn to her, grinning like a sly fox. “You think so?”

  She shakes her head. “What are you doing?”

  “Just saying hi,” I say, then I beeline for the table, flashing my best PR smile, my sister trailing behind me. Bonus? I can prove to Everly that I can be a nice guy for the press. I can put on an act. She’ll be pleased.

  I channel Asher, or Miles, as I say, “Hey, Everly. How the heck are you?”

  Her lips part, but she says nothing, just closes them into a tight, angry smile. But she’s also the queen of putting on a good face, since in seconds she slides on her happy mask. “Great. How are you, Max?”

  “Fantastic,” I say, selling it to the jury. “What a surprise to see you here. My sister and I were just grabbing a drink.”

  I can feel my sister roll her eyes rather than see it. I turn to my nemesis. “Max Lambert. With the Sea Dogs. Nice to meet you,” I say, then stick out a hand toward the guy with the woman who I think about far too much.

  He stands and shakes. “Good to meet you, Max. Lucas Evans…with Golden Gate Health Center and Services.”

  I flinch, but only for a second. The dude’s in health care. I didn’t see that coming. Also, he’s not easily intimidated. But that doesn’t mean she should date him. That doesn’t mean a thing. I shove those thoughts aside and check out the table. He’s got a beer, and she has…an Arnold Palmer?

  “Your drink looks good. What have you got there, Ev?”

  She squares her shoulders. “It’s called an iced tea. It has…tea and ice in it,” she deadpans, with faux pleasantry. She’s more pissed than I’d thought.

  But I’m not easily deterred. “I’ll have to try one then,” I say, then glance around. “This is such a nice place. I’ve never been here before.”

  “How did you hear about it then?” she asks, the clever genius trying to nail me.

  I shrug, then scratch my beard. “Googled places nearby.”

  “How convenient,” she says, sarcastic. Then she turns to my sister, her tone genuine as she says, “It’s good to see you, Sophie.”

  “You too,” my sister says.

  I turn to the golden guy who’s dating Everly. Maybe he’s a doctor. Instantly, I loathe him more. That means she likes brainy guys, rather than guys who work with their bodies. “So, you’re in health care?”

  He furrows his brow, perhaps taken aback. Maybe it’s a pushy question, but whatever. The dude quickly shifts to a smile though, answering easily, “Yes, I’m a physical therapist and help patients recover from injury or surgery.”

  Fuuuuck. Is he the guy who helped her with…her car accident? I bet he is. And it’s official. No need to ask Reddit. I am the asshole. I swallow, then hitch my thumb behind me. “I’ll let you⁠—”

  “Did you want to join us?” Lucas asks, tilting his head. “Sounds like you two know each other well.”

  Everly was right. He is a nice guy. But the fact that he said that—want to join us—means he’s also not right for her. Whether I’m the asshole or not, I jump on the chance faster than I’d slap a puck away from the net. “Yes,” I say before Everly can say no.

  We join Everly on her date. Date-crashing achieved.

  Across the table, the blonde beauty with the big brown eyes stares at me like she wants to kill me. Well, she already hates me, so what else is new? But I know this—I did the right thing joining her.

  “Why don’t I call the server over? So you two can order?” Lucas offers.

  “Great idea,” I say.

  Lucas flags the woman down, and I order a pale ale while Sophie opts for a soda. When the server leaves, Sophie smiles apologetically and says to the table, “I have to pick up my son in a little bit. He has a playdate.”

  “How is Kade doing?” Everly asks, focusing all her energy on my sister.

  “He’s great. They’re making homemade playdough so I suspect that means I’ll be making homemade playdough with him this weekend,” she says.

  “I would count on that for sure,” Lucas says, chiming in, then turning to me. “So, how’s your team doing so far this season? I have to admit I don’t follow hockey that closely. I’m more of a football fan myself.”

  “I love football,” Everly coos. “It’s so much more strategic than hockey, don’t you think, Lucas?”

  He blinks, maybe surprised that a publicist for a hockey team would say such a thing. I’m not confounded though. That comment was a dig at me, and I fucking love that because it says I’m under her skin. Good, because she’s burrowed so deep under mine.

  “Football has definitely got some great plays to it,” Lucas says, diplomatic.

  “But hockey’s more of a thrill,” I say, locking eyes with Everly. “The adrenaline rush. The faster pace. The breakneck speed.”

  “Speed isn’t everything,” Everly retorts, those brown eyes saying she is going to lay into me later.

  Bring it on, sunshine.

  “Truer words,” Sophie says, cutting in and playing the peacemaker. “But I do like both. Equally.”

  I ignore my sister. I’ve got a game to win with the woman who drives me wild. I keep my gaze locked entirely on Everly. “I read an article that said the average football play lasts four seconds. But the average amount of continuous play in hockey is forty seconds. Which means…hockey lasts longer,” I say, full of innuendo.

  “But on the other hand,” Everly counters, “football players can’t be drafted till they’re three years removed from high school. Which means they’re more…grown up than hockey players,” she says with a sweet smile as she delivers a beautiful dig.

  “In hockey the refs never give you the puck after the other team scores, like they do in football. On the ice, you have to fight for it,” I say, and this guy? He’d never fight for her. I know that for a fact.

  “In hockey, you don’t need much skill. All you do is wave a stick,” Everly counters.

  I see her bid and I raise the ante one more time. “And finally, the hockey season lasts twenty-six weeks, not including playoffs. Football is eighteen weeks. Ergo, hockey players have more stamina.” Crossing my arms, I rest my case.

  “You both make great points,” Sophie says as the server returns with the drinks.

  Once we thank her, I take a sip of my beer.

  Lucas shoots Everly a serious look, then me, before he blows out a breath. “I have to ask,” he says, pausing to lick his lips, then to laugh, almost apologetically. “Did you two date?”

  I nearly spit-take my beer.

  Everly coughs. “No. Never.”

  “Tell me how you really feel,” I counter.

  “Because I’m getting a vibe,” Lucas adds.

  “Funny, Lucas. I get that vibe too,” Sophie says pointedly.

  “We definitely did not date,” Everly says, then finishes her tea, takes a breath, and peppers Sophie and Lucas with questions for the next thirty minutes till the date mercifully ends.

  I push back first, slap down a hundred to pay the bill for the table, then say goodbye, heading to the street with my sister. Once we’re outside, she pokes my chest. “We are going to talk about what you did.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say, but I don’t make a move to leave yet to drop her off at Kade’s friend’s home. I watch the door, waiting for Everly. They leave a few seconds later, waving goodbye awkwardly, then Lucas walks down the street the other way.

  As Sophie waits for me, I trot over to Everly, gesturing to my car down the block. “Want a ride to dinner?”

  She breathes fire. “Are you kidding me? I do not want a ride. I’m calling a Lyft.”

  “I have my car. Let me drive you.”

  “I’d rather walk barefoot,” she seethes as she taps open the app.

  “Everly,” I say. “We’re going to the same restaurant.”

  “Don’t Everly me,” she hisses as she orders her ride, then stares me down. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because he’s wrong for you,” I say with no remorse. “And I knew it the second he invited me to join you.”

  “I guess I’ll never know now though if he is,” she snaps, and seconds later, a red Honda pulls up. She gets inside and slams the door.

  On the one hand, she doesn’t just hate me. She loathes me till the end of time. On the other hand, she’s not having a second date with him.

  I’ll chalk that up as a win.

  18

  THE MAX EFFECT

  Everly

  I’m so ticked off, I'm experiencing the Max Effect. Side effects of prolonged exposure to bossy, overbearing men who think they know what’s good for you might include a rage spiral.

  Except I can’t afford to rage spiral. I need to calm down before dinner with my boss and Max’s agent. I have to act like I don’t want to throat-punch the star athlete.

  On the ride over, I close my eyes and try to let go of my irritation as best I can. By the time I’m a block away, I feel somewhat human, but my brain keeps playing Max’s words on a loop: Because he’s wrong for you.

  I hate that he’s right.

  I hate that I didn’t feel the chemistry with Lucas before Max barreled into the bar and sabotaged my evening. I already knew there wasn’t going to be a third date before he showed up, but I hate, too, that I was secretly excited when Max arrived.

  What is wrong with me? I can hear my father’s voice slithering in my ear with an answer. Well, you’ve always had bad taste in men, honey.

  I try to drown out the comment he made when my last romance went south a few months in. My dad’s right though. I don’t pick well. I have the track record of failed romance to show for it. I’m nearly thirty, and I’ve never had a non-toxic relationship.

  But at least I’m good at my job, so I vow to focus on that as I arrive at Kitchen Mosaic, an upscale fusion restaurant in the Financial District. It’s the kind of place where the city’s high rollers take clients to seal deals. After I thank the driver, I hop out of the car and go inside, taking a deep, centering breath before I tell the host I’m joining the Emerson party of four.

  Except it’s a party of seven, she informs me.

  I roll with the change. When I arrive at the table, Max’s agent is here, and he’s brought two people from the agency. He makes quick intros to a woman named Rosario and a man named John. Zaire’s here too. I wasn’t expecting Clementine to come but the general manager’s at the table as well. I really need to stay calm.

  “Good to see you both,” I say as I sit.

  “I had the night free, so I decided to join,” Clementine says cooly.

  Translation: this meeting was too important to miss.

  And my job is too important to lose my head over because of a guy. “Glad everyone is here, except for the man of honor,” I say, and maybe I couldn’t resist taking a dig at Max for being late. But he deserves it.

  A few minutes later, the troublemaking goalie breezes in, looking stylish and sexy in tailored charcoal pants that hug his strong legs and a royal blue shirt that does unfair things to his strong chest and thick arms. He’s wearing team colors. Smart move.

  At the bar he was wearing jeans and a polo. He cleaned up even more for dinner with all the stakeholders, and I’m annoyingly impressed. He’s striding to the table like he owns the place, all cool confidence and with barely a smile—just his trademark intensity, wild hair, and icy eyes. That’s the way he walks through the corridor in the arena before a game, wearing his game-day suit, looking like sex and strength.

  My pulse beats faster. My body is such a traitor.

  When he reaches us, he says, “Thanks for waiting. I had to drop my sister at her son’s friend’s house.”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. Of course he’s angling for I-help-with-my-cute-nephew empathy points.

  “That’s always lovely to hear,” Clementine says.

  “Good to see you, my man,” Garrett puts in, standing and clapping his client’s back.

  Max sits, snagging the empty seat across from me. The seven of us make small talk about the restaurant, the weather, and the menu until it’s time to order.

  I refuse to look at Max. I can’t. I can’t afford the brand of trouble he brings to my heart and body. Once the server has left Garrett clears his throat, then looks my way. “Everly, before you arrived, we were all chatting. The social looks great. You’ve done a fantastic job in just a few weeks building it out.”

  “Yes. It even looks like you’re having fun, Max,” Zaire remarks with a pleased grin. In addition to the circus, bike ride, and post-game shots, I instructed him to take a picture of the football field when he went to a Renegades game on the weekend, as well as the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from his home. He sent me both and I posted them too. They don’t show his face, but that’s fine.

  Rosario sits straighter, shifting toward her client. “And we’ve run some tests and already your likability quotient is ticking up a notch or two.”

  “Great,” Max says dryly. “Gotta keep that thermometer at the bank rising higher.”

  John smiles. “This is a promising start.”

  “It is. We adore The Real Max Lambert,” Clementine says to Max. “You’ve done a great job.”

  He’s done a great job? Are you kidding me? I did all that. But as a publicist, my role is to stay in the background, to let others shine, so I do my part to praise the star too. “Max has really been helpful at being open and available. He’s made it easy.”

  Lies, tell me sweet little lies.

  But rather than finding a way to subtly zing me, the man getting the makeover offers me a thoughtful smile, then turns to the others. “Actually, Everly’s the one who’s done a great job. I have to give her all the credit,” he says earnestly. “She’s a delight to work with. She’s come up with every single idea. She arranges the events. She plans the photos. She writes the posts. Any increase in the LQ is entirely her doing.”

  What???

  Am I in a time warp? Did he just compliment me in front of the GM and my boss? I stare at him like an alien has taken over his body. “Thank you,” I say, thrown off but delighted all the same.

  Zaire smiles proudly. “Everly is terrific at what she does. I’m so glad you’re working well together.”

  “She’s the one who makes it easy,” Max says, then sighs, a little apologetically. “I know I’ve made a lot of this hard for all of you, but putting Everly on this project is what’s bringing it all together. She deserves all the credit.” He rubs his palms together. “So what’s next?”

  Holy shit.

  I want to hate him, but I want to kiss him too. What is wrong with me?

  We spend the next hour of the dinner talking about the community outreach that I’ll be overseeing for him for the next month—the meat of the makeover. I’ve already planned the first event with a local animal rescue I love working with, and it’s coming up in another week, after a stretch of away games. I’m calling it Dogs on Ice because I couldn’t resist that name. I tell Max the details of the event—we’re hosting the rescue’s dogs up for adoption—and even though it’ll be fun, it’ll also be harder, busier, and more challenging for him than usual since it’s so, obviously, public.

  “You’ll have to talk to the press,” I say, reminding him.

  Max nods in acceptance. “I’m ready.”

  What universe am I living in where Max is being agreeable? I don’t even know.

  As the meal nears its end, I push back and excuse myself for the ladies’ room. After I freshen up, I touch up my lipstick in the mirror, then head back into the narrow hallway, stopping short when I spot Max. Hard to miss him. He’s leaning against the brick wall across from the ladies’ room.

  Waiting for me. Looking like every sexy mistake I want to make.

  “Everly,” he says, like this is important, whatever he’s about to say. “I’m sorry you’re pissed at me, but I’m not sorry I crashed your date.”

  I groan. Here he goes again, being infuriating. “Why do you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  I flap my hand toward the end of the hallway, indicating the table around the corner where we just met with everyone who matters to our jobs. “Do something nice like what you said at the table, then return to saying this stuff? This I know what’s good for you crap.”

  “Because it’s true. You and Lucas weren’t even into each other.”

  “That’s not really for you to decide,” I say.

  He steps closer, his gaze narrowed. “He invited my sister and me to join your date.”

  “He was being nice! Ever heard of it?”

  Max crowds me, his heated eyes holding mine, his body so dangerously close I catch a hint of the bold and spicy Midnight Flame. Chili pepper and cedar and wild nights. I didn’t smell that at The Spotted Zebra. Did he splash it on while driving over? Did he do it for me? Change for me to look even more tempting? I don’t understand him. I don’t understand myself either and why my body reacts to him. The way he looks at me is unfairly alluring.

  I’m aching.

  And he’s shaking his head, like he can’t believe I said Lucas was nice. Max lifts a hand, reaches for the collar of my black blouse, and runs a finger gently along the silk, barely touching my skin but lighting me up all at the same time. “For the record, if I took you out, I’d never invite anyone to join my date with you.”