Oh fuck off, Elias.

  He leaves. Finally. I grab the package from my desk, do my damnedest to fold it in half, then quarters, and stuff it into my purse. It’s not easy. It takes up all the space and makes my purse bulge.

  But I’m pissed and annoyed. I’ve worked so hard for this chance. I show up day in and day out. I travel with the team to a good chunk of their away games. I work late hours. I handle tough questions from the press. And I present the team and the players in the best possible light. Why is he even applying? He manages the in-game fan experience, not publicity.

  Then again, Zaire told me she wanted healthy competition for the post. It’d be ridiculous to think I’d be handed it on a silver platter or that I’d be the only internal candidate wanting the gig. There are surely external candidates too. From other teams, other cities. So many of them. All I can do is work harder, try harder, and do more.

  I can fight for it. And I’m prepared to do that when a text from Max lights up my phone.

  Ignore it.

  You don’t need a distraction.

  But the pull is too strong, so I slide open the preview.

  Max: I see you got a delivery.

  My neck turns hot. I want to just rappel down the cave of texting him. Enjoy some flirty banter, but instead, I shove my phone out of reach before I’m tempted to answer.

  For the next few hours, I dive into work to take my mind off Elias. In the late afternoon, there’s another knock on my open door.

  Is my office a train depot today?

  I spin around. Goosebumps rise on my arms. I’m hot everywhere as Max rests his forearm against the doorway. He’s wearing a Sea Dogs workout shirt and basketball shorts. His blue eyes lock with mine and his voice is deep and raspy as he says, “Hey.”

  One word, and I melt a little. “Oh, hi,” I say, feeling far too fluttery for my own good.

  “Do you have a second to talk about…that thing next week?”

  He sounds so believable that no one could know he’s here for any other reason.

  But I know. I know because of the way he rakes his eyes over me, like he’s undressing me, like he’s checking to see what I’m wearing underneath my clothes. “Sure,” I say, feeling a little hypnotized under his stare. “Don’t you have a game?”

  “In a couple hours. Gonna work out first,” he says, and that’s his pre-game ritual. He steps inside and locks the door. “Are you coming tonight?”

  I almost always show up at games. I’m about to say yes but wait. Is there a double meaning to his question? I shouldn’t ask. I really shouldn’t. But I tilt my head coyly as the flirty words take shape on my lips, “To the game? Or did you mean something else?”

  His nostrils flare. His eyes darken. “I know the answer to that.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re so cocky.”

  He strides closer to my desk, resting his firm ass against it, then bending closer to me. Midnight Flame drifts past my nose. My eyes float closed for a second.

  When I open them, he’s smirking. “You sniffed it when you opened my suitcase. My cologne.”

  He says it like he’s busting me. And he is.

  “What?” I furrow my brow like I have no idea what he means.

  His smile deepens. “Rosewood, you’re even hotter when you act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says. “But I know you like it. And I know you opened the bottle.” In a stage whisper, he adds, “The cap was a little loose.”

  Damn him, and damn me. I clench my jaw then breathe out hard. “Why are you so infuriating?”

  He ignores the dig. “Want to know how I can tell you like it?”

  “No,” I say crisply.

  “I’ll tell you anyway.”

  “Max,” I say, shaking my head. “Did you get the memo? You are extra infuriating.”

  But we’re having two different conversations evidently, and he’s not taking the foot off the gas on his. “Because you have the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen. Those big brown eyes are a window to all your thoughts. I like to look at your eyes and read what’s going on with you,” he says, and my throat tightens. His words are terrifying. I don’t want to be an open book. I don’t want to wear my emotions on my face. He leans closer, the nearness making my skin thrum. He reaches for my hair, cinched back in a ponytail. As he runs his fingers along the ends of it, he adds, “And I could tell from the look in them when you’d get close to me. When you’d smell me. I could tell.” I want to jerk him close and smack him until he adds in a tender, sensual voice, “Your eyes are my undoing.”

  I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I’m trapped in this swirl of heat and emotion as he does that thing he does—swings from aggravating me to adoring me. I swallow past the desert in my throat, trying to find some kind of words, but all I can manage is a bare question.

  “You want me to wear them to the game tonight?” I ask it even though I’m one hundred percent clear on what he wrote on the card. But I want his answer. The truth in it.

  He gives it with a long, slow nod and a certain, “I really do.”

  He steps away, heads toward the door, and exits, leaving me hot and bothered all over again.

  “Lambert is extra sharp tonight,” Gus remarks as he stuffs a vinegar chip in his mouth, then shoves his readers back on.

  “He sure is,” I say, hiding how proud I am of his goal tending as the third period begins and the men take to the ice below our spot in the press box that night.

  “Wonder what that’s all about,” Gus grumbles. Trying to get a read on his intentions, I steal a glance at the grizzled vet, who’s pecking away on his PC. He’s the only reporter who doesn’t use a Mac. He’s so old school it’s cute. Except he’s always so suspicious of everyone’s motives—players especially. That’s not too cute.

  Erin’s here, too, from our broadcast partner, and she laughs from the water cooler as she refills her bottle during a commercial break. “Can’t a guy just have a good game, Gus?”

  “No,” Gus barks. “There’s something to it.”

  Claudia, the sports blogger next to him, chimes in with a nod of her curly-haired head. “We have to find the story behind everything.”

  “Bet there’s a good reason he’s only allowed one goal tonight,” Jamie shouts. He’s a young, hungry podcaster.

  “Because he’s a good player,” Erin adds.

  “Nope,” Jamie says, not buying her logic.

  Briefly, I understand why Max doesn’t want to talk to the press. They are pushy, and they’re all hunting for an angle.

  But then I remember I was one of them once upon a time, leaving no stone unturned as I searched for a fresh way to write about a sport I love. They’re simply trying to do their jobs. Heck, aren’t we all? And every day it gets harder with all the competition.

  Like Elias.

  And I plan to stay several steps ahead of him.

  Erin sweeps past the guys, heading to the door. “Look, I don’t care what the reason is. When Lambert is a brick wall in the net, it’s exciting and our ratings go up. On that fun fact, I’m back to the booth.”

  I wave to her. “See you later.”

  “We’d still love a comment from him sometime,” she says, hopeful. “When he has games like this it’d be great to have him say something.”

  Don’t I know it. This is what I’ve hoped for from him—even a bland my team is great comment would help rehab his rep and keep his face out there for fans and possible sponsors. Plus, I’d love to see him chat with Erin. She’s more balanced than the other reporters.

  “I’m working on it,” I say.

  Every head in the room snaps toward me. They all know Max’s no-talk rep.

  The podcaster arches a doubtful bushy brow. “I swear if he ever talks to the press he better say something really good.”

  “Like…we win because I eat raw eggs before a game,” Claudia suggests in her gravelly voice.

  “Or it’s thanks to my lucky dirty socks,” Gus barks.

  Or because he sends panties to women whose eyes are his undoing.

  I fight off a private smile as the game picks back up. Wesley and Asher rotate on for their shift, flying down the ice, then behind the Calgary net.

  Max is stationed in front of the crease at the other end, ready to defend his turf.

  That’s Max. A defender. Like he was when I went out with Lucas. The man is wildly protective, both at work and…with me. Warmth unfurls in my chest, but I try not to get lost in the feelings.

  Instead, I focus on the action down below.

  Miles jostles for the puck with the Calgary defenders, trying to strip it from them. When he finally does, he skates with it for a second or two before he’s swarmed and needs to flip it to Asher, who aims it for the net, but their goalie smacks it down. Wesley snags the rebound just past the post and comes around the back of the net, flicking it to Miles again, who slips it through the goalie’s legs.

  The lamp lights. And the crowd roars.

  A minute later, when the puck drops, Calgary jumps on it, fighting to score since they’re down by one. But every single time they try to slip it past Max, he deflects it.

  Easily. Like it’s just another day.

  “It’s like they’re flies bugging him. No. They’re gnats, and he swats them all away,” Gus remarks, clearly impressed as he types. He pauses and points at Claudia. “You’re right. It’s gotta be the eggs. Bet on it.”

  “I’m betting on dirty socks,” Jamie weighs in.

  Tonight? My money’s on the royal blue lace between my thighs.

  And before anyone can read that in my eyes, I check the time. “Maybe someday he’ll tell us,” I say, then I head to the door. The media will follow shortly, but for now I should meet the players.

  Once I’m at the tunnel, the game is locked up with another Sea Dogs win, and I prepare to make my case with Max to tell the press his secret.

  When he emerges from the tunnel, he’s ripping off his helmet, his wild hair damp with sweat. Do not be distracted by how ruggedly sexy he looks after a game. I put on my professional smile. “Max, there’s a bet in the press room that you’re so good in the net because you either eat raw eggs before each game or wear dirty socks. Want to dispel the rumors?”

  He won’t want to. But this is our routine. Our back and forth. I’m forcing his hand to come up with a clever retort.

  “Maybe I have a special bedtime ritual the night before each game,” he drawls out suggestively. “Something to make sure I get a real good night’s sleep.”

  Yep. It’s our thing. And it feels dangerously like foreplay. I’m this close to shuddering in front of the whole team from his allusion to last night and what he did when he was home alone. But I can’t take that chance, so I try to reset him to business. “Look, I’m pretty sure some of them are convinced you sold your soul to the devil. So there’s that possibility too.”

  “A Faustian bargain. Yeah, that seems likely,” he says dryly.

  “Do you want to tell them that yourself? Because I know the GM would love it if you did,” I say, a subtle reminder of our makeover project. Which is where I should focus, especially with the new Elias threat.

  “So they’re betting on whether I sold my soul to the devil?” Max asks thoughtfully.

  “So you want to discuss it? Perfect. I’ll tell them you’ll be there shortly.”

  I brace myself for his retort, since of course he won’t talk. But then, in a strangely serious voice, he says, “I’ll be there in ten. At the media room.”

  It’s said evenly, with zero snark. A simple promise, and I’m taken aback. Does he mean it? No idea. Max heads to the locker room and for ten long minutes I hope, and I pace, and I pray.

  I’m in the media room adjusting the mic for Miles when Max Lambert strides in first, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. It’s like a spotting in the wild of a rare Malayan tiger.

  I hold my breath. The last time he interacted with the press he told them to fuck right off.

  Please, Max, don’t do that again.

  Reporters whisper. Media members whip out phones. Podcasters stand up, at the ready with mics. I’ve got my phone lifted too. No idea if I’ll use this on our social, but right now I want evidence.

  Questions and comments fly with abandon.

  “They say you’re a difficult guy to coach.”

  “I hear you don’t get along with your teammates.”

  “Why have you refused to talk to the press for more than a year?”

  “Did you know BuzzFeed ranked your fight with Bane as one of the ten best hockey fights ever?”

  “Max, what was going through your head that night at your sister’s house when you told the photographers to F off?”

  My stomach roils. Maybe I should have kept him away from the press. Maybe this isn’t worth it after all. I seriously consider running over to him in my heels, putting my hands on his chest and mustering all my strength to push him right out of the media room.

  Instead, as I stand inside the doorway, recording the impromptu press conference, I turn to the press in the room. “Please focus on tonight’s game or he'll have to leave,” I tell them and my tone is decidedly icy.

  But it’s like Max didn’t even hear their questions—or really, like he doesn’t care. He leans into the mic and takes the fuck over. “Hear you all wanted to know why I had a good game tonight.”

  Which is not at all what they said.

  Gus sticks up a hand. “Yes, and why have you been so elusive for the last year and a half? What’s going on with you for real?”

  My blood is pumping too fast. I wanted him to talk to the press so badly that I hadn’t considered that it could backfire for all of us—him, me, the team. I have to fix this. “He’s not here to discuss anything but tonight’s game,” I say crisply to Gus and by extension, everyone else.

  Then Erin sticks out her mic. “What motivated you in tonight’s game, Max? Take us through your performance and what drove you.”

  It’s a softball question, but at least she understood that I simply won’t let him answer hardball ones.

  “Let me tell you something about tonight,” Max says, staying on message—his message. “I’ve got a great group of teammates. They’ve got my back and I’ve got theirs. Thanks for asking.”

  I breathe the biggest sigh in the world. It’s the most throwaway of answers in the history of sports. A harmless cliché reply straight from the school of media training. But that’s all I could ask for—a cliché is so much better than the alternative.

  He’s not telling a reporter to fuck off. He’s not yelling at a photographer to get the hell off his sister’s property. He’s giving the simplest of comments. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing damning.

  But it’s an olive branch.

  He turns to go, but before he takes a step away from the mic, he whirls back, leans in, and adds, “Oh and I did a lot of visualization exercises before the game. That helps me picture how I want things to go.”

  I roll my lips together to silence the gasp in my throat. If only I could cool the heat flaring in every damn cell in my body. I’m on fire, lit up in my bones and under my skin. I keep my eyes focused on the floor so no one can read them. So no one can tell Max was thinking of me in my new pair of Sea Dogs blue panties.

  He leaves without looking at me, but we both know he wants to. That’s the problem. That’s the big, huge problem right now.

  But I’ve got a press scrum to wrap up, so I focus solely on my job, which I need to do well to try to win the promotion—the one Elias is angling for. A little later, when I’m finished for the night, I make my way down the corridor toward the parking lot, passing the equipment room.

  Up ahead, I spot several players. Wesley and Asher are in their suits, Miles too. The team is heading out of town tonight for an away stretch of games. Zaire will fly with them this time while I hold down the fort. The team bus will take them to the jet in a bit.

  Max will be gone for a few days, and that has to be good for me. Like eating kale is good for me. Like taking vitamins is good for me.

  But when I pass the locker room, a voice calls out, “I think you left something in here.”

  I wheel around. Max is dressed for travel in a dark blue suit and a starched white shirt, looking too sexy for my own good. He’s got one hand pushing open the door to the equipment room, his forehead tipped in an invitation.

  24

  A KISS FOR THE ROAD

  Max

  By my estimates I have twenty minutes before I have to be on the team bus that'll take us to the airport. Every second counts. It’s only fair that I let Everly know why I showed up in the media room tonight. The equipment room seems as good a place to inform her as any. “Come with me,” I tell her, as I step into the room full of sticks, pads, and skates.

  “You have to leave any second,” she says, concern in her brow as she stands in the doorway.

  “But not yet. Now come inside.”

  “So bossy,” she says, as I reach for her hand. She places it in mine and I tug her inside.

  I close the door. I can’t wait a second longer to know. “Did you wear the underwear?”

  She jerks her gaze behind her, as if she can check for eavesdroppers, stragglers, anyone in the hallway beyond.

  But I’m not stupid, and I wouldn’t hurt her by talking this way in front of her co-workers or mine. The hallway’s empty now, plus the door is shut. “I’m paid a lot of money for these eyes. I already checked to see if anyone was around before I pulled you in here,” I try to reassure her, then return to the pressing matter—the one I can’t get out of my head. “Did you wear them?”

  She lifts her chin, a little saucy as she asks, “What do you think?”

  She’s still not answering me, and it’s driving me wild. I try one more tactic—assuming. “You wore them.”

  She moves to the wall, leaning against it, right next to a long row of cubbies holding gear. Dropping her purse to the floor, she bobs a shoulder, giving me a you’ll never know smile. “I guess you’ll just have to wonder the whole time you’re out of town,” she says coquettishly, and I deserve all her taunts.