I’d like to say it’s a welcome change from his scowl. But I’m not so sure. Still, I like to fight fire with fire, so I smile wider. “How’s it going? Do you need anything? Like a debrief on all the fabulous things we can discuss with the media tomorrow? If memory serves, Seattle is where you started out.” I splay out my hands like I’m creating a headline. “The hometown boy makes good.”

  It’s a story the press would eat up, even though he plays for the visiting team. Still, there’s little the media likes more than a returning sports hero.

  Well, a scandal. They like a scandal more. Which is exactly what I don’t want him to ever face again, though the last one was no fault of his own—at least as far as I know. I don’t have all the details. Max is notoriously tight-lipped.

  But he isn’t now, as he scoff-laughs at my request. Jackass.

  “Let’s take a raincheck on that feel-good story,” he says, then tips his chin behind me. “By the way, the zipper’s a little wonky on that. But you probably already know.”

  My cheeks flame, but I ignore the splash of heat, holding my chin up high. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.

  Looming in the doorway, he hoists up my suitcase and I try to grab it, but the jerk is too tall, too strong, and too tricky. “And I believe you left this with me. But you probably figured that out when you opened mine.”

  “I did not leave it with you,” I say, momentarily exasperated. Does he think I wanted him to look through my luggage? Oh, crap. Did he give it the same examination I gave his? I really hope not. The last thing I want is Max knowing a single detail about me outside of work.

  “Fine, fine. It was just a mix-up. But I have one question.”

  I groan privately, but smile publicly even though it’s just the two of us here in the hallway of the Luxe Hotel late at night. “Yes?” It’s asked sweetly, with sunshine, like how I usually try to behave around him. Around everyone.

  He motions to my room. I sigh but open the door the rest of the way, and he strides inside like he owns the hotel. That’s how he walks. Oozing confidence. Radiating sex appeal. Looking like sin. I hate how sexy he is, and he can never know.

  As the door shuts with an ominous click, he sets down the luggage on the carpet and raises his other hand. My eyes widen in shock as he asks, “What is this called? Out of curiosity?”

  I gasp.

  One of my favorite little lacy things is dangling from his finger. And I was dead wrong about him spying. He’s as bad as I am. I snatch it from his big hand. “It’s a bralette,” I say defensively as the sunshine in me starts to fade, clouds rolling in. “Why did you go through my things?”

  He shrugs nonchalantly. “How else would I know if the bag was mine?” Max bats his ice blue eyes so innocently. But of course he’s not innocent.

  Then again, neither am I. “You take one quick look, then shut it when you don’t see a thousand and one pairs of gray sweatpants,” I explain in my best helpful tone.

  But as I say that a voice in my head tsks me. You didn’t take one quick look. You scratched and sniffed.

  “Please, Everly. I travel with a thousand and two.”

  “Appreciate the correction.” I stare him down, not giving an inch. “Though I presume once you saw it wasn’t full of your things, you would’ve just returned it.”

  Instead of taunting me. But I keep that to myself. I don’t need to give him more ammunition.

  His gaze drifts pointedly to his suitcase behind him. “Right. I probably should have done that. It would be wrong to go through someone’s stuff. To discover their, say, black boxer briefs, raspberry-flavored lip balm, noise-cancelling headphones, secret journal that they keep every night listing all the good things that happened that day or could happen one day, and their expensive moisturizer because God only gave them one face, and it’s a fucking great face so they treat it well?”

  Is he an evil wizard? Or just the biggest pain in my ass? “I’m sure you don’t keep a secret journal,” I say brightly.

  But I remind myself that the season just started and I can’t let difficult people irritate me. My boss told me a few days ago there’s a promotion available this year, so I’m going to have to keep my eye on that prize, and not on the prickly problems.

  “Are you, Everly?” With one dubious brow arched, he stares at me, like he’s a lie detector test. “You sticking to that?”

  I cross my arms. “Yes. And you?”

  He waves a muscular arm at the suitcase he’s returned. “Oh, I already admitted I looked through it. I was damn curious. And I asked what that piece of lace was. A bralette, if you recall. I’m just wondering if you did the same. It’s a simple question really.”

  I swallow and school my expression. “Of course I didn’t.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “If you say so,” he says, smiling, leaning an inch closer. “But I think you’re a terrible liar.”

  I burn, but I’m not a team publicist so I can fight with players. I’m a team publicist so I can fight for them. I swallow down my ire, and say, “It’s a good thing you stopped by actually. I’ve been meaning to connect with you. I’m thinking about putting together a promo event with a local animal rescue once we’re back in San Francisco. And I thought, how adorable would it be if we had the big, bad goalie posing with a little kitten?”

  Max will hate that for ruining his icy image. He loves it when the other teams think he’s an unapproachable dick. Well, guess what? He is.

  “Does that work for you?” I ask.

  He steps closer. So close I catch another hint of the Midnight Flame. Only this time, it’s mixed with his skin. It’s muskier, darker, sexier. More virile, and it sends a rush of heat down my belly as he drawls out my last name. “Rosewood.” He says it like he’s playing with me, ready to pounce. “Good thing I love kittens.”

  Damn him. I want to stomp my foot, but I’d never give him the satisfaction. “Wonderful. When I think of you I think of kittens. And don’t you forget to put it in your secret journal of good things that might happen some day, ’kay?”

  “I'll be making an entry tonight, alone in my bed wearing only my black boxer briefs,” he says dryly, as he grabs his bag. Then, without a smirk or a scowl, he wheels it to the door. “Enjoy the bralette, Rosewood.”

  I can’t let him get the last word in. “Lambert!”

  He turns my way. “Yes?”

  I tilt my head. “Where’s my cake? It sounded so good.”

  His eyes narrow as he draws in a sharp breath. Then his gaze drifts to the bag he returned, and he asks, a little strangled, “Got a hot date here?”

  Like I’m going to tell him. I bob a shoulder. “I don’t wear my bralette and tell.”

  He grabs the door handle. “Shame. I was about to send you the birthday cake.”

  My mouth waters. I want birthday cake. But I want the satisfaction of not revealing that the lingerie is for me and only for me. I wave happily to him. “I guess I’ll order it myself for my company and me.”

  His eyes flash with something almost feral, then he huffs out an annoyed goodnight, and leaves.

  Heart beating too fast, I shut the door, catching one last hint of his fading cologne. Max Lambert is the bane of my existence and if I could wish for one thing this season, it’d be to never have to deal with him again.

  If only wishes came true.

  3

  PRETTY AND POWERFUL

  Everly

  As I pull on the bralette the next morning, I try not to think about its misadventures last night. Like a twelve-year-old might, did Max slingshot it across his room for fun? Toss it up and down in the air for kicks? Inspect it like it was an item in a curio shop? Or just laugh at me for wanting something like this?

  Something extravagant. Something pretty.

  I believe in splurging on underthings but I have my reasons. Ones he’ll never know. Especially since he assumed I must have sexy lingerie for a man. Please. My reasons have nothing to do with a hot date.

  But as I adjust the bottom of the cherry-red lace bralette, I picture his big hands on the soft lace and I unexpectedly shiver. What an annoying reaction to an unbidden image. I squeeze my eyes shut to get rid of it, but that does nothing to erase the image of Max touching my lingerie, or the chill that rushes through me.

  I open my eyes and shake my head in frustration, then pluck at the left strap. Maybe I should just retire this bralette. I don’t need the reminder every time I wear it of a man I once stupidly crushed on when I was a reporter. Before I worked for the team. Then, when I stuck a phone recorder in his face post-game, he’d toss me a useful comment or two, offering something fun for my network—what can I say about all those saves? Sometimes you just get lucky. He was friendly then. He’s an enemy now.

  And yet the fucker still makes my skin tingle. Why am I wired to be attracted to men who don’t give me the time of day?

  Nope. Don’t answer that, brain.

  But rather than get lost in my thoughts of all the things I need to change about myself, I wiggle the strap around a little bit more, lifting it gingerly over the scar cutting across my left shoulder. As my fingers skim the raised, reddish-pink skin, a familiar image flickers through my mind—a painful one and I wince, feeling the inexorable pull of time. The way it wants to swallow me into that evening three years ago.

  But rather than let it, I fight back. Rooting myself to the here and now, I take the opportunity to catalog my surroundings. How does the wall look? Beige. What about the floor? The creme-colored carpet has a diamond pattern on it. How many windows are there? Three, and then beyond the glass is Mount Rainier, rising up, steady, strong, powerful.

  With that strength in me, I cross the room to the full-length mirror, hanging by the door. Time for the hardest parts of the getting ready ritual. The last thing I do before I leave every morning for work, whether at home or on the road.

  I look.

  I’m wearing black slacks and a bralette. My arms are toned. My body is tight. My legs are strong.

  I look pretty and powerful, I tell myself. I say it out loud anyway. “You’re pretty and powerful.” Maybe one day I’ll believe it.

  I turn sideways and gaze at the jagged row of scars that travel from my shoulder down across my back to my hip, cutting zigzags into my skin. Most are pale, faded over time, but they still mark a map on my body. Some are mean, refusing to go quietly into the night. Together, they are all a story told in one act of what happened one horrible night.

  I am pretty and powerful.

  I return to the bed and grab the shirt I left on it. Then, with a simple silver gray blouse I cover up the lingerie that makes me feel like I’m more than these scars. When I do the last button, it’s hidden. No one would know I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t simply like wearing pretty things—but I need to.

  Max doesn’t know. And he never will.

  I leave my hotel room so I can head to the lobby to meet up with one of our centers, Miles Falcon. Miles is from Seattle, and we’re going to meet with a local sports talk podcaster, who I pitched doing a feature piece on one of our players from the Pacific Northwest. The podcaster—a persistent and affable guy named Ian Walker—liked my idea, but kept asking for our star goalie too, who grew up here before moving to the Bay Area as a teenager. I kept saying sorry he’s not available.

  There’s a coffee shop-slash-recording studio right across from the Seattle team’s arena, and the shop hosts several podcasters, including some sports-centric ones that draw live audiences. The guy who runs the whole coffee shop-slash-podcast setup—his name is Joe—has emailed me a couple times to let me know there’s a full house this morning. The place holds about seventy-five. “They better not heckle my star center,” I said to him in my last email.

  As I head to the elevator, I spot Joe’s reply on my phone. “Fans’ll be fans,” he writes, but there’s a winky face, so that’s good. Plus, Miles is a veteran who’s been playing for ten years so he won’t be bothered by a rowdy crowd member if one speaks up.

  After I push the button for the lobby, another email lands on my phone from Ian. Last minute, but I had this idea! We do this segment on Five Fun Places to Go in the PNW. Would Max do that? It’s not even hockey talk. I promise I won’t ask about that game.

  Hope really does spring eternal. And maybe it does in me too. My boss would be thrilled if Max started talking to the media more, especially in a feature-style piece. It’s a low-risk way for him to get back out there, and the powers that be have been telling me for months to keep asking him to chat with the press now and then, especially in safe forums like this. I send Max a cheery text. I don’t even sass him. I opt only for directness.

  Everly: This would be such a great chance to make a rare appearance in a controlled environment. He’s not going to ask about that game—just about your favorite places here. We’ll do it at the Pick Me Up coffee shop right across from the arena. You can join in at the end, and you can even talk about your favorite cat café in Seattle. C’mon, you know you have one.

  His reply comes quickly.

  Max: I do. I’m there right now. There’s a calico rescue cat draped around my neck, and she refuses to budge. Which means I won’t be able to make it over to the coffee shop in time. Shame.

  I roll my eyes, then drop the upbeat attitude for a few seconds as the elevator chugs down.

  Everly: If I had a dollar for every excuse of yours…

  Max: What would you do with all that dough?

  Everly: I’d have enough for a lifetime supply of blowouts from my stylist Aubrey.

  I wish I could say I don’t understand his reasons but the thing is—I do. I get that we all have secrets and scars we don’t want anyone to see.

  The coffee shop is massive, even by Seattle standards, and this city worships its beans. Pick Me Up started as a college radio station several years ago, then expanded into podcasts recently, and now has a state-of-the-art studio, a dais with comfy chairs for interviews, and, of course, coffee by the IV drip. As Miles grabs an espresso, the fans filter in, some of them wearing gear for the Seattle team, some for the Sea Dogs, and most just in hoodies and jeans. I’m by Miles’s side the whole time, and as he downs his drink, Joe emerges from behind the counter. He’s in his late thirties, sports a goatee, and has warm brown eyes. He looks like he never sees the sun, which is probably true here in this city.

  He smiles a little awkwardly when he sees me. “Good to see you again, Everly. Would love to show you the setup if you have time. We’ve done some cool stuff with the space.”

  “Sure. That would be great,” I say, since it can’t hurt to be nice to the guy who hosts so many sports shows from here.

  “Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be ready.”

  “I will,” I say.

  He returns to the counter. As the fans fill the seats in front of the dais, I snag a chair off to the side. Miles and Ian take the seats on the stage in front of two standing mics set on a table. Once the interview begins, I answer emails quietly on my tablet but keep my ears trained on the conversation as Ian chats affably with Miles about playing in his hometown. It’s an easy conversation and after twenty minutes, Ian asks him his five fun places to go in the area—the question he also wanted to ask Max. I grit my teeth. Would it be that hard to answer those?

  After a thoughtful pause, Miles rattles off a hiking trail he likes, the Hello Robin cookie shop in Capitol Hill, anywhere at all in the entire region but The Gum Wall in Pike Place Market, Snoqualmie Falls, and then, with a happy sigh, he says, “And Dick’s.”

  I sit up straighter, my ears pricked.

  Ian nods, a friendly grin coasting across his weathered ebony complexion. “Right on. Love that place. You all do too, don’t you?” he asks the audience, and they hoot in agreement, nodding heads, shouting hell yeah.

  Oh, right. Dick’s is the drive-in fast-food chain here that the locals love to drop into casual convo. From the stage, Miles looks to me, sliding a hand through his floppy hair to push it off his forehead. “Everly, you ever had them? Their fries are next level. Back me up here, Ian.”

  A stocky guy in a ball cap jerks his gaze to me, then shouts at me from the front row. “Falcon is right. You gotta eat a bag of dicks, lady.”

  Lady. It’s such an annoying thing men can say, but I fasten on a brighter smile. “I will take that under advisement.”

  Miles turns back to Ian, intensity in his eyes. “When they opened one up in Bellevue, the local paper said, The town welcomes Dick’s with open mouths.”

  Another guy, this one with a Seattle jersey, barks out, “Fact: dick jokes never go out of style.”

  I might beg to differ. But since Ian has the crowd under control, I keep my head down as they wrap up with zero heckles. I seriously don’t get why Max can’t do this. It was…painless. Miles and Ian chat briefly, then Miles hops off the dais, shakes some hands, signs some autographs, and finds me a few minutes later. He points his thumb toward the door. “Thanks for setting that up. I should hit the weight room for some cardio before morning skate.”

  “I’ll stick around to talk to Ian and Joe, but thank you again for doing this,” I say.

  “Thank you again for the opportunity,” Miles says, then takes off, and I join Ian at the dais as he breaks down his podcast gear, folding up the legs of the mic stands.

  “I’ll post that interview before the game. We get the best traction then,” Ian says as the crowd thins, most of them filtering out.