Maeve: I’ll send you a new vibe tonight as a reward! That is impressive!

  Josie: Gold stars for you, strategy queen.

  Fable: Is anyone else wondering if we can all get that reward? Just me?

  Everly: Yes, Maeve, make it a group reward.

  Maeve: Bankrupt me, why don’t you?

  Josie: But it’s for a good cause.

  Maeve: You don’t need one, Josie! You have a hot man obsessed with your pleasure at your beck and call.

  Josie: That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy vibes!

  Fable: I’d like to say TMI, but I’m mostly just jealous.

  Maeve: Me too.

  Everly: Me three thousand.

  I smile, then put my phone away as I march down the hall, doing a double take when I pass the coach’s office.

  “Leighton!” I say when I spot the back of the pretty brunette sitting across from her father.

  She must not hear me though, because she doesn’t turn till her dad tips his chin in my direction, as if he’s letting her know I’m here.

  When she looks my way, her eyes brighten. “Hey, Everly! How are you? Good to see you again.”

  I step inside and give her a hug. I met Leighton a few years ago when she was still in college and interned at The Sports Network as a photographer. “Did you graduate last year?”

  “I did. I’m doing some freelancing now,” she says.

  “She’s so talented,” her father says proudly, and gone is his usual tough guy coolness. He’s all dad now, praising his daughter.

  “I should have hired you for today. To take pics of the dog adoption event,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were back in town. I’ll just have to hire you the next time I need a photographer. I’m guessing you won’t have a problem with that, Coach?” I ask playfully, turning to her dad.

  He adopts a faux stern expression. “Let’s see. A job for my amazing, talented daughter? I’d have no problem with it.”

  “Can you come to the event today?” I ask her.

  “I’m not sure. I actually have another freelance job with the Renegades.”

  “That’s awesome. Seriously excited for you. Let’s catch up soon. Want to grab a bite to eat with my friends and me? One of my girlfriends works for the Renegades.”

  “I’d love that,” she says, then I say goodbye to her and her dad.

  I spend the next few hours before game time hustling my butt off. I haven’t even seen Max since he’s returned, but that’s okay.

  We are just player and publicist—that is all.

  With everything set for the event, and all sorts of media coming for photos, I head to the press box as a high school choir sings the national anthem. I arrive right before the one o’clock puck drop. The game begins, and two minutes into it, everyone’s eyes are drawn to the Jumbotron.

  Lyra Raine’s face is on it, and she’s here at center ice, sitting in the stands.

  28

  SNEAK ATTACK

  Everly

  It’s my job to know how to handle surprises, but I am simply stumped. She’s not here to sing the national anthem. I don’t know what to make of this surprise appearance—nor do the members of the press. Gus peers at the Jumbotron with his brow pinched, then looks down at his screen, like the answer will materialize there.

  Claudia’s jaw drops, and in a raspy, former two-pack-a-day, awed voice, she says, “No way.”

  Jamie, the young podcaster, points at the huge screen above the ice, and blurts out, “Holy shit. Is that her?”

  Her.

  That’s all he says.

  Her.

  She’s so famous, she doesn’t even need to be called by her name, Lyra Raine, or as she’s more often known, America’s sweetheart. She’s famous enough that she’s just…her. Bloggers, reporters, and talk radio hosts scramble. There’s a shuffling of equipment, phones, cameras. And then it’s complete and utter chaos as reporters text their editors, lift their phones, and tap out social media posts, stat.

  Jamie hoots then rubs his palms together. “And today, Jamie will be playing the role of an entertainment reporter.”

  Gus turns to me, always the news hound, tilting his head. “Did you know she was going to be here?”

  My skin is as cold as my confidence is shot. “No.”

  Jamie is studying the Jumbotron where Lyra’s chatting and smiling with a familiar-looking female friend—an actress perhaps. “Holy shit,” Jamie says. “She’s not with Fletcher. She’s just with a friend.” To no one at all but the computer screen, he adds, “I bet they’re back together. Why else would she be here? A year and a half later? She shows up at his game on the day of a charity event? They’ve got to be a couple again.”

  Gus scoffs. “She’s probably just trying to get his attention.”

  Claudia snorts as she types. “I bet she already has it. She used to do this when they were together. Just show up as a surprise for him. He loved it. And when he’d lose, she’d console him in the corridor right after.”

  My stomach pitches. My throat tightens. My hands feel clammy. Is she here for him? Are they back together? Is that why we didn’t talk when he was on the road? It’s completely possible that she could be here to see him again. Why else would she show up at a Sea Dogs game in early November on a Wednesday afternoon? There’s no reason for her to be here other than to see Max and to get him back.

  I wrap my arm around my waist like I need to protect myself from all these possibilities as I stand here in the corner of the press room, the most surprised of all of them, with nothing to say because I don’t have a clue what’s going on.

  I don’t know the answer to any of the questions, but I do know how I compare to America’s sweetheart and that’s…disappointingly.

  The worst part? He lets in a goal in the first five minutes when the Golden State Foxes send a puck flying through his legs. From three floors away, all the way up in the press box, I swear I can see him curse from behind his goalie mask.

  I can’t.

  Of course I can’t, but I can tell that’s how he feels. He’s surprised she’s here—so surprised he’s off his game. But is it a good surprise or a bad surprise? Those questions gnaw at me through the first period as the Foxes score again on the type of easy shot that Max almost always blocks. When the first period ends, no one leaves the press room because a Sports Network reporter is down there in the stands, sticking a mic in the pop star’s face, and the Jumbotron is carrying the broadcast. “What a surprise to see you here. I would’ve thought you would be singing the national anthem,” he says to her.

  The pop star smiles, so self-deprecatingly, the kind of smile the world loves, then says, “That would be so great. What an honor that would be.”

  “Maybe you can come back for it?”

  There’s another dazzling smile from the pop star. “Maybe I can.”

  It’s a promise she dangles that makes it sound like she has her sights set on a reunion. Or, that this is one.

  The reporter asks another question. “Are you rooting for the Sea Dogs or the Foxes?”

  Lyra’s green-eyed gaze drifts to the net, empty now, of course, and my gut churns as she answers sweetly, “I’m rooting for the Sea Dogs.”

  Then the reporter cuts away and returns to the broadcasters.

  Heads whip in the press room. Jamie and Claudia huddle as they toss ideas at each other.

  “She’s totally here for him,” Claudia says.

  “They’re already back together,” Jamie suggests.

  “Do you think they’re going to hard-launch their second chance at the end of this game?”

  I grab hold of the wall. I won’t let this get to me. That can’t be happening. He’s not going to post a picture with Lyra on his social media at the end of this game.

  Then I tell myself to get a grip.

  Whatever he does is fine. I’m not with him. I’m only the publicity manager for the team. I’m not his. I’m just the girl he sent a shirt and underwear to, but that doesn’t mean a thing.

  When the media peppers me with more questions, I smile and say, “I don’t have any information.” And finally, when the game ends with a terrible six goals scored on Max Lambert, I’m already at the tunnel, waiting for the team, knowing only one thing—I’m not asking him to talk to anyone right now.

  It’s not just because he won’t. It’s not simply to protect him. This time, it’s to protect myself. I don’t ask him because I don’t want to talk to him right now. I’m too terrified of the emotions he’ll find in my eyes.

  Since Lyra’s waiting in the corridor with her bodyguards and her entourage. Waiting to console him, like she used to do after a loss.

  I can’t. I just can’t.

  I grab some of the guys and bring them to the media room. When that task is done, I hustle back and forth between Penny, who runs Little Friends, Elias, who’s handling Donna, and the cheery, rosy-cheeked emcee herself who’s saying hi to all the dogs like she’s a dog whisperer, then the Zamboni driver.

  Finally, Max emerges from the locker room. I try to school my expression. To clear away any emotions. I’d thought, or maybe I’d hoped, that he’d look like he wanted to tear something apart.

  But he seems shell-shocked. Maybe even empty. That doesn’t give me any more answers. I have to remind myself it’s not my place to find answers about his personal life. It’s my place to rehab his public image. We don’t have a romance. We have a business deal.

  When he trudges over to me, I don’t give him a chance to say a word.

  I go first, fastening on my most PR of all PR smiles. “Let’s get you out there playing with dogs.”

  “Everly,” he says, a little imploring. The sound tugs on something in my heart. Something terrifying. Something tender that hurts to the touch. Like a bruise. Something you want to keep touching but probably shouldn’t.

  I cut in. “We really need to get you out there. This is going to be such a great event,” I say, and I do deserve a promotion for spinning that lie right now.

  29

  ALL THE HOUNDS

  Max

  What the fuck? Seriously.

  What the hell is my ex doing here? And why didn’t I stop it? This is all my fault. I should’ve replied to her text. With one quick stab of my finger, I deleted it the other day, figuring I’d ignore her. Figuring that would make her go away. But maybe if I’d replied to it, she wouldn’t have sabotaged this event.

  I’ve got to tell Everly I had no idea Lyra was coming. Don’t want her to think I had anything to do with this sideshow my ex has engineered out of nowhere. I can’t even imagine what Everly must think. But I can’t tell her now.

  I clamp my molars together, grinding them in annoyance as I skate onto the ice with my teammates. We’re in jerseys, jeans and skates—promo wear.

  The ice is packed—Donna the emcee, a photographer Everly hired, a ton of local lifestyle media, and a Chihuahua mix, a Beagle mix, a terrier of some sort, a lab-husky mutt, and a dog that looks like a Corgi met a Great Dane, and I really am not sure who was the mom and who was the dad in that situation, but if the dad was the Corgi I’d be real impressed.

  As they promised they’d be here, the GM is sitting in the stands, just behind the bench, and she’s next to Zaire. Garrett’s sitting with them, too, and I feel like the bad kid at school, with Dad and the principal watching over me to make sure I behave.

  Which is even harder because, oh right, there’s one more person. Lyra’s standing casually by the boards, the queen of surprises, like she’s a part of this. Because of course, that’s what somebody like her can do. Somebody world-famous can drop in and become a part of things where she doesn’t even belong.

  As her bodyguards flank her, she coos and smiles at all the dogs. The press snap pictures of her kissing the mutts like she’s a politician with babies. She’s dressed in her trademark ripped jeans, with a T-shirt that slopes down her shoulder, showing off her tattoos and her silver star, sun, and moon necklaces, her wavy red hair falling down past her shoulders.

  Elias latches onto her, grinning like this is the highlight of his life. “Would you want to adopt one and take it home?”

  The question is dripping with hope. Obsequiousness too. Bet he’s crossing his fingers that this will be his breakout moment. That he’ll get some comment from her and use it somewhere to level up in his promotion battle. I hate that guy more than I did before.

  Lyra brings her hand to her chest, a practiced move that I’ve seen from her a dozen times before, but it still convinces everyone she legitimately means what she says. “I’d love one of these sweeties if I wasn’t on the road so much.”

  Everly stands like a sentry a few feet away, patiently waiting to take over the event again since hockey players are nothing compared to a pop star. We’re chopped liver, and the media wants the porterhouse of Lyra until the redhead who was supposedly brokenhearted when our romance ended—or so the public thinks—seems to notice the commotion, saying, “Oh my gosh, I did not mean to steal the focus. Let me get out of your way.”

  With a wave, she takes off, leaving the ice with her entourage, her havoc wreaked.

  My heart rushes to Everly, and I want to skate over, grab her, and explain that if I’d only answered Lyra I could have stopped this circus. But Everly’s on the move already. She scurries over to bubbly-faced, rosy-cheeked Donna, whispers something to her, then steps away.

  With a nod, Donna strides in front of the photographers, her trademark mic in hand. “It’s always great to have a surprise guest. And dogs love surprise guests because they love everyone. We’ve got some amazing mutts here that are looking for homes. And some of our guys are going to show them off to you.”

  Damn. That was some impressive ringmastering from Everly.

  Donna introduces the first pup, a dog named Prancer who comes running like a springy pony toward Asher, who hugs the little guy. Photographers snap pictures. Then it’s Asher’s turn to introduce the next one. Miles goes next, then Wesley, until it’s my turn to introduce Simon the Corgi-Great Dane.

  “And this guy loves long baths in the sun,” I say to the crowd, but I sound…gruff. Distant.

  Like how you always sound.

  Maybe no one cares. Maybe they’re all used to that from me. But I’m so thrown off that I’m barely even sure how to fucking talk anymore.

  There aren’t the usual sports reporters here. These are lifestyle reporters. TV anchors. Influencers. It’s a whole new ball game, and when I pose with a cute little Chihuahua named Lulu, I feel like I’m someplace else.

  All I want to do is talk to Everly and tell her I’m sorry I didn’t reply to Lyra’s text because this event going sideways is all my fault.

  When the photographers lower their cameras, one of them thrusts out a phone toward me. “Is it true that the two of you are back together? Did Lyra come here for you?”

  Are you kidding me? That will never happen. I steal a glance at Everly, and hurt flashes in her eyes.

  Shit.

  She thinks that’s why Lyra’s here too. But does she think I want that?

  Briefly, the words Everly fed me flash through my head—I love animals, and I just want to help them all find a home. And I do hope they all get adopted today. But the words that come out of my mouth are, “Do you want to talk about the charity and the dogs, or do you want to gossip?”

  In no time, Asher arrives next to me in a spray of ice from his blades. He pats my shoulder. “They are kind of gossip hounds, aren’t they?” he adds a wink. “But they’re here for the dogs too. Maybe we can find a new team mascot.”

  He always knows what to say, and I’m so fucking grateful. I should follow his lead. “That’s a great idea,” I say, with as much pep as I can muster.

  “Let’s do it,” Asher adds.

  “They’re all adorable,” I add and maybe, just maybe I haven’t dug myself a bigger press grave than the one I was already in.

  A few seconds later, Everly steps into the fray holding Donna’s mic, standing next to the emcee. “That’s a great idea, Asher,” Everly says. “We can actually help Donna find a new Sea Dog. She just said she wants to take a pup home today.”

  With a coolness and a savvy that never ceases to amaze me, Everly guides the reporters over to the pups and they spend the next hour helping pick a new rescue dog for Donna.

  Somehow Everly saves the event. When it’s over and I finally head off the ice, Asher asks where I’m going. “Need to find Everly,” I grunt out then leave. Garrett tries to flag me down, but I give him a quick wave and shake of the head. Don’t have time for him. Don’t have time for anyone but the woman who has to think the worst.

  What else would she think?

  Lyra is spinning some narrative, and the media is eating it up, thinking we’re back together. But what does Everly think?

  I search for her in the arena, marching down the hall to her office even, but I can’t find her anywhere. She doesn’t answer when I call her. Or when I text. But as I’m stalking down the hall to the players’ lot on the way to my car, Asher catches up to me. “Lambert, Everly’s the one who told me to say that,” he tells me.

  My brow knits. “The gossip hound thing?”

  “Yeah. She saved the whole damn thing,” he says, clearly impressed with our publicist, then blunt as fuck with me as he adds, “Maybe you should…talk to her.”

  “I should. I will,” I say, owning it. “Thanks, man.”

  I really fucked this whole day up by doing…nothing. Which means it’s time to do something.