He clears his throat. “You know you can get reservations online, Max?”

  “Really?” I deadpan.

  “Technology is an amazing thing.”

  “So much sass from such an old man,” I tease.

  “And you wonder where you got it from,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Nope, I don’t. I know it came from you.”

  “I’ll send them a text to get you a good table,” he says, understanding why I asked him for help rather than making one online. I want the best for Everly. Dad pauses, then asks seriously, “So, the woman must be special?”

  Easiest answer ever. “She is,” I say, but I don’t tell him anything more. I’m in the convince her stage anyway.

  Those two words seem to be enough for him though. A small smile coasts across his weathered face. “I hope it stays that way.”

  I hope it becomes that way too, for her.

  I say thanks and hang up as Athena saunters into the kitchen, looking ready for some playtime. I pick up her favorite toy from the floor—a ball of tinfoil. Of all the toys in the universe, why do cats dig this one the most? No idea, but that’s the mystery of felines. After I hurl the tinfoil into the living room, my gaze strays to a bag on the tiled floor full of my gear. Gloves, shoulder pads, and helmet…Not the ones I wear in Sea Dogs games, but the ones I use when I coach the kids.

  A couple sticks too.

  Sticks…

  That reminds me of Everly’s warning about Elias. We’ll have to be extra careful at work. But maybe there’s a very specific way to do that.

  Jerseys.

  When Athena rushes under the kitchen table batting her shiny prize, I head over to her, extract the tinfoil from her tiny but mighty paws, then scratch her chin. “You know who’s brilliant?”

  Ignoring me, she stares murderously at the silvery ball in my hand, like she’s licensed to kill. Well, she is a cat.

  “Me, Athena. Me,” I say, but she has no interest in my self-praise. She’s poised to vanquish tinfoil.

  Like I’m going to toss the ball across the kitchen, I lift my hand and fake her out, sending the crushed ball hurtling down the hall and the other way. In a blur of gray fur and the cutest white paws ever she skids out, then spins around to chase after it. My coffee’s brewed, so I pour a cup, head to my room, and grab a couple jerseys from a drawer. I keep extra here since you never know when you might need one.

  But now I need two. If Lyra can pull off a distraction ploy, so can I. I text my friends and tell them I need their help. They say yes when I ask them to bring extra jerseys to practice.

  Back in the kitchen, I grab a Sharpie and sign both of mine, adding a paw print at the end of my name for fun. Then I toss them into a big canvas bag, snagging a second bag since this will be a double decoy.

  But right as I’m about to leave, I get another idea about jerseys. I grin wickedly because this new idea is indeed proof that I’m brilliant. I’ve got a few extra minutes so I flop down on the couch with my tablet and do a little online recon. I’m fast and I know what I want so when I find a store that can do it, I place the order right away, even though it won’t arrive for a couple weeks.

  And because I can learn, I send this gift to her house instead of to work.

  A couple hours later, I’m in the locker room collecting signed jerseys from Miles, Wesley, Hugo, and Asher—two from each of my friends. “You’re a good man,” I tell Hugo as he drops his into the bag.

  “No problem. You got a couple relatives who are hockey fans? That’s what I got my aunt Cindy for Christmas. She lost her mind. Actually, I should have you guys sign some pucks for her next.”

  “Happy to do it,” I say, and while I don’t want to give them the details on why I need two sets of signed gear, I don’t want to lie to my friends either. But I have to protect Everly as much as I possibly can. I’ve got to do everything I can for her—including subtly trying to win Elias over. Make him think I’m on the same team as him. “These are actually for Elias. As a thank you. And Everly.”

  Miles laughs. “He’s going to be your best friend. Nothing that kid likes better than giving away swag during the intermissions.”

  “Seriously,” I say, then frown, which is easy for me to do since I have a master’s degree in glowering, but it helps sell the reason. “And that event earlier in the week was kind of a mess, thanks to my ex. I’m just trying to thank everybody who helped out.”

  “Aww, you’re not such a dickhead after all,” Wesley says.

  “And if anyone talks shit about you, I’ll say this right here is proof that you’re not a hater,” Miles adds.

  As Asher puts on his watch, he looks up and asks, ever so innocently, “Where’s my football tickets, then, for helping? If memory serves, I did kind of save your ass too so I should be included in the gifting. We all should, in fact.”

  Wesley seconds that with a vigorous nod. “We don’t have a game on Sunday. I hear the VIP suite at the Renegades is real nice.”

  I owe them big time, so I easily say, “Consider it done.” Doesn’t matter that I won’t be there with them.

  As I head to the management level a few minutes later, Asher catches up to me before I reach the stairwell. It’s just the two of us. “So, things are going well?”

  I furrow my brow. It’s such a broad question, and I’m not sure which target he’s trying to hit. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  He nods toward the stairwell. “With…”

  I scratch my beard. “With the makeover?”

  He points at me, like he’s caught me in the act. “Fucking knew you had a tell!”

  I roll my eyes. But there’s no real point denying it. He put two and two together last week when we hit the ice before practice. I push open the door to the stairwell, and he follows me in. “One, I scratch my beard at other times too.”

  “Be that as it fucking may, you also do it when you’re bluffing.”

  “And two, don’t say a fucking word to anyone.”

  He gives me a look like c’mon, man. “You don’t have to say that. I know.”

  “I do have to say that. I have to protect her however I can,” I whisper.

  He claps my shoulder. “I get it. And if you need anything, I’ve got your back. Know that.”

  I smile. “I do. Appreciate it, man.”

  “And I appreciate those tix.”

  “Asshole,” I mutter playfully.

  “Dickhead,” he says in the same tone then returns the way he came, and I head up the stairs. As I go, I lob in a call to Garrett. He’s got clients in every sport. “Any chance you can get me four tickets in a VIP suite to the Renegades for Sunday? I need them for a friend. Put them under the name Asher Callahan, please.”

  “Happy to do it,” he says, with no questions asked. “And I spoke with Zaire this morning and after everything that went down, we still got some good press from the other day. And everything is on track for The Ice Men.”

  That’s a relief on all fronts. “Great. I hope my likeability quotient is going up,” I say, mostly meaning it. I do hope it’s on the rise. I want this makeover to work. For me, for my family, and for my plans. For my team. I want to stay with the Sea Dogs more than ever since Everly’s here.

  But mostly now, I want this makeover to work for her. So she can have all the good things. So she can gain the promotion she deserves. If I’m the path to it, I want to ease the way for her.

  “And you’ve got the next community outreach event on Thursday,” he says, reminding me.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “With a smile on,” he adds importantly.

  “With a motherfucking smile,” I say.

  But the smile will likely be for her since she’s at the front of my mind.

  After I hang up, I stop by her office and hand her a bag of jerseys. She looks up from her desk, quirking a brow as she cautiously asks, “A gift?”

  “For Little Friends,” I clarify, and yes, it’s a legit gift, but I also gave them to her in case word got out that I was giving some jerseys to Elias. Don’t want Elias to try to claim to management that he’s tight with the athletes more than she is. They both get the same thank-you gift. “From my friends and me. For putting up with all the shenanigans the other day. I figure they can auction them off on their website if they want and raise some more money.”

  Her smile is bright and genuine. “That is very thoughtful.”

  “I can be a nice guy,” I say.

  And since I heard her loud and clear the other night, I don’t stick around and flirt. I leave, even though it’s hard as hell and I already miss her. As I’m heading down the hall, I send her a text.

  Max: You have no idea how hard it was not to kiss you.

  Everly: Actually, I do. I felt the same with you.

  My pulse speeds up, and I want to frame her last note. The admission from her. Dear god, the fucking admission.

  But instead, I school my expression as I stop by Elias’s cubicle. He gulps when he looks up from his computer. “Hey, man, how’s it going?” he asks, sitting up straighter.

  “Just wanted to thank you for your help earlier in the week with Dogs on Ice. It was kind of crazy but I appreciate everything you did,” I say evenly, like I don’t have a single ulterior motive.

  He waves a dismissive hand. “No worries, man. That must have been rough. My ex-girlfriend keeps trying to get back together with me too.”

  Oh, wow. He’s really going there, playing the bro-bonding card. But that just makes this visit easier.

  “What can you do, right?” I ask, sympathetically, like we’re just two dudes with the same problems.

  “It’s tough,” he says.

  “Anyway, I wanted to thank everyone who helped out. So I got some of my buddies to sign jerseys. Figured you can give them away at an upcoming game,” I say, then hand him the bag.

  When he peers inside, his eyes pop. “This is amazing. Thank you so much.”

  I clap him on the shoulder. “I figured, you know, athlete to athlete, that you’d appreciate it.”

  If I’d thought his eyes sparkled before, it’s nothing compared to how they look now. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call a fake-out.

  He thinks I’m his friend now.

  36

  MY ESCAPE

  Everly

  When the buzzer rings on Sunday, my chest is flipping. My heart feels far too fluttery for my own good.

  It’s just a date.

  That’s all it is.

  It can’t go anywhere.

  But as I tell him through my camera app that I’ll be right down, I sound like I’ve been counting down the hours to see him—and I have.

  I grab a sweater, then stop at the door, pausing before I reach for the knob. A memory flashes by of my last date—not with Lucas, but the one with Gunnar. The one where he ghosted me after he saw my body. I shudder from the hurt and shame I felt in every cell.

  But I try to stay in the present, using my tools. I catalog my surroundings. I’m in my home, the door is red, my shirt is lavender—Maeve was right about the color—and my hair is…down.

  Not only down, but blown-out and smelling faintly of gardenias.

  Gunnar is the past. Max is the present. I peer into the mirror by the door, checking my reflection one more time. I’m wearing jeans, short black boots, and a stylish T-shirt with the neckline cut so it slopes down my shoulder—my left one, showing everything. That’s on purpose. I swear I can hear Marie’s voice, saying, “Damn, you look good.”

  I do look good. I feel good. And still, my stomach churns with nerves.

  You can show him who you are.

  With a resolute nod at my reflection, I leave, heading down the steps and out the door to the stoop. At the curb Max is leaning against his car, looking like a tall drink of a man, wearing jeans that hug his muscular thighs and a Henley that shows off all his rippling muscles. Aviator shades cover his eyes, but he whips them off the second he sees me.

  A quiet wow forms on his lips, and that settles the last remnants of my nerves. I walk over to him, but I’m careful not to touch him in public. “Hey.”

  That one syllable sounds like it contains the multitude of my messy feelings for him. Feelings that get messier by the hour.

  “Your hair,” he says, sounding mesmerized, like he can’t even finish the sentence. He simply stares, transfixed.

  I touch the soft strands. “I got a blowout this morning.” Then, feeling daring, I add, “Someone who has a thing for me got me a lifetime supply.”

  I’m not usually that forward in assessing a man’s feelings, but Max has made that easy too.

  And I’m rewarded when he nods approvingly. “A very big thing.”

  That fluttery feeling returns in full force, getting stronger. He opens the door and I slide into the passenger seat and buckle in. When he gets into the driver’s seat, he turns to me, filthy appreciation in his eyes. A rumble seems to coast past his lips. “It’s impossible not to touch you.”

  This man makes me feel so wanted. “But you have to behave.”

  “I don’t want to,” he says.

  “Do it anyway,” I say in a sensual tone.

  But because he’s Max, he slides his hand down my thigh, stealing a caress, then leaning in just a little bit as he inhales me. “Mmm,” he murmurs.

  I tremble.

  Then he lets go and says with so much honesty in his voice, “I love this shirt.”

  He couldn’t have said a more perfect thing. My throat tightens as I say, “Thank you.”

  He starts the car and cruises out of Russian Hill, past the Marina. As we’re crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, my shoulders feel lighter. My mind, a little more free. The city fades away and with it, my worries about being with someone I’m not supposed to be with vanish into the distance.

  Or really, I choose to leave them behind.

  He drives farther, past Petaluma and toward Lucky Falls, a small town in Wine Country where it’s always sunny and sixty-five degrees. Once we’re there, he cruises through the town square, then past it, toward the outskirts, where he pulls over outside a red farmhouse on a hill. But before he gets out, he runs a hand along my exposed shoulder. “I love that you wore this,” he says, his tone straightforward, no teasing in it.

  “It’s for you,” I say, because he deserves to know how he makes me feel—wanted, accepted, desired with no reservations. “I wore it for you.”

  He holds my gaze for a long beat, his eyes darkening as he says, “I want to keep earning that.”

  I swallow roughly, unsure what to say next, but loving that he’s noticed I’m wearing less and showing more than I have in the longest time. And that he likes it. “I bet you will,” I finally say.

  He scans outside of the car then, satisfied the coast is clear, he reaches for my hand and presses my palm to his mouth, giving me a soft kiss. “And now I get to show you what a date should be.”

  I arch a challenging brow, returning to our playful ways. “But I thought you said lunches were weak,” I say, turning his words around on him.

  His jaw drops. “Holy shit. I did say that.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself now, Lambert?”

  But his cocky smile returns as he runs a hand through my hair. “Don’t worry. I’m going to have you all to myself,” he says, then he lowers his voice, and repeats in a more sultry tone. “And then I’m going to have you all to myself.”

  Arousal floods me from the double meaning, and I both want the lunch to last forever and to end.

  With a deep breath like he has to gird himself to not touch me, he gets out of the car and comes around to my side, opening the door. “I love this place. I can’t wait to show it to you.”

  There he goes again, making it harder for me not to fall.

  I don’t want to ever leave. The menu is full of fresh salads and inventive risotto dishes, gourmet sandwiches and yummy pastas. But the view. Oh, the view.

  “I’ve never been at a place more…serene,” I say, drinking in the surroundings. Since it’s, as promised, sixty-five degrees, we’re sitting outside under a huge oak tree that canopies our table. String lights hang from the branches. A few feet away is a stone path that travels up a small hill, bursting with golden and maroon fall colors, and hardy aster flowers. There are only a few other patrons, and their tables are at least ten feet away from us.

  It’s a secret hideaway and that’s not the glass of wine I’ve had talking. It’s the quiet, warm afternoon away from the madness of our daily lives. “This place is like an escape. Where we don’t have to think about the promotion or the image makeover.”

  “Good. That’s what I wanted for you,” he says, then adds, “My parents’ friends—Soren and Theo—run this restaurant and have for a couple decades. I asked my dad to text them for a res today.”

  I lift a brow, pleased with this bit of intel—the level of planning he went to. “Nice of them to fit you in.” Even though I want to say I kind of love you asked for your dad’s help for this date.

  He laughs softly. “Yeah, I’m glad they had a table. It’s changed over the years but I love the feel of it.”

  I look around at the quiet charm of this place. “Me too. It’s like I can…let go.” I relax into my chair with a sigh. “I guess I needed this.”

  “I had a feeling,” he says, then leans closer, almost, almost like he wants to take my hand. He doesn’t, though, and I half wish I hadn’t told him the other night that we had to be cautious, because right now I want to feel what it’s like when he takes my hand at the table. But instead, he relies on words and says, “This place…it reminds me of a time before the cameras and media. When hockey was just my escape.” He tilts his head, then asks with real curiosity, like he’s been wanting to know this for ages, “What’s your escape, Everly?”

  For a second, maybe several, I sit with that question. I know the answer. I want to give him the answer.

  Even though there’s that worry in the back of my mind—what if he doesn’t receive what I have to give? What if he doesn’t want what I have to share?