I feel like his. But I’m not yet. Not really. That doesn’t stop me from climbing over him and straddling his face. He eats me like I’m his last meal.

  I come so hard, I nearly black out. I nearly forget that everything we share is a secret.

  Maybe soon it won’t be.

  And maybe, like the butterfly, it’ll be easy.

  This is hell.

  A few days later we’re back and in an SUV we rented. Max is driving, Zaire is in the passenger seat, and I’m in the back seat with Jenna and Elias. I didn’t hire Leighton or another freelance photographer for this job since it’s more personal. A cell phone camera seemed the right speed for today.

  But Elias evidently made a pitch to Zaire about taking the photos, so he’s here like he’s Ansel freaking Adams with his iPhone. We’ve already visited a number of homes, with Max delivering meals for seniors who still live alone but have diminished mobility. Now, we’re making the final stop at a senior center. “You know,” Elias begins as Max nears the Aquatic Park neighborhood, “I volunteered with Meals on Wheels during college.”

  Of course he did.

  “And it was so eye-opening,” he says, bloviating even more. “I felt like I learned so much. Truly, it’s been an honor to be a part of this today. Thanks, Zaire. Thanks, Max.”

  Zaire inclines her head, giving a crisp nod while Max grunts out a thanks.

  “Where did you go to college?” Jenna asks, seeming intrigued.

  Thank god she’s here to handle him. It’s too hard being in this space with all these people and all this pretending. It’s wearing me down. It’s stressing me out. It’s driving up my anxiety. I feel claustrophobic.

  As Jenna peppers Elias with more questions about his supposed glory days, Zaire asks Max if he’s given more thought to Date Night.

  I feel queasy as he says blandly, “Every day.”

  My thoughts start spinning, so I do one of my grounding exercises, focusing on things I can see, hear, and sense, till Zaire says, “Would that work for you, Everly?”

  I snap to it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “I thought it would be nice to have dinner with Garrett and Clementine again. And you and Max later this week. Just to go over everything you’ve done and make sure we’re all set with this project.”

  And to decide on Date Night.

  The clock keeps ticking. Louder and louder still. “Of course,” I say quickly, then brace myself for Elias to invite himself.

  And on the count of three…

  “I’d love to come too,” he offers.

  “That won’t be necessary, but thanks for the offer,” Zaire says, and I fight off the world’s biggest grin.

  When we arrive at the senior center, Max gathers the meals from the back while Elias snaps more pictures of him taking out the food. Once inside, Max drops them off in a community room that’s bustling with older San Franciscans. I hang back near the entrance, staying out of the way as the once grumpy goalie chats with nearly each person there, saying hi to some women knitting, asking questions of a couple guys doing a jigsaw puzzle, and making small talk with some men playing cards. Max said he wasn’t naturally affable, but here he seems most at ease. I bet it comes from how he helped take care of his grandfather. As he moves from table to table, it looks like his cup is full. Like this is more than part of his image makeover. Like this is The Real Max Lambert.

  It’s a good look, and I’m seriously proud of him.

  A man with wispy strands of hair who’s hunched over his table calls Max over. The older man tilts his face toward Max and asks him something. Max shakes his head and replies. The man keeps asking questions and Max’s expression turns more concerned, more worried. I wish I could make out what they’re saying. It looks like Max is trying to reassure the man but doesn’t know how. Soon, a woman who works at the center comes over and intervenes.

  With tension in his jaw and sadness in his eyes, Max heads for the exit where I’m standing with Elias. He swallows roughly, uncomfortably too, then mutters as he passes us, “Excuse me.”

  And Elias has the audacity to snap another picture. But as Max turns into the nearby men’s room down the hall, I wheel on Elias, raising a finger. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” It’s asked so innocently.

  “Don’t use that picture.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s obviously upset.”

  “It’s a real-life picture. It shows Max has feelings.”

  Elias has no idea. “No,” I say firmly, standing my ground.

  He gives me a look like I’m a Pollyanna. “This is the stuff people love, Everly. Seeing the real side of an athlete. I know it because I played sports.” Of course he went there. “And I know because I interact with the real people at every game,” he adds.

  And he went there too.

  “And I know that part of the job in PR is to protect our players. This is personal. Please delete it,” I say, standing my ground. I don’t care what Elias suspects about me. He’s not posting a photo of Max visibly affected like that.

  Annoyed, Elias stares at me for several seconds then relents. “Fine.” He makes a show of deleting it.

  “Thank you.”

  Max comes out of the bathroom, dragging a hand through his hair. It looks like he’s been hit with bad news, and I want to run to him and comfort him.

  But I can’t.

  When we get to the car, I tug him back, a few feet away to quickly ask. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “That man was asking about his son. If he was coming to visit. And I tried to talk to him, but then the woman who came over, she said his son had already visited and—” He stops like there are stones in his throat, then he pushes on. “This is how it started with my grandfather. The forgetting.”

  My throat swells. My eyes sting. “Max, I’m so sorry.” He takes a small step toward me before he must think the better of it.

  I can tell he wants to hold me as much as I want to be his shoulder to lean on.

  Instead, I have to wait till later that night, when he comes over for our movie night that he invited me to. It feels like an endless wait, but as I curl up in his arms, I try to believe that soon we’ll have more than stolen moments.

  One more night.

  That’s what I’ve been telling myself. That’s what Max tells me on Thursday evening as we get ready for dinner together at my place. I feel antsy but in a whole new way. In a Christmas Eve kind of way. Once we make it through dinner, I can devise a proper plan for talking to Zaire. One that’s thoughtful. One that shows this relationship with Max is serious. One that shows how much I want the promotion or at the very least to stay in my job. If she doesn’t make an exception to the unwritten rule, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I know I’m strong enough to handle it.

  I button my blouse and fluff out my hair in the bathroom mirror. It’s down tonight. “Like my blowout?” I say to Max. I used one of the lifetime supplies this evening.

  “Love it,” he says, then comes up behind me and presses a kiss to my neck. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you’re doing?”

  I smile. “Yes. But I’m not doing it tonight. I have an early Zoom meeting at eight tomorrow with the East Coast and you have that interview tomorrow with The Sports Network,” I say, reminding him of both our schedules, and of the interview he agreed to do with our broadcast partner. Plus, I don’t want him to get too excited. I need to get some rest after this dinner—not come home and brainstorm how to save my job. There will be time in the near future. “Let’s focus on this dinner and we can start figuring it all out tomorrow. And come up with a smart plan. I promise.”

  Tomorrow night Max leaves for a week-long stretch of away games on the East Coast—ones I’m not attending—so I’ll have some time to put plans into motion.

  “I know, sunshine. I know. But I’m here for you.”

  I turn around, smooth a hand over his purple shirt, then meet his eyes. “We’ve got this.”

  “We do.”

  He kisses me and then we head to dinner together in his car. It feels like the start of the next phase of us, even though we walk in side by side like colleagues rather than lovers. Still, I can’t help but feel that fizzy sense of hope. Soon, very soon, we might not have to pretend. We’ve made it through this project, and we’re almost out on the other side where we can sit down, talk, and figure out all the next steps.

  That feels even more possible when we reach the table and Clementine is holding a glass of champagne. “To the makeover queen,” she says to me.

  Her praise makes me feel like I’m valuable to them, regardless of who I love. That I’m useful even if I’ve bent a rule. That they’ll understand I’m too important to let go just because I fell for an athlete.

  I hope so. I really hope so. “It was a tough job, but someone had to do it,” I say playfully, then we sit, and I take my glass and clink with the others.

  But when I steal a glance at Max, something like suspicion passes in his eyes. I write it off though. I must just be seeing things.

  46

  A CON JOB

  Max

  “Did you enjoy the eggplant salad?” the server asks, and the question sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well.

  Is he even asking me?

  I tear my gaze away from the water glass in my hand, condensation sliding down the outside of it. I look to the kind-faced server who’s standing by my side, clearing my plate, and yup—he is asking me.

  I try to reconnect to the present moment. But it’s hard because my mind is stuck like a tire spinning in the mud. It’s not here at this dinner with the VP of Communications, the general manager, my agent, and my secret girlfriend. It’s not at this table in this trendy Moroccan restaurant in Hayes Valley that Zaire loves.

  It’s back in Everly’s house an hour ago. And I can’t stop playing her words on an endless loop—but I’m not doing it tonight.

  “The eggplant salad was great,” I say flatly, finally managing to muster a response.

  “Wonderful. Would you like any more water?”

  I don’t want water. I don’t want an eggplant salad. I don’t want couscous. I want to understand what the hell is going on with my girlfriend, who seems far too fixated on the project rather than us. “No thanks,” I mumble, then stew some more as he moves down the table.

  Fine, her comment about not doing it tonight technically makes logical sense, but tomorrow is a game day. Which means I have morning skate, then the fucking game itself, then thirty minutes later we get on the bus to the airport.

  Plus, she said she had an early Zoom meeting, and I have The Sports Network thingy when I’d normally nap. When did she think we were going to talk about us? She’s not going on our road trip. I can’t imagine she’ll want to talk about it on the phone when I’m on the East Coast.

  Is she…putting this off? My jaw ticks as my mind runs wildly into these woods, all while grabbing the branch of this terrible possibility—what if she’s putting me off?

  “Max, are you excited?”

  I look up from the water glass that I’m practically crushing in my hand. My agent’s sitting next to me, asking a question. “About what?” I ask.

  Garrett gives a smile that feels like a correction, like a pay attention, buddy grin. “The documentary episode is a go,” he says. “The producers gave the green light. We’ve been talking about it for the last few minutes.”

  “That’s great,” I say flatly, clenching my fist in annoyance under the table, or maybe it’s worry. Looks like Everly thinks this documentary news is great too. From across the table, she’s smiling brightly even as she shoots me a curious look. “Isn’t that fantastic, Max?”

  She might as well kick me under the table. But is that coming from the girlfriend side of her? Or the publicist one?

  “We are truly so happy,” Clementine says from the head of the table, looking regal with her cinched back hair and strong profile. “It all really came together.” Her pleased gaze turns to Everly. “All that one-on-one time paid off.”

  Everly smiles. “I’ve never had to do so much one-on-one work with a player before, but clearly it’s worth it. I was hoping this project would show you what I’m capable of.”

  What the fuck? I snap my gaze toward her, narrowing my eyes. What the hell does that mean? I try to ask it silently through, I dunno, mind waves.

  But Everly furrows her brow my way, like she’s asking right back what’s wrong with you?

  I’ll gladly tell her. What’s wrong is that the woman I love thinks I’m just a project. That’s what’s wrong.

  But I clamp my teeth together instead of talking.

  Like a puppet master, Garrett claps my shoulder. “Max isn’t the easiest to work with. But he’s worth it. So worth it,” he says, all smiley and shit.

  “Thanks,” I say dryly. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  He squeezes harder. “C’mon, man. You aren’t, but you two pulled this off. Well done.”

  “Yes, you two really pulled off a banger,” Clementine says.

  Pulled off. Those two words echo ceaselessly in my head. We pulled it off. Like it was a heist? Maybe a con? And now we’re celebrating with the crew. Like we stole the diamonds and we’ve got them all in our pockets and now we’re getting away with it—the remake of Lambert.

  The project.

  Everly shoots me another one of those cautionary looks. Probably because I’m just a project to her. Probably because she doesn’t want me to ruin her project. Probably because she wants to make sure we can indeed pull off this whole thing.

  I drag a hand down my beard as I slump back in my chair, like a fool. How did I miss this?

  The same way you missed all the signs that Lyra was involved with someone else. Signs that were right in front of you. Signs you barely paid attention to while you were falling for her.

  Because I wanted to believe in Lyra. I wanted to believe in an us.

  Garrett jumps in again, taking over the conversation like it needs saving. “And it looks like you’re well positioned for the promotion,” he says to Everly, then shoots that perfect agent grin of his toward Zaire and Clementine. What the hell is going on? Is he in on it? Was this always about her getting a promotion?

  Everly demurs, holding up her hands. “That’s not what tonight is about,” she says, but it sounds too humble. Too much of a deflection.

  Zaire lifts a champagne glass Everly’s way. “I certainly don’t want to offer any promotions over dinner, but I will say we’re pleased with your work,” she says, mostly diplomatic even as she leaves a big, tasty hint.

  Everly dips her face, as if she’s trying to hide her smile. Yup, that’s what my girlfriend wants. The promotion. My muscles tense. My heart shrivels.

  “And now you can finally move on to other things,” Garrett puts in. “Other projects. Other opportunities. Like, I don’t know, maybe Date Night.”

  It’s said oh so casually, like he clearly knows he shouldn’t push, but like he also wants an answer badly.

  Zaire offers me a hopeful grin. “I spoke with Webflix today. It looks like it could be a great partnership all around.” She pauses. “If it works out with Date Night. And I know that’s an if.”

  “No pressure,” Clementine adds, and they’re all so diplomatic. I should appreciate it. Truly, I should.

  But I feel like I’ve stepped into quicksand in the middle of a murky night, so I shift my gaze to Everly, adopting a perfectly curious look. “Is there anything that would hold me back?”

  Her eyes widen, and she swallows roughly. “I think it’s entirely your decision,” she says.

  Ironic. The other night she didn’t want me to do it, but now it’s my choice.

  Because she’ll be moving on.

  Because what if that’s all I ever was to her? Work. Just work. The times we spent together never felt like work to me. I never felt like I was doing anything but falling head first into a big, spectacular, move-mountains kind of love. But the last time I fell for someone, my happy, easy, nice-guy life crashed head first and I was left to pick up the wreckage.

  I know Everly isn’t cheating. I truly know that, but my nerves are strung tight. My heart hurts. And my hackles are up. I don’t know how to trust a damn thing anymore.

  Except…me.

  I’m the only one I can trust, and at some point I have to trust actions, rather than feelings. Deeds rather than words.

  Fact is, Everly’s been putting this off time and time again.

  She said let’s get through this makeover and we’ll figure it out. She said let’s not do anything tonight. She said a partnership with Date Night could ruin all the work we’ve done.

  What if I leave tomorrow and she gets that promotion, and then I return and she dumps me on my ass?

  “So, we really should get things going with Date Night,” Clementine adds. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

  She looks to me hopefully, and I steal a look at Everly. Her face is unreadable now. Her eyes give nothing away. They’re just…hard.

  But I’m good at memorizing. And I remember all too clearly something she said last week. “Max, let’s get through the next event, but once we do, I could try to talk to my boss.”

  Could. She only said she could try. I am such a fool. I push back in the chair. “Excuse me,” I say, then I step away from the table, but instead of heading to the restroom, I beeline to the front door, a man on a mission. Once outside, I draw a huge breath.

  This is how I feel when an opponent slams into me. When the wind’s knocked out. When the world has turned upside down.

  A minute later, Garrett’s pushing open the door, joining me in the cool late November night. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Just needed some air.”