Her assistant flashes me a bright smile from his desk outside the door. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hi, Trevor. I need to see Zaire today,” I say, then add a smile. “Could I please get on her schedule as soon as she’s free?”

  “She’s out of the office this morning at an appointment,” he says, and I have no idea what that means—if it’s personal, if it’s business, or if it’s something else entirely. But it’s not for me to know. I simply tell him I’ll take the next free slot on her schedule.

  “That’ll be three-thirty,” he says. That’s a lifetime from now, but I take it. At least it’s before Elias has said he’ll drop his picture online.

  I return to my office and text Max about what happened, telling him I’ll share the rest when he’s done with morning skate and we head to the interview.

  I feel calmer—maybe because I’m not in this alone. Then, I flip open my laptop and get to work on a plan for that meeting.

  53

  THE REAL MAX LAMBERT

  Max

  The thing about hockey players is we’re known for fast reflexes on the ice.

  But sometimes people underestimate us when it comes to how we react out of the rink. Reflexes matter, too, even if you’re not wearing a mask or holding a stick. The second Everly tells me what went down this morning, I think fast. My brain whirls with ideas as I drive us over to The Sports Network.

  Along the way, she’s telling me her plans for her meeting with her boss this afternoon. And damn, they’re so brilliant, they’re beyond brilliant. They’re scorching hot.

  But I can’t let her do all the work. We’re a team of two right now, and I know how to help a teammate out. Sometimes you need to block, sometimes you need to shoot, and sometimes you deflect. But a good hockey player also knows how to do something else—how to set up a shot.

  When we reach The Sports Network offices in downtown San Francisco, Everly shifts into work mode. I get that. She doesn’t want to miss a step when it comes to her job. Erin is interviewing me for a piece in the pre-game show, so Everly’s reminding me of my talking points as we walk down the hallway to the studio.

  “And now that your episode on The Ice Men has been given the go-ahead, Erin will ask about that. I told her this morning about it, so she’ll include a mention in her segment. What I want is for you to say something like—this documentary is a great chance to show the daily routines of a goalie, what it takes to get into the mindset to defend the net every game. All of those things are exactly what The Ice Men will want you to say.”

  “Got it,” I say, and fact is—Everly’s right. Those are great points.

  I’m not going to say any of those things though.

  When we reach the greenroom for the studio, she looks me up and down, and with a smile, she says, “By the way you clean up nice.”

  “A shower and fresh clothes help,” I say, glancing down at my slacks and royal blue dress shirt.

  An assistant calls us into the greenroom and mics me for the interview. When I head onto set, Everly follows, standing backstage, watching in the wings in case anything goes wrong.

  I join Erin, sitting across from her in a chair with the bright lights beating down on us. She asks me easy questions about the game tonight, our opponents, and how the season looks. Then she says, “You’re going to be featured in The Ice Men documentary. Can you give us a little preview of what to expect from that?”

  I could use Everly’s lines right now, but I don’t. Instead, I say something else that’s true about goalies.

  “It’s all about the ins and outs of being a goaltender, and the biggest thing we do is watch the game like a hawk. See plays before they even happen. And sometimes when you do, you have to set up the shot. Like this,” I say, then I barely pause before I say the next thing. “For a long time I never wanted to share my true self with the press, like you, frankly, or anyone else.” Erin’s eyes register surprise, but she nods quickly. That’s good, but I was barreling on anyway. This guy knows how to crash an event, after all. “I’m not a charming guy. I can be kind of unapproachable, but I think it comes with being a goalie. I don’t think people want to have a friendly goalie on the ice. I’ve been trying to change how I am off the ice though. I’ve been trying to be a little more accessible. A little friendlier. And there are a couple of reasons why I’m doing that. One is for my family. But mostly, it’s because of a woman. And that’s why I want to tell you a little bit more about who I am.”

  Erin’s a pro so she rolls with the change. “Tell us about the real Max Lambert then.”

  Here goes nothing. I don’t steal a glance at Everly, since I want to keep my focus on Erin as I share the truth of who I am. “Fun fact: I foster rescue kittens. Actually, I adopted one recently. She’s a tiny spitfire. She’s the sixth rescue kitten I’ve fostered in the last year but my first foster fail.”

  “That’s adorable,” Erin says.

  “She’s a hellion, and she has me wrapped around her little paw. Other things about me—my parents are teachers. I like to hang out with them. I like to spend time with my little nephew. My favorite place to eat is at a restaurant that my parents’ best friends own. I take online classes to keep my mind sharp, and I can and do destroy all my friends in poker on the team jet. And one of my favorite things to do is to watch movies and eat popcorn and spend time with…” I pause because I was going to say the love of my life. But my reflexes are really sharp, so I make a game-day decision and change it up. Might as well tell the whole truth. “My future wife.”

  Erin’s eyes widen to saucers. “You’re…engaged?”

  “Not yet. But soon. I will be,” I say, believing it completely. “There’s a woman I’m madly in love with. It’s the kind of love that makes you get on TV and tell everyone. The kind that makes you want to do whatever it takes for her. The kind that changes you.”

  I don’t name Everly. I don’t drop a hint as to who she is. I don’t say she works for the team. But when Everly walks into that meeting with her boss today, I want her boss to know that I’m behind her completely.

  And I suppose in an hour when this airs, the world will know too.

  54

  BREAKING THE RULES

  Everly

  “You. Went. Off. Script.”

  In the elevator one minute after I watched them record his interview, Max shrugs, giving me the most easygoing grin I’ve ever seen. I’m still in a state of complete and utter shock, but it’s the kind of shock that makes my bones hum and my heart sing.

  “What were you thinking?” I ask as thrills race through me.

  “I was thinking of you,” he says, like it was the simplest thing in the world that he did.

  “Future wife?” I ask, because I still can’t believe he said that. I also can’t wipe the smile off my face.

  “You will be,” he says, cupping my cheek. “I know your type. I’m your type.”

  I’m barely able to process his bold, out-on-a-limb words, but they’re going to live rent-free in my head for the rest of my life.

  Because…he’s probably not wrong.

  But there isn’t much time to bask in the sheer audacity of his mic drop—not when I have a meeting to get to at the Sea Dogs arena. A meeting that will probably be helped by his statement. The fact that he said all of that has to give my boss some confidence that our romance isn’t a one-way street. That will matter. I’d never thought to ask for his backup. But I have it.

  Max takes me back there quickly, parking in the players’ lot, then walking me to the stairwell, where I say, “Wish me luck.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope, because you don’t need luck. You have facts.”

  Facts matter. And with the facts in my pocket, I head upstairs to the management level and walk down the hall with a plan.

  When I first contemplated telling my boss about my relationship with the goalie, I figured I’d plead for her to let me keep my job.

  Not anymore.

  I’m not going into Zaire’s office to ask to stay.

  I’m not going in there to beg for her permission either.

  And I’m not going in there to lay my head on the desk and ask whether she’s going to drop the guillotine on me or not.

  I am powerful, and I’m going in there from a place of power.

  I march down the hall in my black pantsuit like an avenging goddess of business, ready to take on whatever comes her way.

  But along the way, I spot the back of a preppy blond head. Well, this calls for a quick detour. I stride right toward Elias’s cubicle and knock on the half-wall. He looks up with a smug look on his face, like he thinks I’m about to cave to his demands.

  I get the first word in. “I don’t care what you do with that photo.”

  “W-w-hat?”

  “Post it,” I spit out. “I don’t care.”

  “But, but, but—” he sputters, clearly unable to form a single sentence.

  I lean closer. “You don’t scare me. You’re a small man with a small, shriveled heart.”

  I turn around and walk away from him.

  As I’m leaving the cubicles, Jenna pops up from hers, clapping and cheering. “You go!”

  I’m so glad I never truly doubted her.

  As she cheers me on, she swivels to face Elias. “And you never volunteered for Meals on Wheels. I called the organization in your college town and looked it up. They don’t have a record of you.”

  I grin at Jenna. “You are a tenacious, inquisitive, brilliant human,” I say and offer her a palm for high-fiving. She smacks back, and then I resume my march down the hall.

  Because I am not walking into my boss’s office. I am marching in.

  Along the way, I catalog my surroundings. The corridor is blue. The air is cool. The chance is mine.

  When I reach her suite, Trevor waves me in. The door is halfway open and I push it the rest of the way.

  Oh.

  Clementine is here too, sitting on the couch next to Zaire. That throws me for a loop but only for a second. It’s even better that the general manager’s here. I can say my piece to both of them.

  “I saw you on the schedule. Tell me what’s on your mind,” Zaire says.

  “Yes, I’d love to know too. Sit,” Clementine says, then gestures to the chair across from the couch.

  But I don’t want to sit. I shake my head. “I’m going to stand.” I don’t waste another second. “And I’m not here to try to keep my job. I’m here to tell you why you should keep me.”

  Zaire squints. “What exactly are you talking about, Everly?”

  Clementine shoots me a skeptical look. “Yes, I’d so love to know too.”

  “You have an unwritten rule that says employees shouldn’t get involved with the athletes. You told me about it on the first day I started here. It’s a rule we’re all expected to follow because it could end badly for the employee. Because it could affect how they do their job. Because it could affect how people see them. But I’m here to tell you it’s a bad rule. And the fact that I’ve fallen in love with one of our hockey players hasn’t affected a single thing about my ability to do the job. And if you fire me for falling in love with a player, here’s what else you’ll lose.”

  Shaking her head, Zaire holds up a hand. “Hold on. You’ve fallen in love with one of our players?”

  “The pre-game show starts in about ten minutes on The Sports Network, and you’ll hear Max Lambert talking about it. But I want you to hear from me about what I’ve done so you can think about the value I bring to this organization.”

  For a beat, both women look floored. No surprise there. But they’re not top executives for nothing. “I’d love to hear,” Clementine says in her cool British accent, sweeping out a hand.

  “My personal life hasn’t hurt my ability to do the job at all. Since I’ve been here, I’ve helped develop segments with our broadcast partner that drive up ratings. I’ve spearheaded a project to pitch features on players across mediums, and we’ve seen a thirty percent increase in our coverage in the last year because of that. Our social media engagement has already increased since October, and is now up sixty-three percent over the last year, which has led to forty-seven percent more jersey sales. I’ve also planned events with our key partner organizations throughout the city,” I say, rattling off some of my major accomplishments. “I did all this while falling in love with Max and making him likeable again. He went from being a recluse to being a reliable player who regularly talks to the media and presents well.” I stop and take a fueling breath since there’s one more thing to say. “Also, other pro sports team owners recognize my talent and want to work with me. I’m not saying this to worry you that I’m leaving. I’m telling you that I’m valuable. I contribute every day to this PR team. And I will continue innovating.”

  Zaire’s brow furrows right as she tilts her head, as if she’s adding up all the facts. “That is quite a speech, Everly.”

  But I’m not done. “And since the interview’s about to air, I’m going to let you watch it. And I would love if you could let me know if you’re going to not just bend that rule for me but to get rid of it entirely for everyone.”

  I thank them and leave.

  55

  ABOUT THAT SIDE HUSTLE

  Max

  I’m in the locker room and in my gear early. I’ve taped up my stick. My pads are on. My skates are laced. We have an early puck drop tonight, so we’ll hit the ice soon for warm-ups.

  A couple of my teammates are here, too, getting ready. Wesley’s next to me, lacing up.

  I could hit the ice now and do some stretches, but my mind isn’t on hockey. It’s on Everly. I hope her meeting’s going well, and I also don’t want her to be blindsided. I do something I never do. I google myself—to make sure nothing’s gotten out yet. That Elias hasn’t tried to preempt Everly by dropping that picture of us online.

  Even if she’s going to neutralize him with her badass approach, even if she has a brilliant plan, and even if she’s one thousand times smarter than that prick, I need to be ready.

  I swear, if I see him…

  I breathe past the anger then plug my own name into Google. The first result is the brief interview from the shutout the other night. Then something about the documentary from today. Next are photos and social posts and articles from the charitable events Everly shepherded.

  Fine.

  That’s all fine.

  There’s nothing to worry about, and Erin’s piece hasn’t aired yet. It will in a couple more minutes. I hunt around a little more when something catches my eye on the second page of results. Something I didn’t expect to see at all.

  A photo of a jersey. A jersey that has a signature of my name on it, with a paw print beside it.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter to myself. That’s the jersey I signed a few weeks ago.

  I click on it and do a little digging on the site. It’s a sports auction site and there’s a whole new set of memorabilia for sale right along with a photo of five jerseys spread out on a table. Mine, Miles’s, Asher’s, Wesley’s, and Hugo’s. It’s not the set that Little Friends auctioned off the other week—I know because those were indeed auctioned off.

  This is the set that I gave to Elias weeks ago. The name of the seller is CollegeSportsGuy. That little fucker has been selling our signed gear all along.

  What a liar. What a thief. What a total piece of shit. And I’m smiling so wide because this right here is better than punching the guy.

  Though punching him would be so gratifying. Only I’ve learned that fights don’t do me any favors. Good thing I can use my brain.

  I mull this over for a minute until I come up with the perfect play. At least, I hope it is. I don’t have much time. We need to be on the ice any minute. I turn to Wesley. “Do me a solid, will you, Bryant?”

  “Sure,” he says as he tightens his laces.

  “Can you call Elias and tell him you have a stick for him? A signed stick?”

  He arches a brow in question. “Okay, but why?”

  “I need some bait to get him to come down here. And I’m pretty sure he won’t take my call.”

  His easy shrug says yes. “I’m in.” He grabs his phone and dials the main number for the front office, asking for Elias. I fucking love my teammates.

  Next I hunt around for Coach. I need him—or someone like him inside the Sea Dogs—to pull off this play. But he’s the best place to start since he ought to be easy for me to find right before a game. Only, he’s not in the locker room. Or the athletic trainer’s room. He might be in his office, but first I pop into the video room, since he’s often there with his assistants before a game. Yup. The captain of the ship sits in a leather chair with an assistant coach, peering at a tablet, probably reviewing plays.

  “Sir, how’s it going?” I ask.

  Coach raises his face, his expression serious because he’s always serious. “Good, Lambert. And you?”

  I scratch my beard, then sigh. “Pretty good, but you gotta see what’s going on with Bryant and this stick. It’s messed up.”

  He takes a breath, then asks, “And you need me? About a stick? Not Quinn?”

  Quinn’s the equipment manager, and honestly, that’s not a bad idea. But the clock’s ticking, so I say, “Both of you would be great.”

  Coach rolls his eyes. “I’ll let him know if I see him.” He tells the assistant coach he’ll be right back, then pushes up and follows me.

  He’s a little irked, but I can handle an irked coach. I’ve got the crew assembled now. Timing is everything in sports and if I’ve engineered this play properly, Elias ought to be in the hallway outside the locker room right as we walk up to him.

  Like…now.

  Wesley’s handing a signed stick to my enemy as we turn the corner. I fight off a winning smile as I call out, “Hey, Elias.”

  The prick turns to me, his beady eyes flickering with worry. But he tries to cover it up with a, “Hey, Max. How you doing?”