Looks like he wants to now.

  Hey, Everly! I’m back in town and would love to take you out again. Let me know if there’s a statute of limitations on a second date. I hope not.

  We did have a nice time. He’s kind and caring, like you’d hope someone in his profession would be. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. But my head’s too full right now to respond. It’s pinging with this new assignment and what it’ll require, and thoughts of Max and what a pain in the ass he is. I’m a little frazzled, so rather than write to either guy, I compose a message to my friends instead, texting Josie, Maeve, and Fable. It took me a few years to even want to have friends again, but I love this group of women and need them now more than ever.

  I ask if they can get together with me tonight. Then I grab my things and leave, working on a text to Max as I head down the corridor to my car.

  But I stop short at the weight room. He’s alone in there, on the leg-press machine, pushing an ungodly amount of weights with his thick thighs, bulging with muscles. The scowl of all scowls is etched on his too-handsome face. His blue eyes are ice. His cheekbones could cut glass.

  Welcome to a new hell, Everly.

  My stomach twists. I rap on the doorjamb, but I’m not sure he’ll hear me, since he’s wearing earbuds. But he’s a goalie, so his peripheral vision is better than a hawk’s. He must notice me out of the corner of his eye, and he looks mad as hell. He presses hard down on the weights one more time, then lets go of them. The loud clang they make rattles my heart.

  Pushing up to sit, he pops out his earbuds. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my brand-new babysitter.”

  Fun fact: this is going to suck.

  7

  GOOD GUY BOOT CAMP

  Everly

  The thing about jerks is this—you can’t kowtow to them. When they’re sarcastic, it’s best to disarm them. You do it by being honest, kind, and direct. I’ve read employee handbooks and guidelines about how to handle difficult people, be they reporters, colleagues, or fans. Defuse is the watchword.

  Right now, I really should respond to the if it isn’t my brand-new babysitter with something like “I don’t plan to be your babysitter, but I do look forward to working more closely. Let’s set a time to review strategies.”

  And yet the words that fly out of my mouth are dripping with pure sass and served with a syrupy smile as I fight fire with sarcastic fire. “Actually, I prefer professional babysitter, Lambert.”

  Grabbing a towel and wiping his hands then the back of his neck, he says dryly, “I prefer none of this.”

  “And I see we’re in the no stage,” I say like a preschool teacher. Wow, does he bring out my worst behavior too? I think he does. But since I’m on a roll, I stroll into the weight room and add, “Alternatively, you could call me your makeup artist,” I say then dust my fingertips against my cheekbones like a fabulous YouTube makeup influencer. I even add a pout for effect. “Would that be more amenable?”

  After he sets down the towel on the weight bench, he grumbles, “I don’t wear makeup.”

  And I don’t back down. I step closer. “Then think of me as your brand-new…attitude coach,” I say with the most over-the-top smile. Two can play this game after all.

  Slowly, he rises from the weight bench, stretches his neck from side to side, then takes his sweet time staring me down. His height is intimidating. That steely gaze is penetrating, unwavering. My pulse stutters from the way he stares, and I hold my breath. No wonder other teams are afraid of him. He arches a dubious brow as he eyes me up and down, then says with a smirk, “Coach? More like drill instructor.”

  I breathe a small sigh of relief. At least he’s no longer saying no. “That’s me,” I say.

  “I can’t believe I have a fucking drill instructor,” he says, as he drags a hand over his beard, a distracting move because his hand is so big, and his beard is so beardy, and my mind is so traitorous wondering how that scruff would feel against me.

  Shake that all the way the fuck off, girl.

  I fasten on a smile to counteract my dirty thoughts. “Then I suppose we should discuss when boot camp begins? Bright and early tomorrow at 0600?” I ask even though I know he won’t actually show up then, nor do I want him to. I need to devise a battle plan first.

  “This is boot camp all right.”

  “And I trust you’ll be a good soldier at Good Guy Boot Camp?” My smile widens, selling this most fabulous boot camp. Right. Sure. But a girl can try.

  He doesn’t answer right away. Just picks up his towel, tosses it on top of his gym bag by the weight bench, then looks back at me, expression stony. I could snap a pic of him and slap the caption: The Max Lambert Glower across it right now. “Rosewood, you do know the last thing I want is a makeover, right?”

  My smile promptly vanishes, and I heave a frustrated sigh. He makes it so hard to be sunshine sometimes. “Yes, Max, I picked up on that from context clues,” I say dryly, even though I know—I absolutely know—that’s the wrong approach with him. Like a GPS rerouting in a new direction, I try again, opting for straightforward and honest. “Listen, I get that this image revamp is the last thing you want. I understand it’s a personal affront to the—” I stop and wave an arm in front of him, dangerously close to the strong pecs that stretch his T-shirt quite nicely. Too nicely. I focus on finishing the thought. “…the whole fuck-off-world mystique you have going on. But the reality is⁠—”

  He comes closer, his mouth amused. “Mystique? You think I have a mystique?” It’s asked with avid curiosity.

  I should be nice. I should be nice. I really should be nice. “It wasn’t entirely a compliment,” I say.

  His grin turns smug. “You sure about that?”

  “Umm, yes, why?”

  “Mystique does mean a fascinating aura of mystery, awe, and power surrounding someone or something.”

  Fuck him. “Are you doubling as a dictionary?”

  “No. I looked it up the other night when I came across it in this online class I’m taking. And you did say mystique, ergo, that sounds like a compliment.”

  There’s entirely too much to unpack in that statement—Max takes online classes?—but now’s not the time to delve into his hobbies so I bookmark that in my head. “Yes, I know what the word means.” Deep breath. You can do this. Don’t let him get to you. If I’m going to have to give him charm lessons, I might as well lead by being charming myself. “Max, let’s give you a whole new mystique then.” I wave a hand toward him like a magician sprinkling, I don’t know, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t dust. “The mystique of marketability.”

  He pauses for a second, his eyes hard, but then he sighs as he slumps down to the bench once again. He drags a hand through his wild, messy hair. It’s not quite shoulder-length—it’s more unkempt-length, and it works for him. It’s dark, a little long, a lot messy, like you’ve just run your fingers through it. “Yeah, I guess we have to. And I thought hell was line drills in full pads after a loss.”

  I shudder. That does sound awful, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. This really must be hard for the man. “Does Coach McBride make you do that still?” I ask.

  “No way. That was youth hockey. But the memory still stings.”

  Be charming. Be sweet. Be upbeat. “I promise this will be better than line drills. Just imagine you’re the Beast when he has his claws filed and hair styled.”

  He narrows his eyes and snarls like a beast when he says, “No bows. I will not wear a bow in my hair.”

  And I’m finding my rhythm since I say playfully, “Someone knows his Beauty and the Beast.”

  “Yes, I do, sunshine.”

  I pause on that word. He’s called me that a few times, when we’ve been out with a group of friends, which happens not by choice but by default because of our friends in common. But maybe it’s a good sign. It’s not the worst nickname. “Good then. You’ll know what to expect. Just think of this good-guy boot camp as a movie makeover,” I say, then stop and consider that, holding up a finger. “But not one of the sexist ones.”

  “The sexist ones? Which ones are those?”

  I screw up the corner of my lips, thinking. “Actually, most movie makeovers are because they show the woman being transformed from having braces and baggy clothes to a brand-new hairstyle and tight top—no glasses, naturally—so she looks sufficiently hot for the male gaze. To which I say fuck off.”

  That earns me the very first hint of a smile. “They can fuck off then too,” he says, then strokes his beard. “But don’t get any ideas about new hairstyles. The beard stays.” Then he shakes his messy mane. “Same for the hair.”

  “Aww, I guess I am a makeup artist.”

  He crosses his arms and stares me down.

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, the hair and beard stay. But the bad attitude? It goes.” I hook my thumb toward the door.

  He gives a small nod, then looks away. When he glances back at me, there’s a hint of some new emotion in those ice blue eyes. A flicker of sadness? Of hurt? I’m not sure. And I honestly don’t know what got him here besides a very bad breakup that he handled badly. But be that as it may, no one likes to be told they aren’t good enough. I certainly didn’t like it when my dad said that to me as a kid, so I try to both give Max the benefit of the doubt and also offer him a ray of hope. “Max, I know you don’t want this, but I’m going to do my best to make this work for both of us. I’ll devise a plan and then text you about a time to meet. You have my word that I’ll give this everything I have.” I meet his gaze, hoping he believes my sincerity, especially when I add, “Trust me.”

  He scoffs. “That’s not my style, sunshine.”

  I bite down a slew of comebacks, pasting on a smile I don’t feel as I head to the door.

  Then I leave, knowing it’ll take more than movie magic to transform this beast.

  8

  TELL ME YOUR FORTUNE

  Everly

  “Pretty Woman. Hands down the best movie makeover out there.”

  That’s Josie’s declaration that night as we dine on the salted caramel flight at Elodie’s Chocolates, since what’s a get-together with friends without chocolate? I’m here at the artisanal shop in the heart of Hayes Valley with Josie, Maeve, and Fable, who have become—it’s still strange to say—my new crew. And we’re debating the best movie makeovers of all time post Max run-in.

  “And why’s that retro flick the best?” Maeve asks as she absently shuffles her deck of tarot cards. She’s been learning tarot and wants to practice on us soon, she’s said. Which I’ve learned is very, very Maeve.

  I jump on her question. “Because the Julia Roberts character isn’t doing it to be hotter for the guy but rather to fit into his world. He’s already attracted to her, after all. And the best part is she gets revenge in the end when she goes back to the snooty store with the clerk who put her down,” I explain, then pop a salted caramel into my mouth.

  Maeve seems to give that some thought as she shuffles once again. “I do love a revenge tale. But hey…what about dude movie makeovers? Are there even any?”

  Fable flicks a strand of auburn hair off her cheek as she chimes in, “Of course. Hollywood loves its men. But, with the exception of Can’t Buy Me Love, where he pays her to date him and she gives him a zero-to-hero makeover that comes rudely crashing down on him, those flicks are almost always about the man transforming into a badass superhero, the world’s best spy, or the universe’s greatest hitman. Or he goes from nerd to a super jock. Or realizes he has some awesome new power, like he can fly. Seriously.” She shakes her head, clearly annoyed with Hollywood. “It’s never—oh, I’m suddenly pretty without my glasses,” she adds in a faux feminine voice.

  Josie pointedly removes her glasses, setting a hand under her pale chin. “Look at me, friends. Am I not super hot now?” She offers up an over-the-top smile, batting her lashes.

  I laugh, and it feels good to laugh with friends again. I missed this so much for the first couple years after Marie died, when I mostly kept to myself. When friendship was simply too painful to try. Like swimming after a boating accident, I couldn’t go near the water for a long time. Friendship was its own form of PTSD for a while there. “You are the hottest, Josie,” I tell my librarian friend. “You’re now a gorgeous duckling.”

  She blows a kiss my way, but her expression turns serious as she slides her glasses back on. “Why can’t we have a movie makeover where the heroine’s fairy godmother transforms the heroine into a badass assassin?” She points at me. “You’re kind of like an image assassin, aren’t you? You’re going to rid the world of his rough edges as you shine him up.”

  I didn’t tell them the details of what I’d be up to with Max Lambert, but since the grumpy goalie and I will likely be doing more public events soon, it won’t be a state secret that he’s getting a makeover, so I’ve told them the basic plan—put him out there more. “Just call me Everly Rosewood, Bad Image Assassin and Head Drill Instructor at Good Guy Boot Camp.” I wince, though, as the words make landfall. “That’s a mouthful.”

  “That’s what she said,” Maeve mutters under her breath, then looks up from beneath a swoop of light brown hair streaked with blonde. The smile coasting across her fair skin is downright devilish.

  Fable stares at Maeve, unblinking. “You couldn’t resist that, could you?”

  “As if you could either,” Maeve retorts.

  “Of course I could not,” Fable says.

  “Then you get me,” Maeve says.

  “We all get you,” Josie puts in, then reaches for the final piece of chocolate on the tray, asking with her eyes if she can take it. We nod go for it then she plucks it, her nails painted with decals of the titular character from Fleabag on them, and the hot priest she bangs, which is giving me all sorts of forbidden thoughts I should not be having about men in hockey uniforms—not men of the cloth.

  After Josie chews, she looks my way pointedly. “So, have you thought about how you’re going to handle all the sexual tension between you and Number Thirty-Three?”

  Did Josie read my mind? “What?” I ask, like I don’t know what she means when I damn well do.

  Maeve bursts into peals of laughter, then when she recovers, she says to me, “That was good. Did you practice that?”

  “Practice what?” I ask, this time legitimately meaning the question.

  Fable smirks, jumping in with, “That whole oh so shocked look you had right there.”

  “I do not have sexual tension with Max Lambert,” I say, denying that hard. I have to deny it.

  Maeve lifts a doubtful brow. “Louder for those in the back.”

  I stare her down, like I did Asher earlier today. “I don’t.”

  Or really, I can’t.

  Getting involved with him in any way, shape, or form would be a bad idea. It’s frowned upon at work—athletes are our stars, they are our assets, and their talent pays all our bills. So it’s best not to tango with the talent. It’s one of the unwritten rules of working for a pro sports team, and something my boss even warned me about when I first started. Zaire gave me a tour of the facility I already knew well, then introduced me to all the players. When a couple were a bit flirty, she pulled me aside after and said, “With athletes, it’s best to keep things strictly professional.”

  Tonight, with my friends, I repeat those two watchwords. “It’s strictly professional with him,” I say, and it is, but I also don’t like lying to these women I’ve grown to care for. “And even though it is,” I say, relenting, “he’s maybe, possibly, admittedly handsome.”

  Fable lifts her arms in victory. “Ladies and ladies, let the record reflect that Everly finds the man of the hour admittedly handsome.”

  “Oh, c’mon. I at least admitted you were right. Was admittedly handsome not enough for you?” I ask.

  Josie taps her chin. “I’ll allow admittedly handsome because it’s so you.”

  “And how is that so me?”

  Josie wastes no time answering with, “Because it’s professional and a little detached.”

  My face falls. My heart sinks. “You think I’m⁠—”

  She reaches for my hand, warmth flooding her eyes. “Oh, babe. I didn’t mean you’re detached.”

  I swallow past a stone of emotion—an annoying one. “Okay.”

  “I meant it as a compliment,” Josie adds, squeezing my fingers. “Because it’s very you to detach from someone you work with when the rest of us are being pigs.”

  Josie comes over to my side of the table, and gives me a hug, and I feel foolish all over again that I thought she might have meant something else. It’s just so hard to learn to, well, love again in this platonic way.

  When we break the hug, Maeve waggles a tarot card at me—on it is an illustration of a hand curled around a wooden wand. It’s incredibly phallic. “I drew the Ace of Wands for you, Ev. You know what that means?”

  With some dread, I ask, “What does it mean?”

  “It means someone is going to be getting some good dick,” she says, then winks.

  Playfully, I snatch her deck away. “I’ll tell my own fortune.” I straighten my shoulders, clear my throat, and say, “It means someone is going to be getting some good…news at work in the form of a promotion, since she will not be entering a forbidden romance and sleeping with the player she’s helping.”

  Maeve sighs. “I like my fortune of you better.”

  Yeah, I did too. But I’m not going to do a thing about it. I have a boot camp battle plan to devise, and a potential date to dissect.

  “Speaking of dick.” I whip out my phone. “Help a girl out.” I show them the text from Lucas, letting me know he’s back and asking me out again. “Do I want to go out with him again? He was my rehab therapist after the accident.”