The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

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.”Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

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.