The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

He drives me back into the city, tossing me a look as we cross over the Bay Bridge and the sparkly blue water below. “I do appreciate what you’re doing for me,” he says, earnestly. “I know I don’t show that much though.”

“Much?”

“Fine. At all,” he admits, then sighs. “I know I haven’t made it easy for you.”

“With your game of chicken?”

“Our game,” he tosses back as we exit the bridge, heading into the city now.

“Fine. It’s our game.”

“And you play it too, sunshine.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I do.”

He slows at a light, then looks my way. “What I’m trying to say is I know this is extra work for you…I wanted you to know I’m not just a jerk.”

I cup my ear. “What did you just say? ”

“I’m not just a jerk,” he repeats in a grumble.

“What are you then?”

He’s quiet, refusing to speak.

I lean a little closer, stage-whispering, “A nice guy?”

He flashes his gaze to me, his eyes smoldering as he stares me down. “You don’t want me to be nice.”

My breath catches. My thighs clench. Maybe I don’t. But I’m not telling him that. “It was nice of you to let me in though.”

The light changes, and he drives, saying nothing for several blocks. As we near my home in Russian Hill, he clears his throat, like he’s gearing up for something hard. “Letting people in isn’t my strong suit. Especially after…Lyra.”

My heart lurches toward him. “Do you still love her?”

He scoffs. “Fuck no.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Not one bit,” he says, resolute. “But everything we did was so public. It was all out there. Bane knew where I had taken her on dates. He knew what we were up to. When I was visiting her, when I left. She was the one who cheated, but he was the one who used what he knew about me to seize an opportunity. That’s why I don’t want to put my real self out there.”

Fletcher Bane. A forward on the Los Angeles team. The guy he got in that fight with. The guy who threw the first punch that night. The guy who was then seen dating Lyra a few days later.

Bane and Max go way back. They were drafted the same year. They were top prospects in the league together—the best goalie in years, the best forward in years. They were rivals for media attention even though they played different positions .

While I knew about Lyra and Bane’s relationship, this is the first time Max has said out loud that his ex-girlfriend cheated on him with his longtime rival. I understand him more now. His retreat from the public eye makes even more sense than it did before, and pisses me off on his behalf too.

“That’s terrible,” I say, anger rising up in me over what must have happened.

Max doesn’t sound angry though. As he pulls up outside my building and cuts the engine, he sounds remarkably fine as he says, “It is but I’m over it. I learned my lesson though.”

And I’m pushing him to be public. Yes, I have to. Yes, he needs to be more accessible. But I can see now why he resists so hard. “I understand why you want to keep some things private. Most things, actually,” I say, but a thought tugs on my brain. “No one really knows she was unfaithful. Everyone thinks you were a jerk because of that song—‘Surprise Me.’ You never corrected that notion. Why?”

He shrugs, like what can you do. “The song came out three months after she cheated. I wasn’t going to get online and say, hey world, she banged another dude . There was no winning in that situation.”

I nod, my heart heavy. “I get that.” I set a hand on his arm. “I’ve got your back.”

He swallows roughly, nodding. “I know you do.”

Then his gaze drifts to my hand curled around his biceps, then back up to my face. He looks at my mouth, his breath ghosting across his lips, it seems. When he meets my eyes, something flickers across his.

Want.

Heat.

A wish .

Or maybe I’m the one wishing for things I can’t have. “I should go,” I say, and as I unlock the door and head inside I keep wondering if I should go on that date with Lucas next week.

Which means I really need girl time. Good thing tomorrow night, I’ve planned to go to pole class.

Not going to lie—when I first walked into a pole class a year and a half ago, it was hard. For a lot of reasons. First and foremost, I was supposed to have gone with Marie. We were five blocks away from the studio she’d picked out when that car hit us. It took me eighteen months and some serious therapy to decide to try again.

But I knew I had to give it a go.

That Post-it note from my best friend was branded not just on my brain, but in my heart.

Want to take a pole dance class? Say yes.

We never reached the studio and walked in together. The first time I walked into this studio alone, I had to practice one of my grounding exercises to get through the door. What are five things I see? The door, the name of the studio, the railing along the steps, the chrome poles in the studio, and the other women. What are four things I hear? The faint beat of music from inside, the rumble of the bus down the street, the click of shoes along the sidewalk as people walked by, and the creak of the door as someone exited the studio. I worked my way through three things I felt, two things I smelled, one thing I tasted, and with my heart beating in the next county, I found the guts to make it inside, then walked around a pole.

I didn’t fall in love with pole right away. But I kept going, and by the time I did my first front hook spin, I had one surprising thought—this is fun.

Then a second thought—I wasn’t meant to do this alone.

So I invited Josie, knowing deep down that pole was something I was supposed to do with my friends. The women I leaned on, and who leaned on me. Josie didn’t take too much convincing. She doesn’t come as often as I do—she’s here maybe once a week to my three—but she’s become a regular.

Soon she’ll probably be able to do moves that I can’t do.

Correction: won’t do.

The thing about pole I didn’t realize when I walked into Upside Down is that it’s not a sport for the body shy. Most of the advanced tricks require a whole lot of skin contact and, of all things, your armpit.

But I’ve always found workarounds in my life, in my job, and now in pole. There are so many tricks I can do that don’t require me to use my sides or my armpit to hold on. So many that don’t require me to show my back.

Like the stargazer. God bless this trick. It’s all core and legs and strength, and I’ve got that as I hold onto the pole with my legs and one hand while reaching the other hand behind me toward the wall as I stretch back, eyes toward the ceiling.

“Nice work,” the instructor, Kyla, says as she stops next to me. “Loved your jasmine, too, earlier.”

She already told me that when I nailed that intermediate trick—it takes the back of the knee contact, hands and core. But I love praise so as I move out of the stargazer pose, I say, “Thanks. I’ve been working on the jasmine for a while. ”

“I know, and you did it, Everly,” she says, proud, like she usually is for all her students.

Still, I have this foolish worry that she’ll ask why I dress like this eighteen months in. Does she wonder why I wear a fitted tee that doesn’t move when I move, when the rest of the class wears sports bras?

Like Josie.

Like Maeve, who takes it too with us.

Like Fable, who joins us from time to time.

But I still wear a shirt, because of my scars.

Kyla’s also never asked. She lets me be. She lets me take the tricks at my own pace, like she does with all the students, of all body types. But as Kyla moves to spot another student, a woman with blue hair and strong shoulders who’s upside down in a butterfly, a pang of longing digs into my chest. I bet I could do that if I let go. I want to do that.

Maybe I should just get my own pole for my home. I could do it there. The only issue would be if I needed a spotter.

Best not to think about that for now. There are plenty of laybacks and spins to keep this girl busy for a while.

I hope.

Class ends, and I hustle to my gym bag and pull on sweats, leaving on the workout tee. No heels tonight, so I just pop on sneakers, thank Kyla and head out with my friends.

They know why I dress like this. I’ve told them about the car accident, and the scars that travel down the left side of my body, covering a large swath of my back, my hip, my upper arm, and my shoulder.

I don’t hate them. I just don’t want people to see them and stare. To see them and feel sorry for me. I’d rather not have their pity. I had enough of it from my own parents after it happened. “I feel terrible this happened to you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my best friend, and some of my skin,” my mom had said.

Thanks, Mom.

Besides, I work in a world where image matters. I don’t want people to construct their own image of me as someone to feel sorry for.

And then, there’s simple self-protection. The more people who see them, the more I have to tell the story of why . The more I have to go back in time and relive the worst night of my life and feel that pain all over again.

Sometimes—no, most of the time—it’s easier to cover them up and move on.

We head out into the October night to a nearby diner, the one we usually go to after class.

“I seriously can’t believe you got me addicted to pole,” Maeve remarks as she pulls open the door.

“Really? You can’t believe it?” Josie asks Maeve. “Pole was made for you.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“Because our dear friend Maeve is not, as you might say, shy,” Josie says.

“Facts,” I say, then tell the hostess we need a table for four. As we slide in, I’m feeling a little emotional, like I often am after class with them, since I’m so damn grateful to have friends to do this with, so I add, “And I’m glad none of you are shy either. I’m really glad you all said yes to taking this class with me.”

“Of course we would,” Josie says, heartfelt.

“Are you kidding? Like I’d miss the chance to make a fool of myself physically,” Fable says .

“Please. You’re doing great. You’re making such strides,” I say to my redheaded friend.

“If by strides you mean I can walk around a pole in heels without tripping, then yes, sure I have.”

“Do not underestimate not tripping,” I say.

“Truer words,” Maeve adds, then we flip open our menus and order when the server arrives.

Once she’s gone, Josie taps the table, her eyes excited. “So, update time. How’s the makeover project going with the man who’s, ahem, admittedly handsome ?”

Maeve scoffs, waving a hand. “I want to know how the dick project’s going.”

I furrow my brow. Does she mean because Max is a dick? Or something else? “Am I doing a dick project?”

She stares at me like I should know. “You were supposed to check out the guy’s dick. Your physical therapist.”

A laugh bursts from me but it’s chased by a kernel of guilt I’ve been feeling today. I’m not even sure how to deal with it, but I don’t have friends to keep things from them. “I’m seeing Lucas in a few days. But is it weird that I feel sort of…uncertain?”

“No, it’s a date. If you didn’t feel uncertain that’d be weird,” Josie says.

But that’s not it. I’m not experiencing normal dating nerves. “It’s more like…” I pause, take a breath, then confess, “I keep having really inappropriate thoughts about the man who’s admittedly handsome .”

Maeve sets her chin in her hand.

Josie bats her lashes.

Fable gazes at me eagerly. “Well, well, well.”

“I know,” I whisper-groan. “So should I cancel with Lucas? ”

“Is something happening with Max?” Josie asks.

I shake my head. Only in my late-night fantasies. And my daydreams. “Just up here,” I say, tapping my temple. “But that’s all.”

“And is something going to happen?” Fable inquires.

I picture Zaire encouraging me to apply for the promotion. I imagine Clementine telling me it’s a bad idea to date a player, because it is. I think about the unwritten rule. There are so many reasons not to get involved with an athlete—top among them, it could detract from my ability to do my job.

Like what would happen if it went south? How would the media perceive me if word got out? Would they still trust me, respect me, talk to me?

There are so many cautionary tales from around pro sports of situations like this, and spoiler alert: The woman rarely comes out unscathed. The guy almost always does.

I see my future—the one I’m lucky to have. The one I want to grasp and hold onto. I want to learn and grow and improve. I’m so fortunate to be alive.

When I woke up in the hospital room after the accident, I made a promise—to live my best life. For me, but also for those who couldn’t.

That means not throwing away what I’ve worked for. Not losing sight of what I’ve built. I need to do things right. I need to say yes to the right things—not the tempting things. Indulging in anything with a hockey player on the team I work for would be too risky. Max is already a complicated enough project.

I can’t blow this job on a few tingles in my chest. “No,” I say, certain, strong.

“Then I say it’s a fine idea to go out with someone else to explore what it might be, even if you have a little bit of a lady boner for someone else,” Josie says.

“Sounds like it’s not really a little lady boner,” Maeve says dryly.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. “But nothing is happening with Max. And nothing is going to happen with him.”

Fable tilts her head. “This date is exactly what you need then.”

And the more I think about that, the more convinced I am she’s right.

Later that day when I’m home and my parents call on speakerphone, my mom’s first question is if we’re still on for our breakfast next weekend (of course). Her second is how’s work going (great), and her third question is whether I’m seeing anyone new.

Good thing I’m not on FaceTime. “No. I’ve been busy,” I say.

“Never too busy for love,” she chirps.

“Not true, sweetheart,” Dad corrects.

My shoulders tighten. Every cell tenses.

“Russ, it is true,” Mom says cheerily to him, like I’m not even here, but that’s fine. It’s totally fine.

“It’s true if you pick wisely,” Dad says. “Not everyone does that. Isn’t that right, Everly?”

What a leading question. What a dig. I swallow the hurt but don’t acknowledge the way it cuts. “How’s everything at the firm, Dad?” I ask, and turn the conversation around back on him.

I don’t want to discuss romance with them. Ever. Or really, much of anything.

On Monday night, I study my lingerie drawer, considering my options for tonight. Lucas won’t see them, but that’s not the point. The lingerie is for me. I pick up a few lacy bras and hold them in front of my body in the scalloped mirror in my bedroom. A sheer tulle demi bra, pale yellow with purple lace edging. It’s unconventional. A dark blue bustier. That one’s elegant. Then, a pale aqua demi bra that’s so see-through the color barely matters. It’s covered with embroidered roses and it’s called a balconette. I don’t know why it has that name, but I don’t care.

It makes me feel pretty and powerful, so I slip on the set, then grab a black silk blouse and a dark gray skirt. Perfect for my business dinner later, and it’ll work for the date too. I catch a Lyft to The Spotted Zebra, my chest flipping with nerves.

Date nerves this time.

It’s normal to be nervous before a date. Of course it is. We only have an hour, and I want to make the most of it. Then I’ll need to head over to the dinner with Max, his agent, and my boss. It’ll be good to have a start and an end. Good for both Lucas and me.

When I reach the trendy bar in Hayes Valley, I clear my thoughts, focusing only on the here and now as I swing the door open and quickly find Lucas.

He smiles, a bright, warm greeting. He’s at a table in the corner, and he pops up, runs a hand through his sandy brown hair, then offers that hand in greeting when I reach him. “Actually, wait. Can we hug instead of shake?”

I smile. “I think we know each other well enough to hug.”

He gives me a quick one, patting me on the back. It’s nice, this hug. I’m not feeling sparks, but who feels sparks from a hug ?

I sit, setting my purse next to me on the zebra-print booth by the window that looks out on the street. “I have to do a work thing later,” I say, explaining the big work bag.

“Totally get it,” he says. “I have a thing too.”

Does he though? What would he have at night? But then I tell myself not to be suspicious. To be present. To be engaged.

He asks if I want a drink, and I opt for an iced tea since I don’t want to show up tipsy to a work dinner. After he orders, he shoots me a grin. “How’s everything going? What have you been up to?”

We chat for several minutes, catching up on life, then trading book and movie recs, but when I’m about to ask him if he’s seen the newest episode of The Dating Games —a show we were both addicted to when I worked with him—the words die on my tongue.

Since my gaze catches on a man crossing the street.

It’s Max, and he’s headed this way.