The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

My heart bounces from the admission. But does it really change anything? I don’t know. That’s the problem with Max—I’ve never had answers. Maybe because I haven’t ever known the questions.

Or the score.

I try to tamp down my emotions as I hold open the door for him. He’s a guy coming to apologize, and that’s that. “It’s a London fog latte,” he explains as he hands me a cup.

It’s just a caffeinated beverage. I take it, trying not to clasp it as if it’s some incredible gift while I berate myself for wishing it were one. I shouldn’t want his gifts so much, or the boyfriend treatment behind them. I shouldn’t want them to mean something…big.

Like he’s mine.

He swallows roughly, then nods to the cup in my hand. “ I didn’t know if you liked decaf at night. So I got you both. That’s the caffeinated one.”

I clutch it tighter. “I live for caffeine.”

“Me too,” he says, but his voice sounds raw. “Everly, I didn’t know she was coming.” It’s said like a confession—one that’s vital for me to know.

“It’s okay. I’m not upset.” That’s mostly true. Pole got me through my topsy-turvy, terrifying feelings—I have too many of those when it comes to this man. But I don’t have a right to be upset. He’s not mine, and he can’t be mine.

Max steps closer, pushing the door closed behind him. The last time we were alone in my house I wound up against the wall, in his arms, falling apart. I can’t let that happen again tonight.

“I feel like shit because she texted me a few days ago,” he adds.

I freeze. “She did?” I’m so confused now. I don’t know what to think.

“She said hi and asked if we could talk. I ignored it,” he says, like that was the worst thing he could have done when I probably would’ve done the same if I were him. “That was a mistake. I have no idea why she showed up today. No clue what she’s up to. But I probably could’ve stopped her if I’d picked up the phone and talked to her.” He drags his free hand through his wildly messy hair that he’s likely been making messier all night. “Like I could have stopped all those goals tonight. I fucked that shit up too.”

“It’s one game. The season is long. You put it behind you like you always do,” I say, reassuring him because he’s surprisingly hard on himself tonight after a loss. He’s not usually like this .© NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, but his eyes betray his frustration.

Then I remember what the press said—that she consoled him after losses. Maybe they know more about him than I do. Maybe this is how he normally behaves when they don’t win. Maybe I know him less than I’d thought I did.

I feel so unmoored. I take a drink of the beverage rather than speaking. I’m not sure what I’m ready to say to him.

When I lower the cup, he says, “I brought you something else too.” He dips a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and takes out an envelope.

I wasn’t expecting anything at all. I gesture to the purple couch and we sit down, setting the cups on the French blue wooden coffee table across from me. He hands me the white envelope, and it’s from You Look Gorgeous Today. “That’s my salon,” I say.

I look at the card as if it’s an oddity, then at the man who’s not scowling at me, or smirking. Those are his usual expressions. But right now, his face is open, hopeful.

Curious, I slide a finger under the flap, then take out the card and flip it open. “A lifetime supply of blowouts for Everly Rosewood,” I read out loud, my mouth falling open in shock before I say, “You covered all of my blowouts for the rest of my life?”

Max smiles, that familiar cocky variety that hits me right in the heart and in the panties. “You once said if you had a dollar for every time I turned down a media request, you’d have enough for a lifetime supply of blowouts from your stylist, Aubrey. So I googled stylists named Aubrey in the city and went to her salon tonight.” His smile burns off. “I wanted to give you something you wanted. Something you’d never do for yourself. Something that mattered. Because I know the event didn’t go perfectly and even if she wasn’t there, I wasn’t…” He stops to collect his thoughts. “I’m not some affable guy. Like Asher. Someone the press loves. Or even Wesley who has this easy way about him. That’s not me. I don’t know if it will ever be me. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to pull this off. I really don’t like all the attention.”

He’s not complaining. He’s simply laying himself bare.

Something in me softens. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him he should just be himself and that none of this image stuff matters. But we live in a world of reputation and perception. We work in that world. We don’t have the luxury of shying away from the public. “It can be hard and uncomfortable,” I say gently, wanting him to know I understand where he’s coming from. “But for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job. I don’t think anyone expected you to transform overnight or to become somebody who loves that stuff. I know I didn’t expect that.”

He sinks into the couch, blowing out a breath like that eases his mind somewhat but perhaps not completely, since he adds, “But you are good at it. You’re good at all of this. And I want you to know how much it means to me. If it wasn’t for you, I probably would’ve gone full beast in Beauty and the Beast today. And I mean the bellowing beast,” he says with a wry grin, and it’s like he’s waiting for me to laugh, but with that comment I’m even more confused by this gift. Is it a professional gift or a personal one? I turn the card over a few times, wondering if it’s a thank you for my hard work, or if it’s…more?

There’s no room in your professional life for more. “You didn’t have to do this,” I say of the gift, since that’s the easiest reply to give.

He sits up straighter. “I wanted to. I wanted you to have something you like,” he says, then goes quiet, perhaps waiting for me to look at him again in the silence. And I do because I’m too drawn to him. When our gazes connect, he says, “The only thing on my mind during the event was you. All I could think about was you. I was so fucking worried you’d think I was back together with Lyra.”

You. All I could think about was you .

Those words wrap around me, like an embrace from a lover. Like a whispered confession. Like everything I secretly wanted to hear. My chest swells with emotion. I close my eyes because it’s all too much tonight. All these feelings I never wanted to have for him are bubbling up, overwhelming me. I hardly know what to do with them—whether to give them voice or keep them safe, locked up inside me.

Another question I don’t have the answer to.

His strong hand cups my chin, his touch tender. My eyes fly open, and he’s looking at me with so much longing in his blue eyes. “The whole time I was there, the only thing that mattered was what you thought. I know what everyone else was saying. They were acting like I’d gotten back together with her. They were trying to create this story that she was there to support me. But all I cared about was what you thought. You, Everly. Just you.”

My heart pounds mercilessly against my rib cage, fighting to get into his arms. It’s such a lovely, gorgeous admission and such a dangerous one too. And I hate that I love it so much. But he’s cracking open his heart. I can try to open some of mine. “I honestly wasn’t sure what to think. And I didn’t want everything we’d worked for to fall apart. I felt so much pressure. I feel all this pressure every day at work—pressure I put on myself. Pressure they put on me. It’s good pressure, mostly. But it’s still pressure, and I really needed the event to go well. Then, out of nowhere she appeared, and everything went off the rails. The press lost their mind, and she became the story—not everything we were trying to build. And even though I felt so unsteady, I had to ignore all these feelings inside me and…right the ship somehow. I had to find a way to put everything back in order. It’s silly but I felt like I was the only one who could do it. I wouldn’t let it fall apart,” I say, taking a small step closer as I speak the truth on all those fronts. As I let him in.

“And you did it. You’re a fucking goddess. But you have to know why I’m so bad at pretending in front of the media. I couldn’t think about the event, not even the dogs, not the script you gave me. All I could think about was you. And whatever it is that you’re doing to me…that I just can’t stop,” he says, and this feels so unreal. Like it’s happening to someone else in another world, in another story. Someone who has a different job that isn’t hemmed in by so many unwritten rules.

“Max,” I say, my voice breaking because I’m too scared to say anything more. Like if I open my mouth, I’ll tell him that I could fall for him and never look back.

He reaches for my hands, takes both of them in his. “I was worried about you during the game too. What you were thinking about when I was playing, and it messed with my head.”

That was why he had a bad game. I fight off a smile because I shouldn’t enjoy this. But I do. “I wasn’t sure what to think when I saw her,” I admit, since we’re not holding back anymore. And since we’re laying ourselves bare, I add, “But I was hoping she wasn’t there for you.”

A small smile tips his lips—one of relief maybe. Like he can relax now that I’ve shared some of myself too.

“Know this,” he says emphatically. “I think about you far too much. I think about you all the time. I’ve been thinking about you for so fucking long and denying it. For the last year, I’ve been thinking about you and thinking I didn’t like you.” The words seem to pour out with no sign of stopping, though I make a mental note that I’ve been on his mind since several months after his painful breakup. That surprises me, but also kind of thrills me. “But I don’t think that was the case at all.” He pauses, breathes out hard. “It’s the opposite.”

My breath catches, and I feel like I’m going to cry. My throat is tight, and my eyes are shining, and my heart is beating too fast. This is a new kind of courage, but I’m pretty sure I’m ready for this. “It’s the same for me,” I admit.

When he smiles, there’s nothing cocky in it. It’s utter relief.

“Good. That’s so damn good,” he says, resting his forehead briefly against mine. I feel caught in this heady world with him, where it’s only us, and he’s breathing against me in the night.

My fingers trace his bottom lip, and I take another chance. “You hardly smile…but you do with me.”

“I guess you’ve figured me out,” he says quietly. Then he pulls back. “I came over here, too, to tell you what happened that night a year and a half ago. A week or so after the fight, when everyone showed up at my sister’s house. I want you to know everything.”

My heart clenches at the way he’s letting me in so deeply, so freely. I want to hear all his stories. I want to know him better. I want to understand him even when I shouldn’t, even when it’s risky.

But right now, I don’t want to talk.

“Tell me later,” I say.

I grab the back of his neck and pull him against me, then I slide down on the couch, dragging this big hockey player with me, the full weight of his big frame on me.

This delicious feeling of being surrounded by him spreads through my body. By his strength, by his scent, by his passion. That feeling takes over everything, including my scarred and broken heart.

I don’t text my friends. I don’t want to stop. I want to unlock all these feelings for him.

I look up into his heated eyes, then say something risky and true. “Show me how much you think about me.”