Page 10 of The Romance Line
She’s made a one-upmanship-style approach of asking me to talk to the press after every single game even though I’ve made it crystal clear I don’t do media.
This is merely a brief detente—not an end to our battle. Then, because she might have noticed I’m holding two cups, I thrust one her way. “For some reason, they gave me two London fog lattes,” I say, then offer one of the Earl Grey concoctions to her. “You like them, right?”
Curiosity flickers across her eyes, and she studies me for a beat, her lips curving up. “I do.”
“Cool,” I say, waggling the cup. “It’s yours then.”
She takes it. “Thanks. They’re my favorite.”
“Even better,” I say, as if I didn’t know that already.
Once inside, she heads one way and I go the other way to the locker room, then hit the ice, the one place where no one really bothers me.
That evening, the Seattle winger barrels toward me, swift, determined. But I’m not in the mood to let any goals in.
Nothing to do but deflect the puck.
A minute later, one of their guys is flying around the back of the net, flipping the little black disc to a forward who aims then shoots.
Not on my watch. I drop to my knees, my leg pad blocking the shot.
Better luck next time.
And the next time, the puck flies at me and I knock it down, where it lands harmlessly on the ice.
For another period, they come at me, as they should. But I’m feeling impenetrable tonight.
Imagine that.
By the time the game clock winds down, I swear every player in their lineup has tried and failed to take a shot.
When the buzzer blares, I’ve nabbed a shutout.
My closest friends on the team, Wesley Bryant and Asher Callahan, skate over to me, clapping me on the back as we head off the ice.
In the tunnel, I rip off my helmet, and as promised, Everly’s waiting at the end. She gives a crisp nod, and I nod right back, then move on as she asks some of the other guys to talk to the media. Technically, all players are supposed to be accessible.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my suit and out of there, earbuds in, an online course playing that I really need to focus on as I head for the team bus that’ll take us to the airport.
But when I hop on it, the driver is nodding her head, rocking out to “Surprise Me.” It’s so loud, I can hear it even as the instructor in my ears rattles on about navigational tools used in the eighteenth century.
“Can you shut that off?” I ask.
“Lyra? No way. She’s the best,” the driver says, but then her eyes widen, her lips part, and something must click. “Oh. Shit. You’re…”
Yeah, I’m the guy who inspired the break-up song that America’s sweetheart sent to the top of the charts. Only that’s not the way things went down.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
Doesn’t matter. I head to the back of the bus, slump down and listen to the class so I can take a quiz later this week to see how much I’ve memorized. I don’t miss the way things used to be. Really, I don’t.
The next morning, I’m back home in jeans and a Henley, about to head out to see Garrett at the kebab place. I’ll be skipping today’s team yoga class for this, but I’ve got the distinct impression that this meeting with him will be more important than one with the yoga mat. I’m heading downstairs, phone in hand, when a text from him lands.
Best we have this meeting at the office, Max.
Doesn’t take a genius to know bad news is coming my way.
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