Page 129 of The Romance Line
It’s a good look, and I’m seriously proud of him.
A man with wispy strands of hair who’s hunched over his table calls Max over. The older man tilts his face toward Max and asks him something. Max shakes his head and replies. The man keeps asking questions and Max’s expression turns more concerned, more worried. I wish I could make out what they’re saying. It looks like Max is trying to reassure the man but doesn’t know how.Soon, a woman who works at the center comes over and intervenes.
With tension in his jaw and sadness in his eyes, Max heads for the exit where I’m standing with Elias. He swallows roughly, uncomfortably too, then mutters as he passes us, “Excuse me.”
And Elias has the audacity to snap another picture. But as Max turns into the nearby men’s room down the hall, I wheel on Elias, raising a finger. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” It’s asked so innocently.
“Don’t use that picture.”
“Why not?”
“He’s obviously upset.”
“It’s a real-life picture. It shows Max has feelings.”
Elias has no idea. “No,” I say firmly, standing my ground.
He gives me a look like I’m a Pollyanna. “This is the stuff people love, Everly. Seeing the real side of an athlete. I know it because I played sports.” Of course he went there. “And I know because I interact with the real people at every game,” he adds.
And he went there too.
“And I know that part of the job in PR is to protect our players. This is personal. Please delete it,” I say, standing my ground. I don’t care what Elias suspects about me. He’s not posting a photo of Max visibly affected like that.
Annoyed, Elias stares at me for several seconds then relents. “Fine.” He makes a show of deleting it.
“Thank you.”
Max comes out of the bathroom, dragging a hand through his hair. It looks like he’s been hit with bad news, and I want to run to him and comfort him.
But I can’t.
When we get to the car, I tug him back, a few feet away to quickly ask. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“That man was asking about his son. If he was coming to visit. And I tried to talk to him, but then the woman who came over, she said his son had already visited and—” He stops like there are stones in his throat, then he pushes on. “This is how it started with my grandfather. The forgetting.”
My throat swells. My eyes sting. “Max, I’m so sorry.” He takes a small step toward me before he must think the better of it.
I can tell he wants to hold me as much as I want to be his shoulder to lean on.
Instead, I have to wait till later that night, when he comes over for our movie night that he invited me to. It feels like an endless wait, but as I curl up in his arms, I try to believe that soon we’ll have more than stolen moments.
One more night.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself. That’s what Max tells me on Thursday evening as we get ready for dinner together at my place. I feel antsy but in a whole new way. In a Christmas Eve kind of way. Once we make it through dinner, I can devise a proper plan for talking to Zaire. One that’s thoughtful. One that shows this relationship with Max is serious. One that shows how much I want the promotion or at the very least to stay in my job. If she doesn’t make an exception to the unwritten rule, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I know I’m strong enough to handle it.
I button my blouse and fluff out my hair in thebathroom mirror. It’s down tonight. “Like my blowout?” I say to Max. I used one of the lifetime supplies this evening.
“Love it,” he says, then comes up behind me and presses a kiss to my neck. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you’re doing?”
I smile. “Yes. But I’m not doing it tonight. I have an early Zoom meeting at eight tomorrow with the East Coast and you have that interview tomorrow with The Sports Network,” I say, reminding him of both our schedules, and of the interview he agreed to do with our broadcast partner. Plus, I don’t want him to get too excited. I need to get some rest after this dinner—not come home and brainstorm how to save my job. There will be time in the near future. “Let’s focus on this dinner and we can start figuring it all out tomorrow. And come up with a smart plan. I promise.”
Tomorrow night Max leaves for a week-long stretch of away games on the East Coast—ones I’m not attending—so I’ll have some time to put plans into motion.
“I know, sunshine. I know. But I’m here for you.”
I turn around, smooth a hand over his purple shirt, then meet his eyes. “We’ve got this.”