Page 143 of The Romance Line
Zaire’s brow furrows right as she tilts her head, as if she’s adding up all the facts. “That is quite a speech, Everly.”
But I’m not done. “And since the interview’s about to air, I’m going to let you watch it. And I would love if you could let me know if you’re going to not just bend that rule for me but to get rid of it entirely for everyone.”
I thank them and leave.
55
ABOUT THAT SIDE HUSTLE
Max
I’m in the locker room and in my gear early. I’ve taped up my stick. My pads are on. My skates are laced. We have an early puck drop tonight, so we’ll hit the ice soon for warm-ups.
A couple of my teammates are here, too, getting ready. Wesley’s next to me, lacing up.
I could hit the ice now and do some stretches, but my mind isn’t on hockey. It’s on Everly. I hope her meeting’s going well, and I also don’t want her to be blindsided. I do something I never do. I google myself—to make sure nothing’s gotten out yet. That Elias hasn’t tried to preempt Everly by dropping that picture of us online.
Even if she’s going to neutralize him with her badass approach, even if she has a brilliant plan, and even if she’s one thousand times smarter than that prick, I need to be ready.
I swear, if I see him…
I breathe past the anger then plug my own name into Google. The first result is the brief interview from the shutout the other night. Then something about the documentary from today. Next are photos and social posts and articles from the charitable events Everly shepherded.
Fine.
That’s all fine.
There’s nothing to worry about, and Erin’s piece hasn’t aired yet. It will in a couple more minutes. I hunt around a little more when something catches my eye on the second page of results. Something I didn’t expect to see at all.
A photo of a jersey. A jersey that has a signature of my name on it, with a paw print beside it.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself. That’s the jersey I signed a few weeks ago.
I click on it and do a little digging on the site. It’s a sports auction site and there’s a whole new set of memorabilia for sale right along with a photo of five jerseys spread out on a table. Mine, Miles’s, Asher’s, Wesley’s, and Hugo’s. It’s not the set that Little Friends auctioned off the other week—I know because those were indeed auctioned off.
This is the set that I gave to Elias weeks ago. The name of the seller is CollegeSportsGuy. That little fucker has been selling our signed gear all along.
What a liar. What a thief. What a total piece of shit. And I’m smiling so wide because this right here is better than punching the guy.
Though punching him would be so gratifying. Only I’ve learned that fights don’t do me any favors. Good thing I can use my brain.
I mull this over for a minute until I come up with the perfect play. At least, I hope it is. I don’t have much time.We need to be on the ice any minute. I turn to Wesley. “Do me a solid, will you, Bryant?”
“Sure,” he says as he tightens his laces.
“Can you call Elias and tell him you have a stick for him? A signed stick?”
He arches a brow in question. “Okay, but why?”
“I need some bait to get him to come down here. And I’m pretty sure he won’t take my call.”
His easy shrug says yes. “I’m in.” He grabs his phone and dials the main number for the front office, asking for Elias. I fucking love my teammates.
Next I hunt around for Coach. I need him—or someone like him inside the Sea Dogs—to pull off this play. But he’s the best place to start since he ought to be easy for me to find right before a game. Only, he’s not in the locker room. Or the athletic trainer’s room. Hemightbe in his office, but first I pop into the video room, since he’s often there with his assistants before a game. Yup. The captain of the ship sits in a leather chair with an assistant coach, peering at a tablet, probably reviewing plays.
“Sir, how’s it going?” I ask.
Coach raises his face, his expression serious because he’s always serious. “Good, Lambert. And you?”