Page 81 of The Romance Line
Irrational irritation ratchets up in me as they talkabout what a great season Bane is having on the LA team. Next, they cut to a clip of him in the locker room last night after a win. “We capitalized on the power plays. We’ve been skating well and matching our opponents. And we just played hard all around.” Then he flashes a charming grin worthy of all the toothpaste commercials in the land. “What can I say? You have to jump on the opportunities life affords you.”
I want to reach through the computer and smack him. And smack Lyra for hurting Max. And then smack myself for feeling all of these feelings.
I drop my head on my desk, sighing listlessly. I shouldn’t care about Max’s ex-girlfriend. Or his rival. I shouldn’t care about how they hurt him. Maybe I should even be grateful she cheated on him. If she’d been faithful, I probably wouldn’t have had that screaming set of orgasms the other night.
I groan. What is wrong with me? I can’t actually be glad that he’s single so he could…please me?
Besides, nothing more is going to come of that brief two-night tryst with Max. I lift my face from my desk, smooth out my hair, and return to my job. Reading and watching everything that was said last night. Jamie, one of the podcasters, has stitched the barrage of questions from the press together, then his commentary comes next with, “And now, winning cliché of the month, is Max Lambert for this chestnut.”
Before I can watch more, my phone trills with Zaire’s ringtone.
I answer it right away, and she says, “Good job last night with Lambert.”
“Thank you.”
“You coaxed more than a one-word grunt out of him.You got a real comment,” she says, laying on praise I don’t deserve. “What magic did you work?”
“I guess it was the right time,” I say, like it was nothing, when in fact it was my magic panties.
“Keep up the good work. You are a makeover queen,” Zaire says, then moves on to other topics.
But the thing is—she’s right. I am damn good at my job. I do know how to handle the press. I want the promotion badly. I want to live my boldest, brightest life. I want to be the best that I can.
A tryst in the equipment room simply can’t happen again. Too much is at stake. The job, the potential promotion, and especially the reputation rehab. It’s too important to too many people.
Which means it’s time to call for backup.
When I get off the call, I text my friends and request an emergency meeting this weekend.I need a girls’ night this weekend. Fair warning—I need a major strategy session. Bring wine.
Seconds later, Josie responds first with:On it!
And it’s a relief to speak the complete and utter truth.
26
A DAMN GOOD MOOD
Max
I’m still in a damn fine mood a few hours before game time. Maybe because I spent a good long time in my hotel room in Dallas on Tuesday and Wednesday night with the pic Everly sent of her looking like sin in my shirt.
Spent extra time with that snap last night, and this morning, too, here in Nashville.
With the endorphins still fueling me, I’m damn near strutting down the hallway with Asher at the Nashville arena, all cold concrete and an intimidating atmosphere that only fuels my desire to beat the other team tonight.
“Hey, Miles,” I call out since he’s up ahead several feet, and I can’t resist giving my teammates hell. It’s part of my good mood.
Miles turns back to me with a chin nod. “What’s up?”
“You’re avoiding me, and I know why.”
Miles isn’t a gamer for nothing, since he adopts a blank face as he asks, “What would I be avoiding you for?”
Like he doesn’t know. “My three-of-a-kind last night on the plane. I beat you in poker. Bryant and Callahan paid up. You did not. You owe me one hundred bucks too. Don’t try to get out of it again.”
Miles glares at me as he stops, lifts his phone from a pocket, and makes a show of Venmo-ing me the money. “Someday I’m going to figure out what your trick is with poker,” he says, defeated, like he was last night too.
Shame.