Page 88 of The Romance Line
“That’s awesome. Seriously excited for you. Let’s catch up soon. Want to grab a bite to eat with my friends and me? One of my girlfriends works for the Renegades.”
“I’d love that,” she says, then I say goodbye to her and her dad.
I spend the next few hours before game time hustling my butt off. I haven’t even seen Max since he’s returned, but that’s okay.
We are just player and publicist—that is all.
With everything set for the event, and all sorts of media coming for photos, I head to the press box as a high school choir sings the national anthem. I arrive right before the one o’clock puck drop. The game begins, and two minutes into it, everyone’s eyes are drawn to the Jumbotron.
Lyra Raine’s face is on it, and she’s here at center ice, sitting in the stands.
28
SNEAK ATTACK
Everly
It’s my job to know how to handle surprises, but I am simply stumped. She’s not here to sing the national anthem. I don’t know what to make of this surprise appearance—nor do the members of the press. Gus peers at the Jumbotron with his brow pinched, then looks down at his screen, like the answer will materialize there.
Claudia’s jaw drops, and in a raspy, former two-pack-a-day, awed voice, she says, “No way.”
Jamie, the young podcaster, points at the huge screen above the ice, and blurts out, “Holy shit. Is that her?”
Her.
That’s all he says.
Her.
She’s so famous, she doesn’t even need to be called by her name, Lyra Raine, or as she’s more often known,America’s sweetheart. She’s famous enough that she’s just…her. Bloggers, reporters, and talk radio hosts scramble.There’s a shuffling of equipment, phones, cameras. And then it’s complete and utter chaos as reporters text their editors, lift their phones, and tap out social media posts, stat.
Jamie hoots then rubs his palms together. “And today, Jamie will be playing the role of an entertainment reporter.”
Gus turns to me, always the news hound, tilting his head. “Did you know she was going to be here?”
My skin is as cold as my confidence is shot. “No.”
Jamie is studying the Jumbotron where Lyra’s chatting and smiling with a familiar-looking female friend—an actress perhaps. “Holy shit,” Jamie says. “She’s not with Fletcher. She’s just with a friend.” To no one at all but the computer screen, he adds, “I bet they’re back together. Why else would she be here? A year and a half later? She shows up at his game on the day of a charity event? They’ve got to be a couple again.”
Gus scoffs. “She’s probably just trying to get his attention.”
Claudia snorts as she types. “I bet she already has it. She used to do this when they were together. Just show up as a surprise for him. He loved it. And when he’d lose, she’d console him in the corridor right after.”
My stomach pitches. My throat tightens. My hands feel clammy. Is she here for him? Are they back together? Is that why we didn’t talk when he was on the road? It’s completely possible that she could be here to see him again. Why else would she show up at a Sea Dogs game in early November on a Wednesday afternoon? There’s no reason for her to be here other than to see Max and to get him back.
I wrap my arm around my waist like I need to protectmyself from all these possibilities as I stand here in the corner of the press room, the most surprised of all of them, with nothing to say because I don’t have a clue what’s going on.
I don’t know the answer to any of the questions, but I do know how I compare to America’s sweetheart and that’s…disappointingly.
The worst part? He lets in a goal in the first five minutes when the Golden State Foxes send a puck flying through his legs. From three floors away, all the way up in the press box, I swear I can see him curse from behind his goalie mask.
I can’t.
Of course I can’t, but I can tell that’s how he feels. He’s surprised she’s here—so surprised he’s off his game. But is it a good surprise or a bad surprise? Those questions gnaw at me through the first period as the Foxes score again on the type of easy shot that Max almost always blocks. When the first period ends, no one leaves the press room because a Sports Network reporter is down there in the stands, sticking a mic in the pop star’s face, and the Jumbotron is carrying the broadcast. “What a surprise to see you here. I would’ve thought you would be singing the national anthem,” he says to her.
The pop star smiles, so self-deprecatingly, the kind of smile the world loves, then says, “That would be so great. What an honor that would be.”
“Maybe you can come back for it?”