Chapter 2 Max
TWO
MAX
It’s not that I’m afraid of the calendar shoot. I just don’t like being roped into stupid things I didn’t sign up for, and anything involving Starling is guaranteed to be stupid. Loud. Glittery. Possibly sticky.
Sure, it’s for a good cause, that part isn’t stupid, and it will probably earn that charity a ton of money. I’ve seen the guys shirtless, and they will sell whatever they are trying to sell. It’s Starling.
The guy is obsessed with Christmas. It’s barely November, and all he does is sing carols at every practice. He could at least let Halloween have its victory lap. Sure, it’s been a week, but when I have to wait an entire year for my favorite holiday to come back, I need time to grieve.
But the second he threw down that bet, I knew I wasn’t walking away. Call it pride, call it not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but I’m not backing out.
Nate Thompson’s perched on the bench in front of me, shirt off, while I work my thumbs gently into the tight knot in his shoulder. He winces, and I remind him, again, to actually stretch before practice.
The shower room door swings open with a rush of steam, and in breezes trouble himself.
Hair damp, towel slung low on his hips, a grin so wide it should be illegal.
He strolls right past the row of lockers and plants himself next to me, close enough that a cold droplet slides off his wet and tousled hair and lands on my forearm.
“Hey, future co-star,” Eli says, propping one hand on the back of the bench so he can lean into my space without actually touching me. “How’s the patient?”
“Better before you showed up,” I mutter, keeping my attention on Nate’s shoulder.
Eli ignores my annoyance completely. “So I’ve been brainstorming…what if we did candy cane stripes? Painted on. Minimal clothing. Full commitment.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he says, grinning. “Or—hear me out—we go full North Pole chic. I’ll wear an elf hat; you get reindeer antlers. Very on-brand for us.”
“I don’t have a brand,” I tell him.
“You do now,” he says, tilting his head and pursing his lips as he studies me.
“The whole broody ‘don’t touch me’ thing paired with festive accessories?
That’s calendar gold. Especially since…” He pauses, grinning wider.
“You’d basically be Max from The Grinch—you know, the dog?
Loyal, cranky by association, forced to wear antlers? ”
I glare at him, but it’s not doing much; he’s already raising his eyebrows at me, grinning as if he’s just won the Stanley Cup.
“It’s fate,” he says. “The universe is practically begging me to make this happen.”
I shake my head and go back to working the knot out of Nate’s shoulder, pretending I’m not giving the comment another thought. But of course, I am.
Max from The Grinch. Loyal. Cranky. Stuck putting up with the idiot in charge. It’s not…entirely wrong. Which makes it worse.
“Not happening,” I tell him.
Eli tilts his head, already filing away my reaction for future use. “We’ll see.”
That smile—smug, bright, completely unfazed—sticks with me even after he finally wanders off to get dressed.
I finish up with Nate and start putting away the tape and ice packs, telling myself I should be annoyed. But the truth? Part of me is already wondering how ridiculous I’d look in those antlers…and how much Eli would laugh if I actually wore them.
The first thing I smell when I walk into the rink isn’t ice; it’s sugar. Specifically, peppermint and steamed milk, which means Eli Starling’s already here.
I wrap my hands around my black coffee like it’s armor and step onto the bench line, scanning the ice. Sure enough, he’s mid-lap, red practice jersey bright against the white, grinning like this is the most fun anyone’s ever had at seven in the morning.
The second he spots me, he changes direction and skates straight over, stopping close enough that cold air wafts off of him and clings to my jacket.
“Morning, partner,” he says, taking an exaggerated sip from his paper cup that was resting on the railing. “I’ve been thinking—we could go for a ‘cozy winter cabin’ vibe. You in a chunky sweater, me with a blanket, mugs of cocoa between us.”
“No,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“Or…” He taps his lips, eyes narrowing as if he’s picturing it. “Matching pajamas. Maybe reindeer onesies. Think about the sales numbers.”
“Not happening.”
He smirks, clearly hearing the lack of conviction in my voice. “You’re going to break eventually, Calder. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Starling!” Todd’s voice booms from across the rink. “Net, now!”
Eli grins at me shamelessly before he takes another long sip and sets the cup back on the railing. Then blows me a kiss before skating backward toward the crease, still holding my gaze like this is his personal challenge.
I take another drink of my coffee, telling myself it’s the caffeine making my pulse kick, but that’s a lie. It’s him. He’s gotten under my skin for a long time, actually. The worst part is, I don’t hate it.
I should, because that little performance as I got here was pure Eli: loud, distracting, and absolutely unnecessary. But there’s something about the way he commits to the bit—like once he’s decided on a mission, he’s going to see it through no matter how ridiculous—that gets under my skin.
And that’s dangerous.
Because the second he realizes I’m not immune, I’m done for.
I make a slow circuit around the rink, coffee in hand, keeping an eye on the guys who’ve been flagged lately—Nate’s shoulder, Peters’ tweaked wrist, and now our backup goalie, Dean, who’s been favoring his left leg all week.
When the drill pauses, I flick my eyes toward Dean. “You feeling that groin pull again?” I ask as he skates by the bench.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, which is hockey-player code for yes, but I’d rather die than sit out.
I don’t buy it. “Ease up on the butterfly drops. If it gets worse, you’re sitting. I mean it.”
Dean just nods and glides away.
Todd skates over, stick resting against his shoulder. “Problem?”
“Dean’s still tight on that left side,” I tell him. “If you want him for Saturday, back him off today. Let Eli take the extra reps.”
Todd smirks. “Pretty sure Eli will love that.”
I glance toward the net where Starling’s grinning under his mask like he just heard his name. He probably did. That guy’s radar for attention is freakishly accurate.
“Just… keep the drills clean,” I say. “And if anyone else starts making that face Nate makes when he’s hurt, pull them.”
Todd chuckles. “You’re like the team’s grumpy mother.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee. “And you’re welcome.”
They run their practice, and I watch with a clinical eye, looking for any tells that one of them is injured. Freaking hockey players will play through anything for ice time.
I glance toward the crease. Starling’s crouched in position, mask tipped back, posturing as though he’s got the whole rink under control. Which is exactly when he decides to push off and glide over to me during the break in drills.
He props his stick against the boards, takes a long sip of his peppermint latte, and eyes my coffee. “You know, Calder, if you swapped that sludge for something with actual flavor, you’d look ten years younger in our calendar spread.”
“I’m not drinking liquid candy,” I say.
“Fine, but I’m still thinking—what if we do a ‘snow day’ theme? I’m bundled up in a scarf with no shirt, you’re holding an umbrella, snow falling all around us.”
I arch a brow. “Umbrella? On ice?”
“Unexpected. Quirky. Memorable.” He grins like it’s a done deal. “That’s how you make magic, Calder.”
“Magic,” I repeat, deadpan.
Before I can tell him exactly what I think of his plan, Todd’s whistle cuts through the air. “Starling! Back on the net!”
Eli pushes off, calling over his shoulder as he skates back to the net. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ve got at least three more ideas for you.”
I take a sip of my coffee and pretend I’m not looking forward to hearing them.
Steam fogs the locker room mirrors, and the air’s thick with that mix of soap, sweat, and whatever body spray Peter thinks is acceptable to wear in public. I’m putting the last of the tape and ice packs away when Eli appears, hair damp, still grinning like practice was the highlight of his life.
He plants himself in front of my examining table, towel hanging low around his hips, peppermint latte in hand.
He’s not wasting a drop of that liquid sugar.
It definitely is cold by now, and I’m surprised it isn’t gone with how much he’s sipping on it.
I shake my head and focus on putting away my stuff.
“Still thinking about options,” he says, taking a long sip. “We could do a ‘snowball fight’ theme. You shirtless, obviously. I’d be laughing adorably in the background while pelting you with marshmallows.”
“No.”
“Or—hear me out—two-man sled. I’m steering, you’re…the sled.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Starling, you do realize that sentence alone is a violation of some kind of workplace boundary?”
He grins like I’ve just encouraged him. “Oh, I’m just getting started. Wait until you hear my ‘mistletoe ambush’ concept.”
I grab my coffee and stand, towering over him, but he doesn’t move back up an inch. “You have way too much time on your hands.”
“And you,” he says, grinning up at me before leaning his bare back against the lockers behind him, “are going to look amazing while hating every second of it. That’s our brand, Calder. I’m sugar and sweet, and you're not. That’s okay, we can work that angle.”
I shake my head and walk away, but the smile tugging at my mouth betrays me before I make it out the door and into the locker room. I keep walking as he follows me out.
“Think about it, Calder!” Eli calls after me, voice bouncing off the walls. “I’ve got a whole Pinterest board with your name on it!”
I don’t turn around. If I do, he’ll see the smirk I’m fighting to hide.
Once I’m out in the hallway, the noise of the locker room fades, replaced by the low hum of the vending machines and the faint scrape of my boots on the floor. I take a long drink of my ice-cold coffee, letting the bitterness cut through the taste of peppermint he always seems to leave in the air.
I should be annoyed. Irritated. Something other than this low, reluctant amusement that’s been creeping in since the second Todd paired us for that calendar.
But the truth is, every ridiculous idea he throws at me sticks—antlers, marshmallows, sled—and I catch myself wondering what he’ll come up with next.
Wondering how long I can keep pretending I’m not curious to find out.
Or that I’m ready to do whatever insane idea he has inside his head, just to see him smile.