Chapter 22 Max
TWENTY-TWO
MAX
It’s been a week and a half. And hiding what we are to each other is harder than I thought it would be. Too fucking hard.
The thing is, Eli makes it look easy. On the ice, in the locker room, joking around with the guys—he’s the same sunshine-pain-in-the-ass he’s always been.
He almost fools me. Almost. But I know the difference.
I know the way his eyes linger a fraction longer when no one’s looking.
I know what his voice sounds like when it cracks on my name.
Those are things he can’t hide from me, even if he wanted to.
I sit at my desk in the corner of the training room, paperwork spread in front of me but untouched.
It’s the same with my homework, I have zero concentration on anything that isn’t him.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, the faint sound of laughter echoing down the hall from the rink as the team filters out for the day.
Eli’s laugh carried with them when he left—Daniel, Peter, and Todd flanking him, their voices fading as the door shut behind them. Normal. All of it perfectly normal.
So why the hell did I want to follow? To tag along as if I’m just one of them? I’m not. I’m the trainer, the coach’s right hand when it comes to keeping bodies healthy and game-ready. I don’t tag along. I know the rules.
And yet…
With a frustrated exhale, I yank my phone out of my pocket. My thumb hovers for half a second before I give in, because restraint and Eli don’t exist in the same universe anymore.
Me: Princess, make sure you’re back at your dorm by nine.
The message barely has time to send before the three dots appear.
Eli: Is that part of the whole I’m yours thing?
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I glance around the empty training room like someone might catch me grinning at my phone.
Me: Damn right it is.
His reply comes quick, bold as ever.
Eli: Okay, Grinch, I can be back by then. We can work on your holiday cheer with another Christmas movie.
I shake my head, laughing under my breath, and scrub a hand down my face. God, he’s going to undo me.
The office door creaks open, snapping me upright. I tuck my phone into my back pocket just as Coach Roberts steps out, his glasses perched low on his nose, clipboard in hand.
“Max,” he says, relief in his tone. “Glad you’re still here.”
I clear my throat, pushing back from the desk like I’ve been buried in reports instead of texting sunshine incarnate. “Yeah. Just finishing up.”
Coach steps into the room fully, the smell of his burnt coffee clinging to the air.
He flips a page on the clipboard, tapping his pen against the edge.
“Got a favor to ask. Bus company called—tomorrow’s trip to Lansing for the game got bumped up earlier because of the snow re-route.
Means the guys need pre-trip checks tonight instead of in the morning.
Can you stick around to run through them? ”
The words hit like a body check. My shoulders stiffen, and the phantom buzz of Eli’s last text is still warm against my thigh where my phone sits. Nine o’clock. His grin. We can work on your holiday cheer.
For a second, I almost tell Roberts no. Almost say I’ve got plans. But trainers don’t have plans. Trainers show up. They keep the team on their feet, make sure no pulled muscle or bruised rib sidelines the season.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say, even though the word scrapes out rough. “Of course.”
He nods, satisfied, and heads back into his office without a second glance. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone again under the harsh fluorescent lights.
I drag a hand through my hair, staring at the empty doorway. My chest feels tight, like someone just cinched a strap around it. Eli’s going to be disappointed. He’ll probably crack a joke when I text him, pretend it doesn’t sting, but I know it will.
And the worst part? I already know I’ll do the checks, tape the ankles, ice the shoulders. I’ll do the job, because that’s what I’m good at—showing up for everyone except myself.
My phone buzzes once in my back pocket, and I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to choose him instead.
Then I shove the thought down, sit back down at my desk, and get back to work.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering longer than it should. Every word feels wrong, but I type it anyway.
Me: Won’t make nine. Coach moved pre-trip checks up to tonight.
The three dots pop up almost immediately. I brace myself for the sting, for the silence, for him to finally show me what it looks like when he gets tired of being let down.
Instead—
Eli: Guess that means I’ll see you for my shoulder check. ??
And after you finish poking and prodding everyone else, you can stop by and give me a personal once-over.
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. Of course. He makes it sound easy. Light. As though it doesn’t matter that I just pulled the rug out from under him.
But I can feel it—the weight beneath his words. The way he masks whatever flicker of disappointment is there with teasing, with sunshine, because that’s who he is. He refuses to dim, even for me. Especially for me.
And it guts me.
Because I don’t just want to see him for a check. I don’t want to show up hours later smelling like antiseptic and tape, stealing scraps of time. I want all of it—his grin, his warmth, the way he makes me laugh like I haven’t since before my whole life went sideways.
I want him.
And the terrifying part is, I think I already have him.
The realization hits so sharp I sit back hard against the chair, phone clutched in my hand. Shit. I’m falling for him. Headfirst, no brakes.
And if I’m not careful, I’ll crash the same way I did before.
Before I can overthink it, before the sensible part of me can shove the phone back in my pocket, my thumbs are already moving.
Me: You still at the diner?
It’s rash. Stupid. Not trainer behavior, not professional, not me. But the second I hit send, my pulse starts hammering.
His response is instant, as if he was waiting for it.
Eli: Yeah. You coming?
My throat goes dry. I should say no. I should back out now, salvage what’s left of my common sense.
Instead…
Me: Might stop by.
And just like that, I’m walking. Out into the cold, down the shoveled path, my breath puffing white in front of me as I cross toward the glow of the diner windows. Through the glass I spot them—Eli, Daniel, Todd, Peter. Normal. All of it painfully, beautifully normal.
I push the door open, the bell overhead chiming, and four heads turn my way.
“Calder?” Todd blinks, confused.
I clear my throat, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets as if that’ll make me look less out of place. “Was grabbing coffee, figured I’d, uh—stop in. Didn’t know you guys were here.” A lie. They all know it.
Daniel and Todd share a look, something wordless passing between them. Peter shrugs, unconcerned, and turns back to his fries.
And Eli—sweet, infuriating Eli—doesn’t miss a beat. He scoots closer to Daniel, patting the empty space on the bench beside him. “Plenty of room, Calder. Sit.”
Like I belong there.
Perfectly normal.
I slide onto the bench, shoulders stiff, trying not to lean into Eli even though he’s right there, close enough that his knee brushes mine. He smells like peppermint and sugar, like he always does, and I tell myself it’s fine. It’s normal.
Eli glances at me, eyes bright, and says, “Didn’t think the Grinch did diners. Too much cheer in one place, right?”
My jaw tightens. “Just came for the food.”
“Sure you did.” His grin is pure trouble, blue eyes dancing as he tips his straw between his teeth. “Bet you’ll order black coffee too. He always does,” he adds, loud enough for the table, though his gaze flicks to mine as though it’s meant only for me.
Todd chuckles, shaking his head. “Figures.”
Daniel, though—Daniel tilts his head, studying Eli with a look that lingers a second too long. Then his eyes flick to me. Not accusing, not obvious, but sharp. Like he’s clocking something the others haven’t.
I force a shrug, reaching for a menu I don’t need. “Black coffee doesn’t lie.”
“Neither do peppermint lattes,” Eli shoots back, all innocent-like, but I can feel the heat in it, the deliberate nudge meant to test me.
My hand tightens around the menu. Under the table, his knee presses lightly into mine, a subtle reminder that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
And from the corner of my eye, I catch Daniel’s faint smirk—like he knows too.
I force my tone flat, clipped. “Peppermint lattes are just sugar with a caffeine complex. Not real coffee.”
Eli gasps, one hand to his chest like I just insulted his mom. “Blasphemy. You wound me, Calder. Truly.”
Daniel hides a grin behind his glass, like he’s enjoying the show way too much. Todd and Peter are already arguing about who has the best fries on campus, oblivious.
I keep my eyes locked on the menu, jaw set, but then Eli leans in, voice pitched low enough that only I catch it. “Guess that explains why you’re so grumpy. No sweetness in your system. We should fix that.”
My grip on the menu falters, the corner digging into my palm. Against my better judgment, I glance at him—and damn it, he’s beaming at me, blue eyes alive with mischief.
The slip up comes before I can stop it. The corner of my mouth twitches upward. Barely there, quick as a spark, but I know Daniel sees it.
His brows lift a fraction. He doesn’t say a word, but the look he gives me is enough: Got you.
I shove the menu back onto the table, muttering, “You’re ridiculous,” but the damage is already done.
Because Eli’s grin only widens at the half hearted insult that he knows is my love language, and I can’t quite smother mine fast enough.