My Undoing #3
“So you want to discuss it? Perfect. I’ll tell them you’ll be there shortly.”
I brace myself for his retort, since of course he won’t talk. But then, in a strangely serious voice, he says, “I’ll be there in ten. At the media room.”
It’s said evenly, with zero snark. A simple promise, and I’m taken aback. Does he mean it? No idea. Max heads to the locker room and for ten long minutes I hope, and I pace, and I pray.
I’m in the media room adjusting the mic for Miles when Max Lambert strides in first, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. It’s like a spotting in the wild of a rare Malayan tiger.
I hold my breath. The last time he interacted with the press he told them to fuck right off.
Please, Max, don’t do that again.
Reporters whisper. Media members whip out phones. Podcasters stand up, at the ready with mics. I’ve got my phone lifted too. No idea if I’ll use this on our social, but right now I want evidence.
Questions and comments fly with abandon.
“They say you’re a difficult guy to coach.”
“I hear you don’t get along with your teammates.”
“Why have you refused to talk to the press for more than a year?”
“Did you know BuzzFeed ranked your fight with Bane as one of the ten best hockey fights ever?”
“Max, what was going through your head that night at your sister’s house when you told the photographers to F off?”
My stomach roils. Maybe I should have kept him away from the press. Maybe this isn’t worth it after all. I seriously consider running over to him in my heels, putting my hands on his chest and mustering all my strength to push him right out of the media room.
Instead, as I stand inside the doorway, recording the impromptu press conference, I turn to the press in the room. “Please focus on tonight’s game or he'll have to leave,” I tell them and my tone is decidedly icy.
But it’s like Max didn’t even hear their questions—or really, like he doesn’t care. He leans into the mic and takes the fuck over. “Hear you all wanted to know why I had a good game tonight.”
Which is not at all what they said.
Gus sticks up a hand. “Yes, and why have you been so elusive for the last year and a half? What’s going on with you for real?”
My blood is pumping too fast. I wanted him to talk to the press so badly that I hadn’t considered that it could backfire for all of us—him, me, the team. I have to fix this. “He’s not here to discuss anything but tonight’s game,” I say crisply to Gus and by extension, everyone else.
Then Erin sticks out her mic. “What motivated you in tonight’s game, Max? Take us through your performance and what drove you.”
It’s a softball question, but at least she understood that I simply won’t let him answer hardball ones.
“Let me tell you something about tonight,” Max says, staying on message—his message. “I’ve got a great group of teammates. They’ve got my back and I’ve got theirs. Thanks for asking.”
I breathe the biggest sigh in the world. It’s the most throwaway of answers in the history of sports. A harmless cliché reply straight from the school of media training. But that’s all I could ask for—a cliché is so much better than the alternative.
He’s not telling a reporter to fuck off. He’s not yelling at a photographer to get the hell off his sister’s property. He’s giving the simplest of comments. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing damning.
But it’s an olive branch.
He turns to go, but before he takes a step away from the mic, he whirls back, leans in, and adds, “Oh and I did a lot of visualization exercises before the game. That helps me picture how I want things to go.”
I roll my lips together to silence the gasp in my throat.
If only I could cool the heat flaring in every damn cell in my body.
I’m on fire, lit up in my bones and under my skin.
I keep my eyes focused on the floor so no one can read them.
So no one can tell Max was thinking of me in my new pair of Sea Dogs blue panties.
He leaves without looking at me, but we both know he wants to. That’s the problem. That’s the big, huge problem right now.
But I’ve got a press scrum to wrap up, so I focus solely on my job, which I need to do well to try to win the promotion—the one Elias is angling for. A little later, when I’m finished for the night, I make my way down the corridor toward the parking lot, passing the equipment room.
Up ahead, I spot several players. Wesley and Asher are in their suits, Miles too. The team is heading out of town tonight for an away stretch of games. Zaire will fly with them this time while I hold down the fort. The team bus will take them to the jet in a bit.
Max will be gone for a few days, and that has to be good for me. Like eating kale is good for me. Like taking vitamins is good for me.
But when I pass the locker room, a voice calls out, “I think you left something in here.”
I wheel around. Max is dressed for travel in a dark blue suit and a starched white shirt, looking too sexy for my own good. He’s got one hand pushing open the door to the equipment room, his forehead tipped in an invitation.