SWEET TORTURE #2
“Of course. This was a PR thing. It’s for your social,” she says.
Right. Of course. I’d let the moment get away from me. I’d let my thoughts wander too far. She guides me through the fairground to a tiny trailer where the ringmaster waits for us, his mustache curling with a bit of sweat. Hard work, running a show.
“Hello, Mr. Valenti. I’m Everly Rosewood,” she says, sticking out a hand. “We emailed.”
“Of course,” Victor says, shaking hands, as jovial as he was onstage. He turns to me. “You must be Max Lambert. The hockey guy, right?”
“That’s me,” I say.
“Everly says you’re pretty good on the ice. I’m more of a theater man myself but if you ever do tricks on skates, let me know.”
And there’s a first time for everything. I was just invited to join the circus. “Thanks. I will. Great show,” I say, working on being nicer, more approachable, more outgoing, so I add, “Do you all, um, train and study in the circus arts?”
Is that even what it’s called? I have no idea, but it sounds plausible.
“We do. I come from a long line of circus artists. Seventh generation myself,” he says, puffing out his chest with well-earned pride, and as we chat more about his family, Everly snaps some pics of us. I guess she was prepared after all.
“And what about you, Max? Does your family do hockey?” he asks.
“Actually, my parents are teachers,” I say.
That seems to catch his interest. “What do they teach?”
“Dad is a drama teacher and Mom teaches dance. That’s how they met—they had to share space at a little theater in Seattle where he was directing a play, and she was putting on a recital. Been together ever since. And they teach together, too, at a performing arts school in the Bay Area.”
“It's lovely that they work together.”
“Yeah, it really is. More than thirty years married and still going strong. Honestly, I’m just glad they don’t mind watching me play hockey now and then,” I say, then shrug, almost apologetically, “even though it’s not a play or musical.”
“I’m sure they don’t mind it one bit,” he says, like a proud dad too. “I always like seeing what my kids love. Fortunately, I get to see them juggle every day.”
“They’re the jugglers?” I ask, a little amazed in spite of myself.
“They are,” he says, proudly.
“No shit. That’s awesome,” I say.
“I think so too,” he says.
We wrap up a few minutes later and once we’re in the Lyft, Everly lifts her chin and says, “I was right.”
“About what?”
“Circuses are your favorite thing.”
I scoff. “They’re not. I’m not a circus guy.”
The smirk doesn’t disappear from her face. “But you’re wrong.”
“I think I know what my favorite things are, sunshine.”
She turns to face me with that trump-card smile. “Do you?”
“I sure do, and they’re not circuses.”
“But you like your family. And you liked talking to Mr. Valenti about his family. So, really, it was no hardship going to the circus. In fact, you enjoyed chatting with him about your parents. So that’s another real favorite thing.”
Holy. Fuck.
Forget evil genius. She is next level. I can’t even be annoyed. I’m too impressed with how she plays the game.
“Has anyone told you that you’re Machiavellian?” I ask as the car heads toward the team hotel. I’ll need to get ready soon for the game. I skipped my game-day nap. I like them, but I slept on the early flight this morning so I’ll be fine.
“As a matter of fact, yes. You. You just did.”
“Well, you are.”
She’s smiling. “I know.”
As the car swings onto the Strip, my phone buzzes, and I check it. It’s a text from my mom.
Guess where I found your kitten?
I groan, bracing myself for Athena’s antics.
Top of the fridge? Bottom of the laundry basket? Inside the dryer?
I hope it’s not the latter. But I bet it is. She’s the sneakiest.
Your closet. Top shelf. Sleeping on a tie.
There’s a pic attached of the tiny furball curled up on some sapphire blue neckwear. Fuck, that’s cute.
Everly shoots me a curious look, like she wants to know what’s on my phone. “All good?”
But if I let on that I foster kittens, I’ll never hear the end of it from her. “Yep,” I say, shutting the text.
She returns to her phone, typing away. Smiling too. That looks like how a woman smiles when she sets up a date. A fire rages in my chest, out of control in seconds.
“Got a date?” I ask. It comes out strangled.
“Maybe,” she says, a little flintily.
The flames burn higher. Brighter. Hotter. In seconds, there’s a wildfire in me, eating the forest alive. “Is he your type?”
“I guess I’ll find out. We’re going to grab lunch on Sunday,” she says.
“Lunch,” I scoff. “That’s weak.”
“Why is lunch weak?”
“Because it’s lunch. Who takes a woman out for lunch?”
“A nice guy,” she says.
I grind my teeth, then stare out the window, my jaw ticking the rest of the way back as I think about her lunch this weekend.
* * *
As I’m heading to the Vegas arena a couple hours later, a text from her lands on my phone. It’s a link to my social feed.
She dropped some pics from the circus. The shot of me watching, a pic of the sword swallowing, then the final snap of the ringmaster and me.
The caption reads: If hockey doesn’t work out, I might run off to join the circus.
I shake my head. She’s brilliant. So fucking brilliant. And I bet this fuckface she’s having lunch with won’t appreciate her clever ways.
She needs a guy who does. A guy who does more than take her to lunch. A friend takes you to lunch. A date doesn’t take you to lunch on a Sunday.
Wait. This Sunday. I know something that’s happening this Sunday right around noon. I send her a text.
Max: Had a great idea for my next favorite thing. There’s a fun bike ride in the city this weekend. Starts at noon on Sunday. You can get another pic.
Who’s the evil genius now?