RAINCHECK #2
A woman with long, dark hair sits next to him, striking up an easy conversation I can’t hear. She wears a similar outfit and is lacing her skates.
I don’t want to miss a second, so I lean forward, perched on the uncomfortable, metal seat as Max gets right into it on the ice with about a dozen or so kids.
“Who brought their A game today?” he asks in a not-so-scary voice.
A young boy waves his hockey stick, shouting, “Me!”
A girl about the same age weighs in with, “Me too.”
More kids shout their me too.
The woman glides onto the ice. “That’s what Coach Lambert and I like to hear. And you know the drill.”
“Time for warm-ups,” Max says, then pushes backward on his skates.
It’s an effortless move—one I’ve seen him do thousands of times on the ice.
Except now he’s not doing it in a professional rink, in front of twenty or thirty thousand fans who pay top dollar.
He’s doing it for kids. “Skating backward has to be as easy as skating forward.”
“But it’s so much easier to skate forward,” one of the boys says, not quite whining but getting very close.
“Of course it is. That’s because your brain wants to go that way,” Max says, tapping the side of his head, talking to them so easily, like he spoke to his nephew the other week. “But the more you do it, the more your brain treats backward the same till you can do it just as well.”
“I don’t think my brain thinks like that, Coach Lambert,” a girl with red curls flying out from under her helmet says.
Coach Lambert. That is too adorable. I’m smiling too big.
“You’ll train it to, Hannah,” he says. “And your body as well. You ready?”
They spin around, some awkwardly, some smoothly, and work on drills with Max and the woman as they skate backward. He’s patient with each kid but also tough. He doesn’t sugarcoat how hard the game is. He does talk up the rewards though—teamwork, fun, accomplishment.
“Don’t worry. You’ll all get the hang of it,” he says, spinning around and quickly shifting into crossovers, then stops. When they’re done with the basic skating drills, Max moves them into relay races to warm them up.
He didn’t even tell me where he was taking me this afternoon.
He just said he’d pick me up at work, to expect a thirty-minute drive, and to wear a hoodie.
But Max coaching kids the tricks of his trade in a rundown skating rink?
Nope. Never had this on my radar screen.
I don’t want to take my eyes off the ice as they work on puck-handling drills, maneuvering past cones with their sticks.
Who knew?
I’m shaking my head, a little awed, a lot shocked. He’s not the Max he is with me, teasing, goading, pushing. He’s a different guy here—direct, encouraging, totally approachable.
I’m clutching my phone in my hands, feeling a little giddy, a little fizzy even. It would go such a long way if people knew he did this. How can he hide this? Why doesn’t he tell his agent? Or Thrive? Or the team?
I lift my phone to take a pic of him at work—the approachable side of Max Lambert.
The female coach is working with a group of kids on balance drills while Max is showing the kids how to keep the puck close to the stick.
I capture this one and several more till a throat clears.
Someone behind me shifts around, then clambers down two rows, parking next to me—a woman, dressed in a fleece, her eyes tired, but her smile kind.
“Hey, I’m Becca. Just wanted to let you know we’re not supposed to take pics. ”
“Oh,” I say, chastened, and setting my phone down. “I didn’t know.”
“I figured as much. That’s why I shared. Which one is yours? Mine is Hannah. The redhead. She wants to skate on a women’s pro team someday but she’s got a long way to go.”
“Don’t we all,” I say, then return to her question. “And I don’t have kids. I work with Max’s team.”
“Ah,” she says, understanding dawning. “Got it. It’s great that he does this when he’s in town. Even with Coach Gupta here at all the practices.” She nods toward the woman on the ice. She must be the regular coach. “But there’s no way we could afford this without him.”
Color me intrigued. “He pays for all this?”
“Covers the whole thing. The ice time, the gear, the training—everything. Coach Gupta’s time too.”
“Wow,” I say.
She tilts her head. “You didn’t know that?”
There’s no point playing it cool. “I didn’t.”
“You learn something new every day,” she says, seeming amused. But then her gaze is wary. “Is something changing here? Is that why they sent you?”
There’s real concern in her voice. Like I could take this away.
I glance down at my outfit—a Sea Dogs fleece but also charcoal gray slacks, low heels, and a tablet in hand.
Briefly I wonder what I represent to her.
Corporate America? Rules? The proper public image?
Whatever it is, it’s concerning to her. Somehow in her eyes, I might be the enemy that could end this lovely thing he does.
I shake my head. “He invited me,” I say, opting for the easiest answer.
Her brow scrunches then slowly, like the sun rising, her lips part. “Oh. Oh. You’re his—?” She’s waiting for me to fill in the dots.
Vociferously, I shake my head. “No. God no. We just work together. That’s all.
It’s actually frowned upon, dating a player.
It can go all kinds of wrong. Management wouldn’t like it.
It’s a rule. Well, an unwritten rule, but those are just as powerful.
Since reputation matters,” I say, and am I actually in PR?
Does a professional sports organization truly pay me to craft and shape images and messages for a living, because I sound like I’ve never spoken in public before.
“Is that so?”
It’s Max’s deep, sexy voice. I snap my gaze to the edge of the rink and he’s mere feet away from me by the boards, amusement dancing across his eyes while Coach Gupta works with the kids. “So this is forbidden, Everly? You and me hanging out like this?”
Becca snickers.
“Yes,” I blurt, then shake my head because that was the wrong answer. He’s got me flustered. Again. “No. It’s not. I mean, they know. Of course they know I’m spending time with you. They gave me this assignment. Because it’s work. That’s all.”
Becca covers her mouth with her hand, chuckling the whole time, then finally lowering it to say to Max, “I think someone has a crush on you.” Only she’s pointing at me like I don’t know she’s doing it.
I do not, I want to scream at her, but that’d make it worse.
Instead, Max cuts in, saying, “Don’t worry, Becca. She actually hates me.”
Then he winks at me. He fucking winks and skates backward, waving and blowing me a kiss.
I’m…mortified.
Becca’s laughing.
And I feel out of place entirely.
As the practice continues, Becca excuses herself, presumably for the ladies’ room. Once she’s gone, a redheaded man with a freckled face appears at my bench. “Hey there. I’m Flynn, Jonah’s dad,” he says, then nods to one of the kids Max was coaching.
“Nice to meet you, Flynn,” I say, and before I can get another word out, there’s a spray of ice, then a giant hockey player has appeared at the boards right next to me.
“Flynn,” Max says with a smile I don’t quite buy. “Want to help me out today?”
Flynn’s face lights up. “Yeah. Sure. I’ve been wanting to.”
“I know. This seemed like the perfect time,” he says.
Flynn turns to me. “We’ll catch up later.”
Max chuckles. “We’ll be pretty busy,” he says, then parks his elbow and waits for Flynn to leave the stands and head around to the ice.
He flashes me one more smile—the kind that says I won. This man is like a dog sometimes. Shame I like dogs so much.
* * *
When the kids finish a little later, Flynn is finishing up on the ice, having done nothing but move a few cones around. But Max keeps him busy putting cones away. Becca gathers her things, then says goodbye to me, adding, “I was just teasing. But if you did have a crush on Max, I’d understand.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly. “It’s strictly professional.”
“Of course.”
She sounds like she’s placating me, but there’s no point arguing with her so I smile weakly as she disappears inside the rink. Coach Gupta is gone too. And Flynn’s disappeared as well.
Then, it’s just Max and me. He’s standing at the boards, resting his elbows on them, smiling smugly my way.
“It’s so professional, and I definitely don’t know about your…
bralettes.” He says it like they’re sexy magic.
Well, they are. He lifts a curious brow.
“Are you wearing one today? Or maybe a lavender bra like you did at sushi?”
Does he have eagle ears as well as eagle eyes? “You remember the bra I was wearing?” I ask, when the real question should be how does he know which one I was wearing?
“Fuck yes,” he says, unapologetic.
“H-how?”
“Is that a real question?” His eyes are heated as they roam up and down me. “I remember my favorite things.”
Like my lingerie? Or all lingerie? But those aren’t questions I can ask.
“I meant how did you know what bra I was wearing?” Then I hold up a hand.
I shouldn’t go fishing for this intel. I shouldn’t know if he’s wanting me the way I want him.
It’s better if I don’t figure it out. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked. ”
“Relax, sunshine. Your shirt sloped down your shoulder for a hot second when we got sushi. I caught a glimpse of the strap—that was all.” After a moment, he adds, “Your right shoulder.”
He knows the left one is the one I touch sometimes. He doesn’t know it has the scar though. But he seems to have sensed I’m cautious about it. “Oh. Okay,” I say, unsteady and I'm not sure why, but I feel like I’m walking across a ship’s deck in choppy waters.