My Undoing #2
I almost always show up at games. I’m about to say yes but wait. Is there a double meaning to his question? I shouldn’t ask. I really shouldn’t. But I tilt my head coyly as the flirty words take shape on my lips, “To the game? Or did you mean something else?”
His nostrils flare. His eyes darken. “I know the answer to that.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re so cocky.”
He strides closer to my desk, resting his firm ass against it, then bending closer to me. Midnight Flame drifts past my nose. My eyes float closed for a second.
When I open them, he’s smirking. “You sniffed it when you opened my suitcase. My cologne.”
He says it like he’s busting me. And he is.
“What?” I furrow my brow like I have no idea what he means.
His smile deepens. “Rosewood, you’re even hotter when you act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says. “But I know you like it. And I know you opened the bottle.” In a stage whisper, he adds, “The cap was a little loose.”
Damn him, and damn me. I clench my jaw then breathe out hard. “Why are you so infuriating?”
He ignores the dig. “Want to know how I can tell you like it?”
“No,” I say crisply.
“I’ll tell you anyway.”
“Max,” I say, shaking my head. “Did you get the memo? You are extra infuriating.”
But we’re having two different conversations evidently, and he’s not taking the foot off the gas on his.
“Because you have the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen.
Those big brown eyes are a window to all your thoughts.
I like to look at your eyes and read what’s going on with you,” he says, and my throat tightens.
His words are terrifying. I don’t want to be an open book.
I don’t want to wear my emotions on my face.
He leans closer, the nearness making my skin thrum.
He reaches for my hair, cinched back in a ponytail.
As he runs his fingers along the ends of it, he adds, “And I could tell from the look in them when you’d get close to me.
When you’d smell me. I could tell.” I want to jerk him close and smack him until he adds in a tender, sensual voice, “Your eyes are my undoing.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I’m trapped in this swirl of heat and emotion as he does that thing he does—swings from aggravating me to adoring me. I swallow past the desert in my throat, trying to find some kind of words, but all I can manage is a bare question.
“You want me to wear them to the game tonight?” I ask it even though I’m one hundred percent clear on what he wrote on the card. But I want his answer. The truth in it.
He gives it with a long, slow nod and a certain, “I really do.”
He steps away, heads toward the door, and exits, leaving me hot and bothered all over again.
* * *
“Lambert is extra sharp tonight,” Gus remarks as he stuffs a vinegar chip in his mouth, then shoves his readers back on.
“He sure is,” I say, hiding how proud I am of his goal tending as the third period begins and the men take to the ice below our spot in the press box that night.
“Wonder what that’s all about,” Gus grumbles.
Trying to get a read on his intentions, I steal a glance at the grizzled vet, who’s pecking away on his PC.
He’s the only reporter who doesn’t use a Mac.
He’s so old school it’s cute. Except he’s always so suspicious of everyone’s motives—players especially. That’s not too cute.
Erin’s here, too, from our broadcast partner, and she laughs from the water cooler as she refills her bottle during a commercial break. “Can’t a guy just have a good game, Gus?”
“No,” Gus barks. “There’s something to it.”
Claudia, the sports blogger next to him, chimes in with a nod of her curly-haired head. “We have to find the story behind everything.”
“Bet there’s a good reason he’s only allowed one goal tonight,” Jamie shouts. He’s a young, hungry podcaster.
“Because he’s a good player,” Erin adds.
“Nope,” Jamie says, not buying her logic.
Briefly, I understand why Max doesn’t want to talk to the press. They are pushy, and they’re all hunting for an angle.
But then I remember I was one of them once upon a time, leaving no stone unturned as I searched for a fresh way to write about a sport I love. They’re simply trying to do their jobs. Heck, aren’t we all? And every day it gets harder with all the competition.
Like Elias.
And I plan to stay several steps ahead of him.
Erin sweeps past the guys, heading to the door. “Look, I don’t care what the reason is. When Lambert is a brick wall in the net, it’s exciting and our ratings go up. On that fun fact, I’m back to the booth.”
I wave to her. “See you later.”
“We’d still love a comment from him sometime,” she says, hopeful. “When he has games like this it’d be great to have him say something.”
Don’t I know it. This is what I’ve hoped for from him—even a bland my team is great comment would help rehab his rep and keep his face out there for fans and possible sponsors. Plus, I’d love to see him chat with Erin. She’s more balanced than the other reporters.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
Every head in the room snaps toward me. They all know Max’s no-talk rep.
The podcaster arches a doubtful bushy brow. “I swear if he ever talks to the press he better say something really good.”
“Like…we win because I eat raw eggs before a game,” Claudia suggests in her gravelly voice.
“Or it’s thanks to my lucky dirty socks,” Gus barks.
Or because he sends panties to women whose eyes are his undoing.
I fight off a private smile as the game picks back up. Wesley and Asher rotate on for their shift, flying down the ice, then behind the Calgary net.
Max is stationed in front of the crease at the other end, ready to defend his turf.
That’s Max. A defender. Like he was when I went out with Lucas. The man is wildly protective, both at work and…with me. Warmth unfurls in my chest, but I try not to get lost in the feelings.
Instead, I focus on the action down below.
Miles jostles for the puck with the Calgary defenders, trying to strip it from them.
When he finally does, he skates with it for a second or two before he’s swarmed and needs to flip it to Asher, who aims it for the net, but their goalie smacks it down.
Wesley snags the rebound just past the post and comes around the back of the net, flicking it to Miles again, who slips it through the goalie’s legs.
The lamp lights. And the crowd roars.
A minute later, when the puck drops, Calgary jumps on it, fighting to score since they’re down by one. But every single time they try to slip it past Max, he deflects it.
Easily. Like it’s just another day.
“It’s like they’re flies bugging him. No. They’re gnats, and he swats them all away,” Gus remarks, clearly impressed as he types. He pauses and points at Claudia. “You’re right. It’s gotta be the eggs. Bet on it.”
“I’m betting on dirty socks,” Jamie weighs in.
Tonight? My money’s on the royal blue lace between my thighs.
And before anyone can read that in my eyes, I check the time. “Maybe someday he’ll tell us,” I say, then I head to the door. The media will follow shortly, but for now I should meet the players.
Once I’m at the tunnel, the game is locked up with another Sea Dogs win, and I prepare to make my case with Max to tell the press his secret.
When he emerges from the tunnel, he’s ripping off his helmet, his wild hair damp with sweat.
Do not be distracted by how ruggedly sexy he looks after a game.
I put on my professional smile. “Max, there’s a bet in the press room that you’re so good in the net because you either eat raw eggs before each game or wear dirty socks. Want to dispel the rumors?”
He won’t want to. But this is our routine. Our back and forth. I’m forcing his hand to come up with a clever retort.
“Maybe I have a special bedtime ritual the night before each game,” he drawls out suggestively. “Something to make sure I get a real good night’s sleep.”
Yep. It’s our thing. And it feels dangerously like foreplay.
I’m this close to shuddering in front of the whole team from his allusion to last night and what he did when he was home alone.
But I can’t take that chance, so I try to reset him to business.
“Look, I’m pretty sure some of them are convinced you sold your soul to the devil. So there’s that possibility too.”
“A Faustian bargain. Yeah, that seems likely,” he says dryly.
“Do you want to tell them that yourself? Because I know the GM would love it if you did,” I say, a subtle reminder of our makeover project. Which is where I should focus, especially with the new Elias threat.
“So they’re betting on whether I sold my soul to the devil?” Max asks thoughtfully.