27. The Player and the Publicist #2
“That’s sort of the point of the panties,” Maeve stage-whispers.
“Gee, thanks. I didn’t realize,” I say dryly.
“But the point is, you need the equivalent. What if we’re your padlocks?” Maeve suggests.
I arch a brow. “Um. Explain.”
“We can be your accountability buddies. If you’re tempted, just text us instead,” she offers.
“And you’ll be my…no-sex-with-Max sponsors?”
Maeve smiles. “Exactly.”
Josie’s eyes light up from behind her glasses. “If you want us to be, yes. Just reach out and say I’m tempted to rub myself against him like a cat. Come toss water on me.”
“That sounds fun,” I say, but the truth is it’s a good idea—this impromptu support group. So good that Josie takes out her phone and makes a production of changing the name of our group message thread to The Padlockers.
I breathe deeply, feeling like I can do this. I can actually resist the irresistible Max Lambert. “He’s behind me now,” I say. “I’m going to focus on the makeover. The first event is later this week. And I need to make sure his public appearance goes off without a hitch.”
“You’re going to do a great job. Because, see my earlier point—you are a badass babe. Who can throw strikes,” Maeve says.
And I do throw a strike when it’s my first turn at the lane.
Because I’m here, trying to live my best life, and it turns out I’m pretty damn good at bowling. When the night ends, I’ve drunk some boxed wine, eaten some spicy chips, and found a little bit of my power again.
I’ve found it with my friends, and that’s what matters—not this brief tryst with a sexy hockey player I used to hate.
Someone I definitely don’t hate now.
* * *
Everything is ready for Wednesday. We have an afternoon game that day against our crosstown rivals, the Golden State Foxes.
When it ends, the Zamboni will clean the ice and then we’ll lead right into a dog adoption event with Little Friends.
The players will be in their jerseys. They can play with the dogs on ice, and then we can hopefully send all the pups to new homes that day.
The rescue will bring the dogs over before the third period and they’ll hang out in a media room till the game ends and then it’s showtime.
It’s going to be great, even with Elias popping by my office every day this week to check on details. To remind me that Donna is sooo excited. That he is sooo excited that I got in touch with his contact at Little Friends.
“I even wrote a press release,” he says on Wednesday morning when he catches up with me in the hall.
I turn to him, taken aback. That’s my area, and he’s encroaching. “I did that,” I say, trying not to let on I want to kick him in the knees.
He flashes me a smile that probably charms others.
“Maybe just combine them? I have some fun facts in there. I know you love fun facts. Since you pitched The Sports Network to put them on the broadcast,” he says, which he knows from our departmental meetings when we all update Zaire on what we’ve been working on.
“And they did. Go you.” Then he swivels his tablet around and shows it to me.
I read it, my jaw ticking. I’m annoyed that I like his fun facts about dog adoption.
Annoyed I didn’t think of it too. I have to do better.
But then I remind myself, it’s natural that the competition would be fierce.
I’m going after a coveted post. The Sea Dogs don’t want to hire lightweights.
Elias, for all his annoyances, isn’t a lightweight.
And if I want to be the director, I need to get along with everyone.
Hopefully, even guys who might—gasp—work for me.
I look up, returning his tablet to him. “This is great, Elias,” I say with a professional smile.
“If you email it to me, I’ll layer them into mine as you suggested.
I appreciate your collaborative spirit.”
He beams. “Thanks, Ev.”
The nickname from him grates on me, but I don’t let it show. “You’re welcome.”
I’m about to head down the hall when he adds, “And speaking of collaboration—I’ve got that hockey stick signed from Max. Is there a time when you want me to give it away?”
I rack my brain, trying to figure out what he’s referring to, but I draw a blank. “What giveaway? What stick?”
He gives me a curious look. “You know,” he says, taking his time. “The one Max was getting when you were in the equipment room with him last week.”
What the hell does he know about the equipment room? A damning flush crawls up my neck, threatening to reveal my secrets. I swallow roughly. Don’t let on, don’t let on, don’t you dare let on. “Oh. Okay,” I say, buying some time, trying to figure out what he knows—or thinks he knows.
“Where Max signed the hockey stick for me,” he prompts, rolling his eyes like he can’t believe I forgot.
But I did because I wasn’t there to remember it.
I’m guessing, though, that Elias must have run into Max after I left, and Max finessed the situation with an excuse about signing a stick.
Smart move on his part, playing into Elias’s love of giveaways.
Now it’s my turn to finesse an explanation as to why I was there.
“Yes, I was chatting with him there before the Dallas flight so reporters wouldn’t overhear me giving him tips on how to handle the media,” I say, spinning my ass off like I’ve never spun it before.
Elias’s eyes light up, twinkling even. “Damn. That’s smart. Seriously smart.”
It is? I mean, yes it is. “Thanks. That’s your pro tip for the day,” I say playfully.
He taps his temple. “I’ll have to remember that.”
I’m about to leave having gotten away with murder, when I remember—he asked when to give it away. I can’t leave without answering. “Oh, and why don’t you decide when to give the stick away? You’re so good at the fan stuff, and you really know best.”
It’s actually the truth, even though it sounds like I’m sucking up to him. So I add, as earnestly as I can, “I mean it.”
“Thanks, Ev. I’ll find the perfect time.”
I grin and bear the nickname, then head on down the hall, whipping out my phone to text Max. I should let him know that Mister Hockey Stick might be onto us.
But I stop when I open his contact info.
Our last exchange was the photo the night he left town. I have resisted him. He’s resisted me. And he’s going to hit the ice in a couple hours when the puck drops. I don’t need to text him about Elias before the game starts since there’s nothing to really worry about anyway.
Instead, I text The Padlockers.
Everly: It’s been more than a week since I even texted him. I want a prize for my resistance.
Maeve: I’ll send you a new vibe tonight as a reward! That is impressive!
Josie: Gold stars for you, strategy queen.
Fable: Is anyone else wondering if we can all get that reward? Just me?
Everly: Yes, Maeve, make it a group reward.
Maeve: Bankrupt me, why don’t you?
Josie: But it’s for a good cause.
Maeve: You don’t need one, Josie! You have a hot man obsessed with your pleasure at your beck and call.
Josie: That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy vibes!
Fable: I’d like to say TMI, but I’m mostly just jealous.
Maeve: Me too.
Everly: Me three thousand.
I smile, then put my phone away as I march down the hall, doing a double take when I pass the coach’s office.
“Leighton!” I say when I spot the back of the pretty brunette sitting across from her father.
She must not hear me though, because she doesn’t turn till her dad tips his chin in my direction, as if he’s letting her know I’m here.
When she looks my way, her eyes brighten. “Hey, Everly! How are you? Good to see you again.”
I step inside and give her a hug. I met Leighton a few years ago when she was still in college and interned at The Sports Network as a photographer. “Did you graduate last year?”
“I did. I’m doing some freelancing now,” she says.
“She’s so talented,” her father says proudly, and gone is his usual tough guy coolness. He’s all dad now, praising his daughter.
“I should have hired you for today. To take pics of the dog adoption event,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were back in town. I’ll just have to hire you the next time I need a photographer. I’m guessing you won’t have a problem with that, Coach?” I ask playfully, turning to her dad.
He adopts a faux stern expression. “Let’s see. A job for my amazing, talented daughter? I’d have no problem with it.”
“Can you come to the event today?” I ask her.
“I’m not sure. I actually have another freelance job with the Renegades.”
“That’s awesome. Seriously excited for you. Let’s catch up soon. Want to grab a bite to eat with my friends and me? One of my girlfriends works for the Renegades.”
“I’d love that,” she says, then I say goodbye to her and her dad.
I spend the next few hours before game time hustling my butt off. I haven’t even seen Max since he’s returned, but that’s okay.
We are just player and publicist—that is all.
With everything set for the event, and all sorts of media coming for photos, I head to the press box as a high school choir sings the national anthem. I arrive right before the one o’clock puck drop. The game begins, and two minutes into it, everyone’s eyes are drawn to the Jumbotron.
Lyra Raine’s face is on it, and she’s here at center ice, sitting in the stands.