Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Before I can watch more, my phone trills with Zaire’s ringtone.
I answer it right away, and she says, “Good job last night with Lambert.”
“Thank you.”
“You coaxed more than a one-word grunt out of him. You got a real comment,” she says, laying on praise I don’t deserve. “What magic did you work?”
“I guess it was the right time,” I say, like it was nothing, when in fact it was my magic panties.
“Keep up the good work. You are a makeover queen,” Zaire says, then moves on to other topics.
But the thing is—she’s right. I am damn good at my job. I do know how to handle the press. I want the promotion badly. I want to live my boldest, brightest life. I want to be the best that I can.
A tryst in the equipment room simply can’t happen again. Too much is at stake. The job, the potential promotion, and especially the reputation rehab. It’s too important to too many people.
Which means it’s time to call for backup.
When I get off the call, I text my friends and request an emergency meeting this weekend. I need a girls’ night this weekend. Fair warning—I need a major strategy session. Bring wine.
Seconds later, Josie responds first with: On it!
And it’s a relief to speak the complete and utter truth.
26
A DAMN GOOD MOOD
Max
I’m still in a damn fine mood a few hours before game time. Maybe because I spent a good long time in my hotel room in Dallas on Tuesday and Wednesday night with the pic Everly sent of her looking like sin in my shirt.
Spent extra time with that snap last night, and this morning, too, here in Nashville.
With the endorphins still fueling me, I’m damn near strutting down the hallway with Asher at the Nashville arena, all cold concrete and an intimidating atmosphere that only fuels my desire to beat the other team tonight.
“Hey, Miles,” I call out since he’s up ahead several feet, and I can’t resist giving my teammates hell. It’s part of my good mood.
Miles turns back to me with a chin nod. “What’s up?”
“You’re avoiding me, and I know why.”
Miles isn’t a gamer for nothing, since he adopts a blank face as he asks, “What would I be avoiding you for?”
Like he doesn’t know. “My three-of-a-kind last night on the plane. I beat you in poker. Bryant and Callahan paid up. You did not. You owe me one hundred bucks too. Don’t try to get out of it again.”
Miles glares at me as he stops, lifts his phone from a pocket, and makes a show of Venmo-ing me the money. “Someday I’m going to figure out what your trick is with poker,” he says, defeated, like he was last night too.
Shame.
Asher snorts. “Good luck with that. Lambert’s unbeatable.”
I want to bask in the praise and the truth of it. But I can’t let either of them think that or they’ll never play poker with me on the plane again. “Not true.” I scratch my beard, as casual as can be. “I lost the other week. Don’t you remember?”
That’s a bald-faced lie, but I try to sell it with a lazy shrug.
Asher lifts a doubtful brow, studying me for several seconds. “You’re bluffing.”
Miles’s jaw drops. “Holy shit. He is. That’s your tell, Lambert.”
“You scratch your beard when you’re full of it,” Asher adds.
Well, fuck me. I only meant to throw them off the scent, not reveal my hand. So I double down, scoffing as we stride closer to the visitors’ locker room. “Don’t have a tell.”
“Everyone does,” Miles says.
I wave a hand to move on. Maybe my good mood has softened me up. “Fine, I’ll go easy on you next time.”
Miles stares dead-eyed at me. “You will do no such thing. Ever.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” I say, patting him on the back. “Now, let’s go make Nashville cry.”
As Miles turns into the locker room, Asher hangs back, stopping outside the door. “How’s everything going?”
“Good. Why?”
“I saw your comments from the other night got some pickup with the sports press.”
“You did?” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Asher noticed—he’s observant.
But then he surprises me when he says, “Maeve was texting me and telling me. She said she was trying to scroll through calming, time-lapse videos of people painting murals—they’re her favorite, and it’s fucking adorable—but then hockey infected her feed.”
There’s a whole lot going on in that intel drop. I’m not sure where to start, so I say, “That’s awfully specific.”
“She’s a painter,” he says, a little proudly. “Anyway, just checking in to see how you’re doing.”
I’m a lucky guy that some of my friends are so emotionally astute. “I’m actually okay,” I say honestly, opening up some more to him. He makes it easy enough, like he did at the smoothie shop the other week, like he does in my car, too, when I drive him to the rink. “It wasn’t as awful as I’d thought it’d be.”