The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

“He’s a panty thief!” Josie issues that declaration with a slap of the table at the diner.

I’m at lunch with my friends after the hottest night of my life. I’ve told them nearly everything. I only feel slightly bad for divulging all the details of our one-time-only tryst, but they’ve been sworn to vault-levels of secrecy. And honestly, I couldn’t not tell them.

“I never expected that. They were just… gone when I looked all over for them,” I say, a little thrilled all over again as I recall the discovery of his theft. “Like stolen treasure or something.”Content is © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

Maeve arches a brow. “It kind of makes him…a sex pirate.”

I laugh. “Evidently.”

“Max is sort of swashbuckling,” Fable says thoughtfully, then asks, “and did he admit to taking them? ”

“Yes,” I say, still incredulous over Max’s matter-of-fact reaction via text this morning. “He was unapologetic.”

Maeve stabs a forkful of salad but doesn’t bring it to her mouth. “The man wants what he wants. That’s impressive.”

“Is it though? I mean, what did he do with them?” I ask, then take a bite of my lunch.

But as I’m chewing on the portobello mushroom sandwich, three pairs of eyes from around the table stare wide-eyed at me.

“Is that a real question?” Josie asks.

I set down the sandwich. “What do you mean?”

Maeve snorts, then arches a knowing brow. “I think we all know what he did with them.” She finally takes that bite.

A flush crawls up my chest and along my neck, setting my face on fire. “Seriously?”

Josie cracks up. “Sweetie, of course he did.”

“I…” I begin, but I’m speechless. And turned on all over again. “I guess I didn’t think it through. Really? Really ?” But of course that’s what he did. “I didn’t play out the whole ‘what happened next’ bit in my head.”

“Because the act of theft is hot in and of itself,” Maeve supplies with a cat-like grin. “You were fixated on the simple fact that he took them.”

I wince but nod guiltily. “I was. Since that was just hot,” I say quietly, leaning closer to them as I whisper, “No one’s ever done that before. But the fact that he did kind of got me going this morning.”

Fable’s naughty grin spreads. “So what you’re saying is you were too turned on from him taking them to even think about what he did with them? ”

“Girl, what he did to me is all I could think about last night when I got into bed. Then this morning before I left for work. And at work while I was supposed to be finalizing the press notes for tonight’s game,” I say, then lift my iced tea. I need a drink. I’m hot all over. After I take a thirsty sip, I put down the glass with some finality. “But it can’t happen again.”

“Why?” Maeve asks curiously.

“We work together. It’s considered a bad idea to get involved with a player.”

“Really?” Josie asks, seeming sad on my behalf.

“It’s an unwritten rule. Mostly because of all the ways it could go wrong,” I say, laying out the facts. “I’m not his direct report, and he’s of course not mine. But that doesn’t matter necessarily. If you get involved with a player, it could change the way the other players see you, how the media sees you, and of course how management does. Every move you make could look like favoritism or bias. Someone could think you’re promoting the guy you’re involved with over other players. And that could hurt the team dynamics. And it could look like I’m trying to use that connection to move up. I don’t want to take that chance, especially when I’m competing for a promotion.”

“That makes sense,” Fable says, nodding thoughtfully. “I know Blaine Enterprises has all sorts of guidelines in its HR handbook about office romances and relationships with co-workers. It’s good to be careful.” That’s the company she works for that owns the city’s winningest and most popular football team.

“Exactly,” I say, trying to stay as clear-headed as I can about the Max situation—since last night can’t happen again. “If a fling goes south, the team doesn’t want to find themselves in the position of punishing a player. They spend millions on their players. And it’s understandable— the players are the product. But no one wants to handle a broken heart at the office.” I pause. “Or worse.”

Maeve sighs, then drags a French fry through her ketchup. “I wonder what it’d be like to have an office romance. They always sound so hot.”

She’s an artist so she’s never worked in an office.

“Maybe you could have a studio romance. With a moody sculptor or a tortured painter or something. And then you’d get paint all over your—” I gesture to her chest.

“Yes! I want to find a man who’d like to paint my tits red.”

We crack up, but when the laughter fades, Josie clears her throat, turning to me. “But I get where you’re coming from, Ev. Your job matters to you. You’ve worked hard for it. I personally don’t think sleeping with a player undermines that, but I understand why you’d worry.”

“Thank you,” I say with a sigh of resignation. Renewed acceptance, too, that last night was a one and done. “It’s hard enough as a woman in sports. I remember reading this memoir by a female sports reporter about all the harassment she had to endure and the sexism. That’s the other thing—there’s this overhang for a lot of women working in sports. Getting involved with a player kind of goes against years of sisterhood trying to make it an even playing field.”

“Sisterhood matters,” Fable says, then tilts her head. “But so do your feelings. Do you care about him?”

I think about Max and the things we’ve spoken about. About his grandfather, about his past heartbreak with Lyra, about his sister. He’s been surprisingly open with me, and it warms my heart when he is. Those moments when he shares feel special in ways I didn’t expect. But even though I shared about our night together, I won’t share the personal details about Max—those are for me and me alone.

I keep my answer simple and truthful. “I care about him. But there’s no room for anything more. Our work together has barely begun. There’s so much we still have to do,” I say. This afternoon I need to focus on the Dogs on Ice event I have planned for next week—part of step two, the community outreach phase we’ve been building toward. This will be the payoff. Or so I hope.

“Onward and upward then,” Josie says, lifting her glass. “But let’s toast to knowing a panty thief. Well, besides my dog.”

I freeze. “Wait. Pancake is a panty thief?”

She shrugs a yes. “Apparently, it’s not that uncommon. Guess he’s a horndog.”

We all clink, and then drink to that.

When lunch ends, I return to the arena with a renewed focus now that I’ve gotten that confession out of my system. After I grab my afternoon London fog latte from a shop nearby, I head to my office and sit down at my computer, toggling the mouse. As the machine wakes up, there’s a soft knock on my door.

I spin around. It’s Jenna. She’s standing in the open doorway, holding a pretty dove gray envelope. “This just came for you. It’s a personal delivery.”

I furrow my brow, thinking on what it could be. Then I brighten. “It must be that new team T-shirt I ordered,” I say, then reach for the envelope and rip it open.

I reach my hand inside, fishing around in the soft tissue paper, and yank the shirt out.

Only it’s not a shirt, and my face flames hot.