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)
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.
“So you want to discuss it? Perfect. I’ll tell them you’ll be there shortly.”
I brace myself for his retort, since of course he won’t talk. But then, in a strangely serious voice, he says, “I’ll be there in ten. At the media room.”
It’s said evenly, with zero snark. A simple promise, and I’m taken aback. Does he mean it? No idea. Max heads to the locker room and for ten long minutes I hope, and I pace, and I pray.
I’m in the media room adjusting the mic for Miles when Max Lambert strides in first, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. It’s like a spotting in the wild of a rare Malayan tiger.
I hold my breath. The last time he interacted with the press he told them to fuck right off.
Please, Max, don’t do that again.
Reporters whisper. Media members whip out phones. Podcasters stand up, at the ready with mics. I’ve got my phone lifted too. No idea if I’ll use this on our social, but right now I want evidence.
Questions and comments fly with abandon.
“They say you’re a difficult guy to coach.”
“I hear you don’t get along with your teammates.”
“Why have you refused to talk to the press for more than a year?”
“Did you know BuzzFeed ranked your fight with Bane as one of the ten best hockey fights ever?”
“Max, what was going through your head that night at your sister’s house when you told the photographers to F off?”
My stomach roils. Maybe I should have kept him away from the press. Maybe this isn’t worth it after all. I seriously consider running over to him in my heels, putting my hands on his chest and mustering all my strength to push him right out of the media room.
Instead, as I stand inside the doorway, recording the impromptu press conference, I turn to the press in the room. “Please focus on tonight’s game or he'll have to leave,” I tell them and my tone is decidedly icy.
But it’s like Max didn’t even hear their questions—or really, like he doesn’t care. He leans into the mic and takes the fuck over. “Hear you all wanted to know why I had a good game tonight.”
Which is not at all what they said.
Gus sticks up a hand. “Yes, and why have you been so elusive for the last year and a half? What’s going on with you for real?”
My blood is pumping too fast. I wanted him to talk to the press so badly that I hadn’t considered that it could backfire for all of us—him, me, the team. I have to fix this. “He’s not here to discuss anything but tonight’s game,” I say crisply to Gus and by extension, everyone else.
Then Erin sticks out her mic. “What motivated you in tonight’s game, Max? Take us through your performance and what drove you.”
It’s a softball question, but at least she understood that I simply won’t let him answer hardball ones.
“Let me tell you something about tonight,” Max says, staying on message—his message. “I’ve got a great group of teammates. They’ve got my back and I’ve got theirs. Thanks for asking.”
I breathe the biggest sigh in the world. It’s the most throwaway of answers in the history of sports. A harmless cliché reply straight from the school of media training. But that’s all I could ask for—a cliché is so much better than the alternative.