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)
Since Lyra’s waiting in the corridor with her bodyguards and her entourage. Waiting to console him, like she used to do after a loss.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I grab some of the guys and bring them to the media room. When that task is done, I hustle back and forth between Penny, who runs Little Friends, Elias, who’s handling Donna, and the cheery, rosy-cheeked emcee herself who’s saying hi to all the dogs like she’s a dog whisperer, then the Zamboni driver.
Finally, Max emerges from the locker room. I try to school my expression. To clear away any emotions. I’d thought, or maybe I’d hoped, that he’d look like he wanted to tear something apart.
But he seems shell-shocked. Maybe even empty. That doesn’t give me any more answers. I have to remind myself it’s not my place to find answers about his personal life. It’s my place to rehab his public image. We don’t have a romance. We have a business deal.
When he trudges over to me, I don’t give him a chance to say a word.
I go first, fastening on my most PR of all PR smiles. “Let’s get you out there playing with dogs.”
“Everly,” he says, a little imploring. The sound tugs on something in my heart. Something terrifying. Something tender that hurts to the touch. Like a bruise. Something you want to keep touching but probably shouldn’t.
I cut in. “We really need to get you out there. This is going to be such a great event,” I say, and I do deserve a promotion for spinning that lie right now.
29
ALL THE HOUNDS
Max
What the fuck? Seriously.
What the hell is my ex doing here? And why didn’t I stop it? This is all my fault. I should’ve replied to her text. With one quick stab of my finger, I deleted it the other day, figuring I’d ignore her. Figuring that would make her go away. But maybe if I’d replied to it, she wouldn’t have sabotaged this event.
I’ve got to tell Everly I had no idea Lyra was coming. Don’t want her to think I had anything to do with this sideshow my ex has engineered out of nowhere. I can’t even imagine what Everly must think. But I can’t tell her now.
I clamp my molars together, grinding them in annoyance as I skate onto the ice with my teammates. We’re in jerseys, jeans and skates—promo wear.
The ice is packed—Donna the emcee, a photographer Everly hired, a ton of local lifestyle media, and a Chihuahua mix, a Beagle mix, a terrier of some sort, a lab-husky mutt, and a dog that looks like a Corgi met a Great Dane, and I really am not sure who was the mom and who was the dad in that situation, but if the dad was the Corgi I’d be real impressed.
As they promised they’d be here, the GM is sitting in the stands, just behind the bench, and she’s next to Zaire. Garrett’s sitting with them, too, and I feel like the bad kid at school, with Dad and the principal watching over me to make sure I behave.
Which is even harder because, oh right, there’s one more person. Lyra’s standing casually by the boards, the queen of surprises, like she’s a part of this. Because of course, that’s what somebody like her can do. Somebody world-famous can drop in and become a part of things where she doesn’t even belong.
As her bodyguards flank her, she coos and smiles at all the dogs. The press snap pictures of her kissing the mutts like she’s a politician with babies. She’s dressed in her trademark ripped jeans, with a T-shirt that slopes down her shoulder, showing off her tattoos and her silver star, sun, and moon necklaces, her wavy red hair falling down past her shoulders.
Elias latches onto her, grinning like this is the highlight of his life. “Would you want to adopt one and take it home?”
The question is dripping with hope. Obsequiousness too. Bet he’s crossing his fingers that this will be his breakout moment. That he’ll get some comment from her and use it somewhere to level up in his promotion battle. I hate that guy more than I did before.
Lyra brings her hand to her chest, a practiced move that I’ve seen from her a dozen times before, but it still convinces everyone she legitimately means what she says. “I’d love one of these sweeties if I wasn’t on the road so much.”
Everly stands like a sentry a few feet away, patiently waiting to take over the event again since hockey players are nothing compared to a pop star. We’re chopped liver, and the media wants the porterhouse of Lyra until the redhead who was supposedly brokenhearted when our romance ended—or so the public thinks—seems to notice the commotion, saying, “Oh my gosh, I did not mean to steal the focus. Let me get out of your way.”