Page 5 of The Romance Line

His eyes narrow as he draws in a sharp breath. Thenhis gaze drifts to the bag he returned, and he asks, a little strangled, “Got a hot date here?”

Like I’m going to tell him. I bob a shoulder. “I don’t wear my bralette and tell.”

He grabs the door handle. “Shame. I was about to send you the birthday cake.”

My mouth waters. I want birthday cake. But I want the satisfaction of not revealing that the lingerie is for me and only for me. I wave happily to him. “I guess I’ll order it myself for my company and me.”

His eyes flash with something almost feral, then he huffs out an annoyed goodnight, and leaves.

Heart beating too fast, I shut the door, catching one last hint of his fading cologne. Max Lambert is the bane of my existence and if I could wish for one thing this season, it’d be to never have to deal with him again.

If only wishes came true.

3

PRETTY AND POWERFUL

Everly

As I pull on the bralette the next morning, I try not to think about its misadventures last night. Like a twelve-year-old might, did Max slingshot it across his room for fun? Toss it up and down in the air for kicks? Inspect it like it was an item in a curio shop? Or just laugh at me for wanting something like this?

Something extravagant. Something pretty.

I believe in splurging on underthings but I have my reasons. Ones he’ll never know. Especially since he assumed I must have sexy lingerie for a man.Please.My reasons have nothing to do with a hot date.

But as I adjust the bottom of the cherry-red lace bralette, I picture his big hands on the soft lace and I unexpectedly shiver. What an annoying reaction to an unbidden image. I squeeze my eyes shut to get rid of it, but that does nothing to erase the image of Max touching my lingerie, or the chill that rushes through me.

I open my eyes and shake my head in frustration, then pluck at the left strap. Maybe I should just retire this bralette. I don’t need the reminder every time I wear it of a man I once stupidly crushed on when I was a reporter. Before I worked for the team. Then, when I stuck a phone recorder in his face post-game, he’d toss me a useful comment or two, offering something fun for my network—what can I say about all those saves? Sometimes you just get lucky. He was friendly then. He’s an enemy now.

And yet the fucker still makes my skin tingle. Why am I wired to be attracted to men who don’t give me the time of day?

Nope. Don’t answer that, brain.

But rather than get lost in my thoughts of all the things I need to change about myself, I wiggle the strap around a little bit more, lifting it gingerly over the scar cutting across my left shoulder. As my fingers skim the raised, reddish-pink skin, a familiar image flickers through my mind—a painful one and I wince, feeling the inexorable pull of time. The way it wants to swallow me into that evening three years ago.

But rather than let it, I fight back. Rooting myself to the here and now, I take the opportunity to catalog my surroundings. How does the wall look? Beige. What about the floor? The creme-colored carpet has a diamond pattern on it. How many windows are there? Three, and then beyond the glass is Mount Rainier, rising up, steady, strong, powerful.

With that strength in me, I cross the room to the full-length mirror, hanging by the door. Time for the hardest parts of the getting ready ritual. The last thing I do before I leave every morning for work, whether at home or on the road.

I look.

I’m wearing black slacks and a bralette. My arms are toned. My body is tight. My legs are strong.

I look pretty and powerful, I tell myself. I say it out loud anyway. “You’re pretty and powerful.” Maybe one day I’ll believe it.

I turn sideways and gaze at the jagged row of scars that travel from my shoulder down across my back to my hip, cutting zigzags into my skin. Most are pale, faded over time, but they still mark a map on my body. Some are mean, refusing to go quietly into the night. Together, they are all a story told in one act of what happened one horrible night.

I am pretty and powerful.

I return to the bed and grab the shirt I left on it. Then, with a simple silver gray blouse I cover up the lingerie that makes me feel like I’m more than these scars. When I do the last button, it’s hidden. No one would know I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t simply like wearing pretty things—but I need to.

Max doesn’t know. And he never will.

I leave my hotel room so I can head to the lobby to meet up with one of our centers, Miles Falcon. Miles is from Seattle, and we’re going to meet with a local sports talk podcaster, who I pitched doing a feature piece on one of our players from the Pacific Northwest. The podcaster—a persistent and affable guy named Ian Walker—liked my idea, but kept asking for our star goalie too, who grew up here before moving to the Bay Area as a teenager. I kept sayingsorry he’s not available.

There’s a coffee shop-slash-recording studio right across from the Seattle team’s arena, and the shop hosts several podcasters, including some sports-centric onesthat draw live audiences. The guy who runs the whole coffee shop-slash-podcast setup—his name is Joe—has emailed me a couple times to let me know there’s a full house this morning. The place holds about seventy-five. “They better not heckle my star center,” I said to him in my last email.

As I head to the elevator, I spot Joe’s reply on my phone. “Fans’ll be fans,” he writes, but there’s a winky face, so that’s good. Plus, Miles is a veteran who’s been playing for ten years so he won’t be bothered by a rowdy crowd member if one speaks up.

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