Page 13 of The Romance Line

Frustration bubbles inside me. “What the hell is a likeability quotient?”

“It’s a measure of how appealing you are to audiences, Max,” Rosario chimes in gently, popping up from her chair and heading to the whiteboard. She rips off the paper covering it and shows a thermometer drawing, with only a small section at the bottom colored in red. “And right now, yours has gone way down.”

I scoff. “That sounds like a BS marketing term they use in ad agencies in TV shows. Or like a sign at a bank that’s trying to raise funds for something.”

Garrett nods, giving me that much. “Maybe, but the thing is, market research matters. Brands use it. They rely on it. Guys like Carter Hendrix?” he says, naming the star receiver for the San Francisco Renegades. “Very high likability quotient.”

I groan. Love the guy. He’s a friend. But of course he’s beloved. “He took his best friend on dates to farmers’ markets and chocolate shops and shot videos for a dating app. Of course everyone loves him.”

“So you understand how the likeability quotient works,” John says, his tone precise, ready to move on.

Wait. Hold the hell on. “Are you about to suggest I fakedate someone? Because no, no, and more no. That is not going to happen.”

After a far too public relationship with a pop star went south, no way am I smiling and kissing for the camera. Besides, I don’t want to lie. I’d rather have zero sponsors than spin a fake love story for the world.

Rosario chuckles as she returns to her seat. “No, we’re not suggesting that. Studies show in your case that’d be worse for your image.”

My head spins with all their market research. “You did studies on the possibility ofmefake dating?”

“Of course. But we don’t phrase it like that. We have subtler ways of asking the audience if it would be good for someone. But we feel that based on the, how shall we say, rather public attention of your last romance, a fake romance to improve your image is just too risky.”

Translation: I’m too risky.

“You think I’d fuck it up,” I say to Garrett.

He holds his hands out wide, an admission. “We think there are better ways for you to improve your likeability,” he says.

I roll my eyes. I’m not sure I can do anything but roll them. “I’m fine. I make enough playing,” I bite out because let’s be honest—pro athletes are not hurting for dough in most cases.

John lifts a finger. “Sure. But we’ve talked about your future plans frequently.”

I grit my teeth, hating that he’s right, but he’s right.

“We’ve talked about this,” John continues, “you want to make sure you have enough for your parents.”

We had so little growing up. Money was more than tight. My parents were and still are teachers. Hockey’s not cheap, so they put anything extra into the sport, includingmoney they didn’t have. I was lucky I played at an ice rink where a pro hockey player had donated funds for the program. I want to take care of them now that I can. “Right,” I grumble.

“And we know that you could, god forbid, get hurt,” Garrett says sympathetically.

“Don’t remind me,” I say. A sprained wrist sidelined me for a few weeks my rookie season. It was hell. I was sure my career was over. The dark cloud of dread that followed me around those weeks off the ice has never fully cleared.

“That’s where sponsorships come into play because they provide that security even when a career ends,” Rosario says, cheerful and chipper.

I’m about to argue that smart savings of my salary will help, and they will, but why argue with them? They’re on my team. Besides, facts are facts—Iwantto take care of my parents, since they took care of me, and I can do that better if I have more guaranteed income. I draw a big breath, ready to let go of my irritation. It’s not going to win me any friends, and fact is, they’re right. I do want to save more and do it quickly. You never know what could happen tomorrow. And you never know what could happen later in life, when you’re older, when you can’t play, when you can’t maybe do a lot of things.

Briefly, I picture my grandfather in his final years, and my throat tightens. I breathe deeply, past the pain of those visits, and focus on the present. “So what do you have in mind? A new sponsor? A shoe company? A body spray company? A dating site? I mean, I don’t have to use it, do I?”

Garrett pushes his palms toward the table, like he’ssaying slow down. “Actually, we think you need to rehab your image before we can get you a new sponsor.”

“It’s that bad?” I ask with more vulnerability than I’d expected.

Rosario smiles kindly, like she wants to pat my head in kindergarten class. “Your LQ is so low—it’s a one,” she whispers, nodding surreptitiously to the thermometer drawing on the whiteboard. “But we know how to boost it right back up,” she says, pointing to the top of the thermometer with a certain amount of…market research glee.

“Okay,” I say, hesitantly. “Why do I feel like I won’t like this?”

“That’s a good question. But does it really matter?” Garrett asks, sitting forward in the chair and parking his elbows on the table. He takes a beat, then pulls no punches when he says, “Max, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the team isn’t happy with you. They could fine you for not talking to the media, but they don’t want to do that and we don’t want that, do we?”

That’s bad. That’s basically at the level ofyou get one more strike and we don’t renew. What’s more, everyone in the league would know I was a problem child.

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