Unrivaled, page 23
By the time he got back to his hotel room, he was so exhausted he considered turning his phone off when the screen lit up with a notification. But he unlocked it instead and found a message from Grady.
I fucked up. Then another, I want to apologize.
Max went over the edge. He stabbed Call before he could think about what he wanted to say.
Grady picked up on the second ring, but Max didn’t let him get a word out.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve.”
“I know—”
“No, you don’t. Shut up.” The words poured out, filled with acid. “You ghosted me for weeks and now you think you’re going to get a word in?”
“Max—”
“Fuck you,” Max said. “You spent months convincing yourself I’d fuck you over, but guess what, Grady? You not only fucked yourself, you fucked me too. I thought we were going to—but you disappeared without a trace. You didn’t even have the stones to say something to my face. You’re a coward.”
“You’re right.”
God damn him. Max clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. He had a whole list of shit to read Grady the riot act over, but he couldn’t get the words out past the lump in his throat.
Grady took advantage of his silence. His voice was rough and quiet and left no doubt as to his sincerity. “Max, I’m sorry. I jumped to a stupid conclusion and I hurt you. I ruined something good that could have been—”
Could have been. But now it wasn’t.
“Could have been great,” Grady finished.
“You’re an asshole,” Max said. “Who just stops talking to someone they—?”
“Someone they love?” Grady’s voice cracked.
Fuck. Fuck. “Now you say that to me?” Max’s hands shook and his eyes burned. “Now?”
“I should have told you in Miami, but I’ve never—it’s been fifteen years since I said that to someone who wasn’t my sister.”
Max’s grip on his anger was slipping. With anyone else, he might have questioned the truth of that statement, considering the timing. But he knew to his bones that Grady had never said those words to a lover. It shouldn’t have been enough to sway him, but he didn’t want to stay mad. He wanted Grady to apologize so they could be together for real.
And it looked like he might get his wish. “I was stupid. Hedgie said—you know what he said, I guess. And I panicked. I assumed the worst. Then they stuck me in a trainer’s room to make sure I didn’t have a concussion and let me stew for an hour, and I kept going around in circles. By the time they told me they were trading me, I’d convinced myself….”
Max bit his lip until he tasted copper.
“And then I was going to California, and I thought, well, it’s not like we could even….”
Max exhaled shakily.
“But I was wrong about you telling Hedgie, and I think I was wrong about that too.”
Maybe he was. Max curled onto his side on the bed.
Was he still mad? Yes. Could he get over it?
Yes. He could get over it and let Grady back into his life and have that great thing that they would have had if Grady hadn’t fucked everything up.
And he could set himself up to get hurt all over again.
All of a sudden Max wasn’t angry. He didn’t have any more anger in him. He’d never been good at holding grudges, and right now he needed something to feel positive about.
As long as Grady was willing to put in the work, Max was too. And there was one good test to find out. “Say it for real.”
“Max.” Max swallowed hard and held his breath while Grady paused. “I’m in love with you.”
There—that was the feeling Max had been waiting for. He went warm all over and his mouth smiled without his input.
Long distance be damned. This might really work. Actually, right now the distance felt like a welcome buffer. It would give Max some time to work through his residual hurt. By the time he saw Grady face-to-face again, he’d be ready.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?” Grady didn’t quite squawk, but it was close. “I tell you I’m in love with you and that’s what I get back?”
“Oh yeah.” Max rolled onto his back. He might’ve forgiven Grady, but he wasn’t ready to pick up where they’d left off in Miami. Grady would have to prove he deserved to be there. “Just because we’re dating now doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you.”
Grady laughed. It was the second-best thing Max had ever heard. “No, of course not.” Then, “Dating, huh?”
“Yup.” Max popped the p and stretched out to get comfortable. This phone call could go on for a while. “Don’t worry, though. I know how much you hate going on dates. But look on the bright side—you have until we play each other in April to plan one.”
MAX COULD have restrained himself, but restraint had never been his strong suit. He could only go so long without pushing Grady’s buttons. So the next time he was out with the team after a win—and one too many shots—he found himself replying to one of Grady’s bland but somehow endearing texts with how good r ur dick pics?
Then Hedgie distracted him, and he forgot to look at his phone again until he was back at yet another hotel room, brushing his teeth.
He had three new messages from Grady.
When the first picture loaded, Max snickered. That was Dick van Dyke. A white whale followed—Moby Dick, presumably. Then a comic-book character in red and green with a yellow mask. Robin? Funny, Max said. whos the last one?
Dick Grayson.
Of course. At least u didn’t send dick cheney
I’m not actually TRYING to piss you off. Then, a moment later, Saw the game tonight. What’s Wells smoking?
They’d won, but Wells had been up to his usual bullshit, making Max his designated pain in the ass. Max’s fledgling good mood waned. Dont joke abt drugs :(
Shit, sorry. I hope Saunders is back soon.
Max did too, but he didn’t want to talk about hockey. tell me something good. He flopped on the bed with his phone.
Grady’s next message said, I made another bet.
How mysterious. Oh?????
I lost.
Max smiled at his phone screen. Whats the forfeit?
I’ll tell you when it’s done.
They texted back and forth a few more times, but Max’s eyelids were heavy. With Grady to distract him from his frustration with Wells, he fell asleep.
TWO WEEKS after the Condors returned from their road trip, Grady woke up with regrets.
Not about the tattoo. Farouk won the bet fair and square, and somehow it did help Grady bond with the team. Their schedule had kept him from holding up his end of the agreement until last night, but that gave him plenty of time to come up with his idea. Mitch cried tears of laughter when Grady showed him the design he’d chosen, and he and Farouk stayed for the whole appointment, cracking jokes and telling stories about the team.
But if Grady had to do it again, he’d pick another location. The bowl of his hip had been a poor choice. It was going to be a bitch to play with.
He should probably get some analgesic cream or something, because he might have the whole day off from hockey… but not from moving.
Today Grady got possession of his house.
Groaning, he got up and made himself coffee. Not touching the ink on his hip took a surprising amount of focus. He definitely needed caffeine to manage it.
He had forty minutes before he had to meet the movers at his new house when someone knocked on the hotel-room door.
Blearily, Grady opened it and was surprised to find Farouk and Mitch, as well as Dawg and a handful of other guys, standing on his doorstep. Or whatever you had when you still lived in a hotel room.
“Rise and shine,” Mitch said. “It’s moving day.”
Grady blinked at him. “I know. What are you doing here?”
“Helping,” Dawg said like it was obvious. “Are you going to get dressed?”
Was Grady being bossed around by a nineteen-year-old off the ice? “I hired professional movers,” he protested.
“They’re not gonna unpack your kitchenware, dude.” That was Farouk. “Hurry up. If we get going early, we can be done in time for beach volleyball.”
“Hey,” said Dawg before Grady could find a shirt, “is that a new tattoo?”
Grady hadn’t explained it to Mitch and Farouk, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to explain it to Dawg, a kid Grady’d taken aside and told to stop washing his face with Irish Spring. “Eyes up here, Captain.”
Dawg flushed so brightly Grady felt bad for calling him out.
“Help yourself to some coffee while I get dressed.” Hopefully that would distract everyone from teasing Dawg.
By two o’clock, Grady had to admit that moving went smoothly when you had professional hockey players as well as professional movers. Granted, he’d sold a lot of furniture with the Philadelphia house and had only kept his master bedroom set, personal touches like art and framed jerseys, and his kitchenware, wardrobe, and linens. He had his old TV and media console and one ugly armchair the new homeowners didn’t want, and the nice patio set that came with the new house because, he suspected, it was too heavy for anyone to want to move it.
His decorator had ordered all his other furniture to be delivered over the next few weeks. But for today, they were making do with the pool, the patio furniture, and the towels Grady pulled out of his box of bath linens. He made a beer run and had an embarrassing number of pizzas delivered, and they ate outside in the winter sunshine. The thermometer read seventy-five degrees.
It was almost perfect.
As if on cue, a notification popped up on his phone. Max, of course—though he’d missed one a few hours ago, from Jess.
Hers said, How’s the move coming?
All done, he sent back. He texted her a picture of the pileup of pizza boxes and beer cans. Hanging out with the boys.
Nice!!!!!
He decided not to think too hard about what it meant that Jess used that many exclamation points to mark her approval that Grady was making friends.
Max’s text provided a handy distraction. He’d sent a selfie taken on the team bus. He had his noise-canceling over-ear headphones on, with the waves of his hair fluffed out to the side like he was in a Disney movie that took place on a boat, and his expression as he stared into the phone camera suggested he was having his toenails pulled out with rusty pliers while being forced to watch paint dry. Behind him, just in frame, Grady made out the profile of the Monsters’ interim coach’s face as he addressed the team.
He winced in sympathy. Wells used Max like a blunt object when he was more of a Swiss Army knife, and then acted like it was Max’s fault he wasn’t a hammer.
He sent back a selfie of his own, sunglasses and all, pool in the background.
“Hey, are we taking pics for Insta?” Grady snapped his head over to see Dawg pulling himself out of the pool. He reached for his towel. “What’s your handle?”
“Dude.” That was Farouk. “Not everybody wants you in their thirst trap pics. Or to share their thirst trap pics with you.”
Oh God. Grady sent the picture, locked his phone screen, and hoped his sunburn covered any physical reaction.
Dawg wasn’t so lucky. He’d gone blotchy red down to his shoulders.
Did Farouk not realize Dawg had a crush, or was he giving him shit for it? Grady didn’t even know if Dawg was out.
Fuck. “It’s a private account. I pretty much only follow my sister and a dog.” It was Max’s dog—blessedly, Max had unblocked him after they made up—but Grady wasn’t going to give that away unless he had to. “I don’t post anything.”
Unfortunately, this invited a follow-up question from Mitch, who was lounging with his arms out of the pool, looking at Grady over the tops of his sunglasses. “So the selfie was for someone in particular?”
On the other hand, maybe he could be vague enough to discourage Dawg without spilling the whole story. “Yeah.”
Mitch grinned. “Nice. Get it, Grades.”
Probably not for another few months, but Grady grinned back anyway. “I will.”
Meanwhile, on the patio chair next to him, Dawg was vigorously rubbing a towel over his face. When he pulled it away, he seemed to have regained some chill. “Hey,” he said, “the Fish have a game tonight. We could watch, keep an eye on our competition.”
Farouk booed—a day off should include not being forced to watch other teams’ games, he said—but Mitch wanted to watch for a little early scouting on Baller before the Condors played the Fish in two weeks.
“Besides,” Dawg said, “we need to get Grades here hating on the Fish.”
“I hate them plenty.” Otherwise they’d have to kick him off the team. The Fish were the Condors’ main rivals. Grady knew how sports rivalries worked. He’d been part of one of the more volatile ones in the NHL for his entire career.
If, lately, hating another team seemed like a waste of energy, his new team didn’t have to know that.
“We could move the TV out here,” Mitch suggested. “Then Farouk doesn’t have to get out of the pool and Dawg can do his homework.”
So Grady and Dawg moved the TV, and Grady streamed from his phone. Ten minutes into the game, Farouk climbed out of the pool, shivering, and pulled over a patio chair.
Grady went inside to grab some extra sweatshirts. Even he felt a bit of a chill now that the sun had gone down and the breeze picked up. But when he slid open the patio door to go back outside, he found his teammates hunched forward facing the screen.
“Jesus,” Mitch said with a grimace.
Dawg blanched.
Farouk pulled his towel tighter around his shoulders. “Son of a bitch.”
Apparently Grady had missed something big. He tossed a shirt at Farouk. “What happened?”
Without speaking, Dawg gestured at the television.
Well…. Grady could’ve figured that much. The replay showed one of the Ottawa Tartans hooking Piranhas number 68. When he went down, his other foot twisted under him. He landed on it with his full weight, skating too fast.
Fuck, that was a bad fall. Grady could tell the guy wouldn’t be getting up again under his own power. “Who was that?”
“Baltierra.” Mitch put his head in his hands. “Fuck, if he goes on IR, that gives them so much cap relief.”
That meant the Piranhas would be able to trade for another good player during the regular season. For playoffs, Baller would be eligible to come back—assuming he’d healed from what was almost certainly a broken foot—giving the Piranhas a ton of firepower.
Which was presumably why Mitch was upset. “Show a little sympathy, dude.” Grady already had his phone out to text Baller a message of support.
“Right. Sorry. I forgot you’re friends.”
“Injuries like that suck,” Farouk said. “That could fuck him up for a long time.”
Grady hoped not. He didn’t want the Piranhas to get an influx of cap space and become that much more challenging to beat—especially since it looked like the Condors might come up against them early in the playoffs—but he didn’t want Baller to be badly hurt either.
Dawg had already moved on to, “Who do you think they’re going to go for?”
“Kirschbaum?”
“No chance, the whole city of Vancouver is married to that guy.”
“People get divorced all the time.”
“Could be Yorkshire. I mean, if they’re going for a Dekes reunion, it would make sense. And the Fuel are rebuilding again”—that was generous, Grady thought; they’d never managed to build anything in the first place—“so they’d probably go for picks and prospects on a trade.”
Grady tuned them out. He didn’t know enough about the Piranhas’ roster to know who they might be able to trade for another good forward, and it seemed in poor taste to speculate about it when there wasn’t even a report on Baller’s injury.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and found a video from Max—a ten-second clip of Gru chasing snowflakes. Apparently it was cold on the East Coast. Gru was wearing a little green sweatshirt with a hood that made him look like Creature, the Monsters’ mascot. The eye stalks bobbled hilariously as he jumped to try to catch a particularly fat snowflake.
Grady couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid that he’d almost walked away from this. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
MAX WOKE up the day before the trade deadline and checked his phone obsessively, the way he had for the past two weeks. No news about Hedgie being dealt, just the same unsubstantiated rumors. Realistically, if it were going to happen, Hedgie’s agent would’ve given him a heads-up.
But sometimes things moved fast. She might not have time.
In any case, today was still a good day. He pressed a kiss to Gru’s fuzzy nose and received a lazy blink in return, but by the time Max had finished putting on enough layers to go outside, the dog was waiting by the door, tail wagging.
Max slipped the harness over Gru’s head, tugged a toque onto his own, and stepped outside into the biting wind.
Some dogs didn’t like weather, but Gru approached walks with the same cheerful disposition no matter what the sky was doing. Max worried he was going to end up with frostbite. Every time he got ice stuck between the pads of his feet, he stopped, favoring the affected leg, and gave Max the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes until Max bent down and unstuck it.
But he hated his snow boots. Naturally.
Today Max kept the walk short, since he had to be at the arena early and it looked like the roads were going to be a mess. Gru didn’t mind; while he loved the morning walk, it was mostly important as a ritual that had to be observed in order to get to breakfast.
A snowplow went by, the sound muffled by the toque pulled low over Max’s ears to protect them from the howling wind. Driving snow stung his face and stuck in his eyelashes.
“Had enough?” he asked after Gru had dumped a load next to an ornamental cedar half bent under the weight of six inches of snow.
Gru kicked up a spray of snow behind him and pricked his ears.
Max bagged the turd. “Okay. Let’s go have breakfast.”
