Unrivaled, page 24
They had to walk into the wind on the way back. Max’s eyes watered and his ears burned, even under the wool of his hat. The hairs in his nostrils froze, which was always disgusting, but not as disgusting as it would be when the snot melted.
He could never complain about any of this to his family, of course. They’d think he’d gotten soft.
He had a shelf of snowflakes on his eyebrows when he let himself back in the house. Gru shook himself vigorously, flinging snow and hair around the mudroom. Then he pranced to his bowl in anticipation of the next best part of his day.
“Yeah, yeah,” Max grumbled as he tried to toe off his boots without falling over. “Give me a minute. I’m coming.”
He was dumping the last scoop of food into Gru’s dish when he heard a faint ringing from the mudroom. He’d left his phone in his coat pocket. “Shit.”
It took so long to dig out past the crumpled Kleenex and roll of dog poop bags that he thought for sure the call would go to voicemail. Then his fingers were too wet to swipe Accept and he had to wipe them on his shirt three times.
Finally he picked up. “Hello?”
“Max. Thank God I caught you. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
Fuck. He recognized that voice. “Hey. Sorry, I was walking Gru and it’s practically a blizzard out there. Probably couldn’t hear my phone over the wind.”
He already knew, when his agent didn’t acknowledge what he’d said, that he wouldn’t like what came next. “Listen, Max… there’s no easy way to say this.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Where are they sending me?”
She released a long breath. “Miami.”
His throat grew thick with emotion. “Okay. I’m guessing they don’t want me to go in to practice this morning.” He wasn’t part of the Monsters organization anymore. No last chance to say goodbye, not when it meant he might see some new set play the team had drawn up—information he could pass on to his new team.
“The equipment manager’s going to ship your gear down.”
Well. That was that.
Gru must’ve sensed something was wrong, because he snuffled into the mudroom and pushed his nose under Max’s chin. Automatically, Max wound his fingers into the thick fur at his neck. “Have you heard from Florida? When’s my flight?”
“Still waiting to hear back from their front office. I got the feeling they’re making multiple last-minute deals and haven’t gotten all the details sorted out yet. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”
Numbly, Max thanked her and hung up.
Gru whined and licked his chin.
“Okay,” Max said after a fortifying breath. “First things first, right?” And Gru had to be first, because Gru was a dog and couldn’t look after himself. “Let’s get your harness back on, buddy.”
He didn’t want to ask for this favor, but he’d probably be living in a hotel for the foreseeable future. The hotel might not be pet-friendly, and it wouldn’t be fair to Gru. He’d be better off with Hedgie and El.
“Florida, eh?” he muttered, half to himself and half to Gru, as he pushed open the door into the snow. “Figures.”
Getting sent away from the snow, fine. But couldn’t he have ended up at a team closer to Grady? They’d have the same weather and still be a six-hour flight apart, plus the same time difference.
Grady was probably still in bed right now, with no idea Max’s life had gotten turned upside-down. He kept his phone on Do Not Disturb at night, so Max couldn’t even call him and vent.
He didn’t realize he’d made it all the way to Hedgie and El’s front door until Gru barked, expecting to be let in. Belatedly, Max rang the doorbell.
Several minutes later, Hedgie answered it, bleary-eyed, dressed in pajama pants and with his hair sticking straight up on one side. He must have been asleep. “’M I late?” he asked, blinking through a yawn.
Then he noticed Gru, and suddenly his eyes opened all the way.
Max held out the leash and tried to keep it together. “I need a big favor….”
GRADY WENT to practice in a terrible mood.
He felt awful for Max. A trade was hard enough when you were expecting it. But a trade that blindsided you when—at least apart from the temporary coaching situation—you were happy with your team? When you were one of the team’s core players? When you’d expected to wear the same jersey your whole life?
He called on his way to the rink for morning skate, in the hopes that maybe talking to Grady would help. Grady didn’t know how, but Max had a way of making him feel better despite his own determination to be a grumpy asshole. Grady could at least try to return the favor.
But Max didn’t answer, and now Grady wondered if they were going to have a repeat of his own dumb posttrade radio silence. If so, he deserved it, but it still sucked.
So he was surly through practice—enough that Dawg made sad puppy eyes at him when Grady snapped and then felt like a monster. After that, he kept a better lid on it, but he could tell Mitch and Farouk were giving him more space than usual.
Grady made a conscious effort to dial back “hate-the-world mode,” as Jess called it, and get his head on straight. At this point in the season, every game counted—the more points they got, the better chance they had at an easier matchup in the first round of the playoffs. Grady could hardly remember the last time making the playoffs felt like a given rather than a struggle, and he wasn’t going to waste it. Especially not since their game tonight was against San Jose—a divisional matchup. Winning tonight could mean the difference of a home-team advantage in the first round.
And all Grady could think about was Max in Miami, away from his friends and away from Grady, and the fact that the Condors had already played Miami twice this season. If Grady got to see Max before the playoffs were over, it would be because they were playing against each other in the Stanley Cup Final.
Grady gritted his teeth and did his best to focus, but he struggled. Finally he knocked a goal past Mitch in practice—right out of the air off a flukey bounce—and Farouk patted his shoulder. “Attaboy. You show that puck.”
Grady checked him halfheartedly, but his shoulders unknotted and he relaxed. Settling into the groove got easier after that.
After practice, the team filed into the locker room. Jeremy, their PR guy, gave Grady a heads-up in the hallway. “You’re on tap for media today.”
Grady wanted to protest. Everybody else was in a good mood. Grady wanted to brood in peace.
But it was a team sport, and he had promised himself he’d make more of an effort to be a team player, so he nodded. “Got it.”
It wasn’t like media interviews were hard. Grady could’ve answered questions about their power play strategy in his sleep. The most difficult part was keeping his attention on the questions while the rest of the team dressed and chatted around him.
Grady talked a little about Farouk’s landmark year—he was on track to hit forty goals by the end of the regular season—and how much the team supported him.
Then Sonia Goldstein, who covered the team for the Athletic, got her turn. “Grady, when you played for the Firebirds, you had a notable rivalry with Max Lockhart.”
Grady schooled his features into neutrality as he waited for her to finish.
“How do you feel about rekindling that rivalry now that Max has been traded to the Piranhas?”
Blinking, Grady tried to untangle the question while his heart tried to escape his rib cage. “I thought he was going to Miami.”
Sonia shook her head. “You must’ve missed the news. They flipped him to Anaheim an hour ago.”
Grady could not have controlled his expression if his life depended on it. Without meaning to, he raised his hand to his face and rubbed his cheek. Oh—that was the edge of a smile under his fingers.
Oops.
“They did, huh?” He shook his head. “Guess he missed my pretty face.”
Sonia laughed. “So that’s a yes?”
Yes was such a small word. “Max is always fun to play against.” Even if that wasn’t what Grady looked forward to most. “But maybe I’ll try a little harder to stay out of the box this time around.”
Somehow he got through the rest of the questions, and then Jeremy ushered the media out again.
Grady could’ve used a few minutes to pull himself together, but he didn’t even get ten seconds. As soon as the door closed, Mitch was on him.
“Grady. Bro. Buddy. Friend.” He put his hand on Grady’s knee. “What is that on your face?”
Fuck. Grady put his head in his hands. He was still smiling. “Shut up.”
“Okay, wait, wait, wait.” Farouk sat down on his other side. “Am I jumping to the right conclusions here? Your special friend you sent a shirtless selfie to the other day is your archrival?”
“Oh my God.” Grady lifted his head. “I’m not a supervillain.”
“This is amazing,” Farouk said. “This is better than television. I don’t believe this.”
At least they weren’t upset. On the other hand, this might be worse. “When did this start? How did this start?” Mitch wanted to know. “How have you kept this quiet for so long when your face does that when you talk about him?”
“You have to tell us,” Farouk said. “I will never be able to have my pregame nap with all these questions. Do it for the team, Grades.”
He squared his shoulders. “I’m not going to do that without talking to Max.”
Farouk shrugged, unbothered. “Oh well. Worth a shot. Seriously, though. I have so many questions.”
“Leave them off the ice,” Grady told him.
“Hey, hey, I can be discreet. Unlike that face—”
Finally Grady stood and mustered the remnants of his dignity. “I’m going to shower.”
Farouk and Mitch heckled him as he walked away.
That didn’t stop Grady’s smile either.
BY THE time Max landed in LA, he was emotionally exhausted. His eyes were gritty. He’d barely eaten all day, and he knew he needed food, but the idea turned his stomach. Traded twice in the same day—who’d want to eat after that? Shaken, hurt, and stuck in an airplane for seven hours didn’t make for a strong appetite.
His agent had told him the team would send someone to collect him at the airport, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that. He spotted the person in the Piranhas polo with LOCKHART on a sign and followed them to their car.
The team had set him up in a hotel near their practice arena. The mini fridge was stocked with snacks, and they’d ordered dinner to be delivered half an hour after he arrived. Max took a shower, the heat cranked up as high as he could stand it.
He’d forgotten to refill his travel shampoo—the one Grady picked out for him.
That might’ve made him sad in Miami, but he was in Los Angeles, where Grady also lived. Grady was probably arriving at the arena right now for tonight’s game. Max could, in fact, get out of the shower, get dressed, and get a ticket. He could be in the same building as Grady in a few hours.
But he was still too raw. He needed time to mourn his old life before he started his new one.
He ate dinner by rote, not really tasting it, brushed his teeth, and then looked at the bed. He shouldn’t get in. It was too early. He’d screw up his internal clock.
But fuck it. He was tired.
Before he crawled into bed, he unlocked his phone and opened a new message to Grady. Realistically, the time he had to work through his hurt had passed. Now it was time to see if they could really make this work in person, instead of long-distance.
No pressure.
Looks like im gonna miss that date in april. reschedule?
Then he put it down and closed his eyes. He had a big day tomorrow.
MAX EXPECTED to wake up at an ungodly hour, given the time he’d gone to bed and his body clock.
Instead he opened his eyes to bright sunlight and a buzzing from the hotel phone. Max reached for it blearily and brought it to his ear. “Hello.”
“Good morning, Mr. Lockhart!” chirped the voice on the other end. “This is the front desk. You have a visitor. Should I send him up? He says he’s supposed to take you to the arena.”
That sounded vaguely correct. Max sat up and wiped his eyes. “No. Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes. Thank you.”
At least he’d showered last night.
Max quickly brushed his teeth and threw on a set of athletic gear. After a moment of frantic searching, he found his key card in last night’s pants pocket. Then he picked up his wallet and phone and went down to the lobby to face whatever indignity getting collected from your hotel was.
Was this how Hedgie felt all the years Max had to herd him places?
Shit, who was going to do that now?
But Max didn’t have time to be sad about it because, when he entered the lobby, he found not his chauffeur from last night, but Dante Baltierra in a T-shirt, board shorts, and sandals.
Well, one sandal. The other foot was in a walking boot.
Max blinked at him. “It’s sixty degrees outside.”
“In February!” Baltierra agreed. Max had never formally met the man, but apparently neither one of them was into introductions. “I love it. Too bad I’m just a short-term rental. You good to go?”
Yes, but…. “How are you driving us anywhere with that?” Max gestured to his right foot. He’d heard enough nightmares about LA traffic. It definitely didn’t seem like the kind of time to fuck around driving with a broken brake foot.
Or gas foot, for that matter.
“Oh, I’m not. Gabe’s out front. I call shotgun. You get to ride in the back with Reyna.”
Max had more questions but sensed they would not lead to satisfactory answers. “Lead the way.”
“Hi, honey,” Baltierra said when he opened the door of the SUV idling out front. “Look what I found.”
Max slid in the back and offered a wave to Gabe Martin, Baltierra’s husband and Max’s former Team Canada teammate. “Hey, Gabe. Thanks for the ride.” Then he turned his attention to his neighbor, a chubby toddler with bright brown eyes and curly hair. “You must be Reyna. I’m Max.” He held out his finger to shake.
Reyna ignored it, but she did yell, “Max! Max! Max!” so he couldn’t be too offended.
He hoped his teammates were as excited to meet him as she was.
“Oh, yeah, that reminds me,” said Baltierra from the front seat. “You can use my nickname around the team, but try not to around the kid. It gets awkward when strangers think she’s talking about my testicles.”
“Tetticles!” Reyna agreed loudly.
They stopped at a light. Gabe covered his eyes with one hand, and his shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“See what I mean?”
Gabe took his hand away from his face. “Day care loves us.”
Gabe dropped them off at the rink, and Baller limp-swaggered down the hallway to lead Max to the GM’s office for his introductory visit—security details and administrative stuff.
The GM took one look at Baller and developed an eye twitch. “Baltierra, what the fuck are you doing here? Go home and sit down. I said you could play chauffeur, not walk all over LA.”
“I’m going,” Baller said. “Going to go elevate it right now. Promise.” He left with a wink at Max, who didn’t believe him for a second.
The GM sighed, but he also shook his head fondly. “That kid, I swear. He’s lucky he’s so likable. Come in and sit down and we’ll get this over with so I can get you on the ice with the team as fast as possible.”
True to his word, the meeting took only a couple minutes. Max’s new coach came in at the tail end and introduced himself as Barry, shook Max’s hand, and said, “All right, time to meet the guys. You ready?”
Max wasn’t. He’d been a Monster his entire career. Management had made him believe he’d be there forever. Usually he knew at least one or two players on a team—guys he trained with, guys who’d played for the Monsters before, friends of friends, players from the national team. But here, the closest thing he had to a friend was Baller, who he’d met this morning. It made him wonder why the Piranhas wanted him in the first place.
But he pasted on a smile and said, “Let’s do it.”
Of course, all his apprehension was for nothing. The team was the same as any other team, except maybe a touch younger. Max fit in well enough. His new captain, a six-foot-eight center who went by Bishop, welcomed him to the team with a back slap that rattled his teeth. “Fresh Fish!” he bellowed to the locker room.
“Beware the Fish!” the rest of the team yelled back, stomping their feet.
Oh God, Max had joined a cult.
Bishop patted his shoulder, gentler this time. “Let’s see what you got.”
Practice went well enough. The Piranhas played a fast, offensive game that focused on puck movement to generate even-strength chances. It was a change for Max, who was used to a defensive game at even strength and a scoring strategy that focused on the power play.
“We’ll put you on third or fourth line a couple games until you get used to it,” Barry told him after his third set of line rushes. He side-eyed Max. “You look like you could use the rest.”
Gee, thanks, Max thought. But he couldn’t disagree, so he didn’t bother trying. “Okay, Coach.”
It wouldn’t be the worst if he didn’t get fifty new bruises every game.
They’d had a closed practice, so there were no reporters present to ask Max how he felt about the trade. For that he was grateful to the Piranhas organization, because he didn’t think he could do it without getting choked up. He’d feel more sure of himself after his first game in an unfamiliar jersey.
He expected to get passed on to another teammate for a ride back to the hotel—maybe Bishop, as part of his captain duties—or else to have to call an Uber.
But when he got out of the shower, Baller was waiting for him, his booted foot propped up on the locker room bench next to him. He had a battered romance novel in one hand and appeared deeply engrossed.
Everyone else had left. Was this some kind of setup? Max was suspicious.
