The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

“ Pretty Woman . Hands down the best movie makeover out there.”

That’s Josie’s declaration that night as we dine on the salted caramel flight at Elodie’s Chocolates, since what’s a get-together with friends without chocolate? I’m here at the artisanal shop in the heart of Hayes Valley with Josie, Maeve, and Fable, who have become—it’s still strange to say—my new crew. And we’re debating the best movie makeovers of all time post Max run-in.

“And why’s that retro flick the best?” Maeve asks as she absently shuffles her deck of tarot cards. She’s been learning tarot and wants to practice on us soon, she’s said. Which I’ve learned is very, very Maeve.

I jump on her question. “Because the Julia Roberts character isn’t doing it to be hotter for the guy but rather to fit into his world. He’s already attracted to her, after all. And the best part is she gets revenge in the end when she goes back to the snooty store with the clerk who put her down,” I explain, then pop a salted caramel into my mouth.

Maeve seems to give that some thought as she shuffles once again. “I do love a revenge tale. But hey…what about dude movie makeovers? Are there even any?”Nôvel(D)rama.Org's content.

Fable flicks a strand of auburn hair off her cheek as she chimes in, “Of course. Hollywood loves its men. But, with the exception of Can’t Buy Me Love , where he pays her to date him and she gives him a zero-to-hero makeover that comes rudely crashing down on him, those flicks are almost always about the man transforming into a badass superhero, the world’s best spy, or the universe’s greatest hitman. Or he goes from nerd to a super jock. Or realizes he has some awesome new power, like he can fly. Seriously.” She shakes her head, clearly annoyed with Hollywood. “It’s never— oh, I’m suddenly pretty without my glasses ,” she adds in a faux feminine voice.

Josie pointedly removes her glasses, setting a hand under her pale chin. “Look at me, friends. Am I not super hot now?” She offers up an over-the-top smile, batting her lashes.

I laugh, and it feels good to laugh with friends again. I missed this so much for the first couple years after Marie died, when I mostly kept to myself. When friendship was simply too painful to try. Like swimming after a boating accident, I couldn’t go near the water for a long time. Friendship was its own form of PTSD for a while there. “You are the hottest, Josie,” I tell my librarian friend. “You’re now a gorgeous duckling.”

She blows a kiss my way, but her expression turns serious as she slides her glasses back on. “Why can’t we have a movie makeover where the heroine’s fairy godmother transforms the heroine into a badass assassin?” She points at me. “You’re kind of like an image assassin, aren’t you? You’re going to rid the world of his rough edges as you shine him up.”

I didn’t tell them the details of what I’d be up to with Max Lambert, but since the grumpy goalie and I will likely be doing more public events soon, it won’t be a state secret that he’s getting a makeover, so I’ve told them the basic plan— put him out there more . “Just call me Everly Rosewood, Bad Image Assassin and Head Drill Instructor at Good Guy Boot Camp.” I wince, though, as the words make landfall. “That’s a mouthful.”

“That’s what she said,” Maeve mutters under her breath, then looks up from beneath a swoop of light brown hair streaked with blonde. The smile coasting across her fair skin is downright devilish.

Fable stares at Maeve, unblinking. “You couldn’t resist that, could you?”

“As if you could either,” Maeve retorts.

“Of course I could not,” Fable says.

“Then you get me,” Maeve says.

“We all get you,” Josie puts in, then reaches for the final piece of chocolate on the tray, asking with her eyes if she can take it. We nod go for it then she plucks it, her nails painted with decals of the titular character from Fleabag on them, and the hot priest she bangs, which is giving me all sorts of forbidden thoughts I should not be having about men in hockey uniforms—not men of the cloth.

After Josie chews, she looks my way pointedly. “So, have you thought about how you’re going to handle all the sexual tension between you and Number Thirty-Three? ”

Did Josie read my mind? “What?” I ask, like I don’t know what she means when I damn well do.

Maeve bursts into peals of laughter, then when she recovers, she says to me, “That was good. Did you practice that?”

“Practice what?” I ask, this time legitimately meaning the question.

Fable smirks, jumping in with, “That whole oh so shocked look you had right there.”

“I do not have sexual tension with Max Lambert,” I say, denying that hard. I have to deny it.

Maeve lifts a doubtful brow. “Louder for those in the back.”

I stare her down, like I did Asher earlier today. “I don’t.”

Or really, I can’t .

Getting involved with him in any way, shape, or form would be a bad idea. It’s frowned upon at work—athletes are our stars, they are our assets, and their talent pays all our bills. So it’s best not to tango with the talent. It’s one of the unwritten rules of working for a pro sports team, and something my boss even warned me about when I first started. Zaire gave me a tour of the facility I already knew well, then introduced me to all the players. When a couple were a bit flirty, she pulled me aside after and said, “With athletes, it’s best to keep things strictly professional.”

Tonight, with my friends, I repeat those two watchwords. “It’s strictly professional with him,” I say, and it is, but I also don’t like lying to these women I’ve grown to care for. “And even though it is,” I say, relenting, “he’s maybe, possibly, admittedly handsome.”

Fable lifts her arms in victory. “Ladies and ladies, let the record reflect that Everly finds the man of the hour admittedly handsome .”

“Oh, c’mon. I at least admitted you were right. Was admittedly handsome not enough for you?” I ask.

Josie taps her chin. “I’ll allow admittedly handsome because it’s so you.”

“And how is that so me?”

Josie wastes no time answering with, “Because it’s professional and a little detached.”

My face falls. My heart sinks. “You think I’m?—”

She reaches for my hand, warmth flooding her eyes. “Oh, babe. I didn’t mean you’re detached.”

I swallow past a stone of emotion—an annoying one. “Okay.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Josie adds, squeezing my fingers. “Because it’s very you to detach from someone you work with when the rest of us are being pigs.”

Josie comes over to my side of the table, and gives me a hug, and I feel foolish all over again that I thought she might have meant something else. It’s just so hard to learn to, well, love again in this platonic way.

When we break the hug, Maeve waggles a tarot card at me—on it is an illustration of a hand curled around a wooden wand. It’s incredibly phallic. “I drew the Ace of Wands for you, Ev. You know what that means?”

With some dread, I ask, “What does it mean?”

“It means someone is going to be getting some good dick,” she says, then winks.

Playfully, I snatch her deck away. “I’ll tell my own fortune.” I straighten my shoulders, clear my throat, and say, “It means someone is going to be getting some good… news at work in the form of a promotion, since she will not be entering a forbidden romance and sleeping with the player she’s helping.”

Maeve sighs. “I like my fortune of you better.”

Yeah, I did too. But I’m not going to do a thing about it. I have a boot camp battle plan to devise, and a potential date to dissect.

“Speaking of dick.” I whip out my phone. “Help a girl out.” I show them the text from Lucas, letting me know he’s back and asking me out again. “Do I want to go out with him again? He was my rehab therapist after the accident.”

“Is he hot?” Maeve asks immediately.

“Is he nice?” Fable inquires.

“Is he funny?” Josie wants to know.

“Did you feel the zing on the first date?” Maeve asks, diving right into a second round of questions.

“Did he ask you questions or was he a conversational hog?” Fable asks.

Josie waggles her brows. “Was he good in bed?”

I can’t even catch my breath to laugh, but I try. Oh hell, do I try. Then, one by one I tackle the friendly interrogation. “Yes, yes, I don’t really know. A hint of a zing? He was good at sharing the convo. And no! I didn’t sleep with him.”

Josie shakes her head, tsking me. “Shame. Because then we could really decide if he was worth a second round. Um, I mean date. Of course I mean date.”

I roll my eyes. “Sorry to disappoint, but I did not see his dick.”

“No worries. That’s what second dates are for,” Maeve says, but then she leans closer. “Seriously, go out with him again. Whether you have sex with him or not isn’t the point. It sounds like he’s passed the most basic tests. Now you want to know if you have chemistry.”

“Gotta have chemistry,” Fable adds.

“It’s magic,” Josie says, and her eyes are a little fluttery. Pretty sure she and Wesley are magic together in all the ways.

I mull that over for a few seconds. “You’re right. It’s worth seeing what’s out there. And if there’s anything more to explore with us,” I say, then tap out a yes to Lucas. He’s not a bad boy or a troublemaker. Sometimes a girl just needs a good guy, especially if she has a history of being attracted to the wrong ones.

Plus, I don’t have to tell Lucas about the scars all over my back, my hip, and my shoulder, like I did with the last guy I dated. A guy who said nothing when he saw them, but his eyes—wide, shocked, taken aback—said everything.

I don’t have to explain my body to Lucas. He already knows I have scars.