"Nobody say another word." Unfortunately, nobody listens.
Fuze raises a hand. "I have a question."
"No."
"Can we assign seats alphabetically?"
"Why?"
"So Max has to explain why he's volunteering before we get to T." The entire team erupts. Max leans back comfortably. He has the nerve to look amused.
"You all done?"
"Not remotely," Anthony says.
I remain standing in the aisle because there is no universe in which I am sitting on Max Stevens's lap in front of his entire hockey team. The transportation coordinator climbs aboard behind us. "What's the holdup?"
Twenty-two people point at me. I briefly consider a career change. The coordinator blinks.
"Only one seat short?"
"Apparently."
He shrugs. "Then somebody doubles up." My eyes close. Of course. Of course this is happening.
"Toni." I open my eyes. Max's voice is reserved now. The teasing is gone. He shifts slightly and looks up at me.
"You've been standing for twenty minutes. Just sit down." Everyone is watching. Waiting. Anthony appears moments away from spontaneous combustion.
With all the dignity available to me, which is very little at this point, I move toward the space beside Max. The seat is barely wide enough for one person. It is certainly not wide enough for two. I sit sideways on the very edge, trying to create as much distance as physics allows. The attempt lasts approximately three seconds. The driver pulls onto the highway. A bump sends me directly into Max's chest.
Laughter detonates behind us. I close my eyes. "I hate every person on this bus."
"That's fair," Max says. His voice is warm. Too warm. Every inch of contact between us is suddenly very loud. I shift. His hand automatically steadies my waist before he catcheshimself. The touch lasts less than a second. It feels much longer. Neither of us speaks or looks at the other.
From three rows back, Fuze's voice drifts forward. "For the record, this is the greatest road trip we've ever taken."
"Shut up, Fuze,” everyone says.
"See?" Anthony says. "Now they're finishing each other's sentences." The bus explodes again. Even Trey laughs.
And somewhere beneath the embarrassment, beneath the frustration, beneath the growing awareness of Max's arm braced protectively behind me every time we hit a bump, danger threatens to emerge.
Happiness. Which is unfortunate. Because happiness around Max Stevens has historically led to terrible decisions.
We arrive at the hotel, and some fans are waiting for the team to exit the bus. Mostly women in tight clothes.
I’ve seen the puck bunnies before, but this time there’s a twinge. An unpleasant one. It settles low beneath my ribs before I can suppress it. As cameras flash from behind the barricades, the door folds open ahead of me. The women nearest the rope line brighten immediately at the sight of the players climbing down the steps.
“Lucas!”
“Knox, over here!”
“Oh my God, Max!” That one comes with an actual squeal. Unfortunately, I look up in time to see why. Max steps off last, behind Trey, black suit fitted obscenely well across his shoulders, duffel bag slung over one arm. His hair is not styled but the way it looks after he runs hisfingers through, jaw shadowed darker than usual beneath the hotel lights. He smiles automatically toward the crowd, and the entire front row of women visibly melts like somebody opened a furnace door. Honestly. Fair. But still annoying.
“Stevens!” a blonde calls loudly. “You gonna ignore me again tonight?” Max keeps walking. The blonde either mistakes this for encouragement or lacks survival instincts because she ducks beneath the rope line before security can stop her. She reaches him near the hotel entrance with the confidence of a woman accustomed to being received favorably. “Seriously?” she says, touching his arm. “You disappeared after Philly.”
I stop walking. Max glances down at her hand on his sleeve like he’s mildly confused by its existence. Then his eyes lift. Straight to me. The easy public grin disappears first. Then the casual hotel-arrival charm goes with it. Focused. That's all. Which is somehow worse. The blonde follows his gaze toward me, standing near the curb with my credentials around my neck, and suddenly realizes she may have misread the situation catastrophically. “Well,” she says with a nervous giggle, “call me sometime?”
