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ZIP IT UP, MAN
Max
Look, I can pull off pretty much anything in the clothing department, but thismightbe outside my wheelhouse. Especially since I definitely didn’t pack a purple pair of underwear with little flowers all over the waistband and so little material that nothing is left to the imagination. Even mine, and I have a very active one.
Intrigued, I hold the scrap of purple fabric in front of me in my hotel room. Studying this less-is-definitely-more piece of lingerie, I have to wonder—who even wears this almost thong and also, does it hurt?
I should probably stop pawing around in this bag that’s clearly not mine but looks just like it. Must have grabbed it in the lobby by mistake, and I’m guessing this suitcase doesn’t belong to one of my teammates either. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. To each his own and all. But this cornu-fucking-copia of lace and satin doesn’t look like it would fit a pro hockey player.
There are only a handful of women traveling with the team on this road trip to Seattle. The athletic trainer, the team doctor, and the publicist.
My mind catches on that last possibility.
This can’t belong to her.
It just can’t.
Not straightlaced, rule-following, pantsuit-wearing Everly Rosewood. She’s the kind of woman who owns exactly seven sets of cotton bras and panties, in the same matching shade of nude, same matching style, so she can grab and go at the crack of dawn all while devising new ways to torture me with press requests and promo shoot ideas.
No way does Everly own anything that’s not navy, black, or beige. Best I return this bag to its rightful owner, pretend I never saw what’s in it, and then never think about it again. Searching for the luggage tag, I find one attached to the handle and flip it over.
I freeze. Then, I heat up everywhere. We’re talking inferno levels. This bevy of beautiful lingerie belongs to the team’s publicist after all. The clever, mouthy woman who hates me. Yep, the one and only Everly Rosewood, who accomplishes more before her workday begins than most people do in a year. But this does not compute—she can’t possibly dish out a list of promo duties in that teacherly way of hers while wearing a purple thong.
This is a test. This is clearly some kind of test. No, it’s a downright moral dilemma.
Do I slam it shut or hunt around in her things a little more?
I need some distance from temptation. Spinning around, I pace toward the window overlooking the city of Seattle, rainy because of course it’s rainy, and the arenawhere I’ll be defending the net early tomorrow against one of the toughest teams in the league.
“All you have to do is zip up that suitcase, return it, and go the fuck to sleep,” I mutter.
Great. Just great. Now I’m talking to myself. They say goalies are a little unhinged but this is next level even for me. I grip the windowsill, staring at the Space Needle lit up against the night sky, then I tear myself away, stalk right back over to the bed, ready—I swear I’m ready—to zip that suitcase all the way up and say goodbye to it.
Or, really, I’m almost ready.
I scrub a hand across my beard and gaze a little longer at the treasure trove of lace and satin, like a siren calling to me in the most tantalizing voice.
How do you think the slay-the-world-one-member-of-the-media-at-a-time queen would look in purple lace? Or in soft blue satin?
Does she have a date tonight?My jaw ticks. Is she meeting a secret boyfriend in the rainy city tomorrow?It ticks harder. Does she—oh, hell—wear these every day to work under those pantsuits that drive you crazy?
And it ticks the hardest.
I haul in a breath, trying to locate my moral compass. But it’s hard to find right now. I try again with a pep talk. “All you have to do is reach for the zipper. Pull the teeth closed around one side, then the other. Done.”
But I don’t move. I stand here stupidly because all those sexy things are scrambling my brain. Taking up all the space in my head now that I know Everly Rosewood wears red lace panties, the color of my dirty dreams.
“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “It really doesn’t matter what she wears.” Squaring my shoulders, I get ready to perform the most herculean task—zip it up.
As I reach for the bag, my phone buzzes. Saved by the bell. I grab it from my back pocket at Mach speed, grateful for the distraction from a moral dilemma worthy of that vintage board game Scruples.
It’s a text from my agent, Garrett.
Been talking to Thrive about your sponsorship. Need to run some things past you. Let’s chat when you return to SF.
That has to be good. Why else would he text me late at night? Dude isn’t going to text with bad news like, saying,you lost your last sponsor less than a week into the season.
