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We probably do, so I soldier on. “And at the risk of being patently obvious, before we embark on theMax Makeover Tour,” I say, flashing a big, dazzling smile that doesn’t land for my audience of one, but so it goes, “you’ll need to be on social media again.”
I brace myself for a bestial bellow. Instead, he drops his forehead in his big palm, and he’s the one groaning now. No orgasmic moans at all. Just one of pure dread. When he lifts his face, his eyes look tired. “Really?”
He doesn’t sound bitter. He sounds…dead. My heart squeezes for him. “PTSD from Lyra?” I ask gently.
A long sigh falls from his pretty lips. “Yeah, and everything that came after. The fallout.” He’s quiet for a beat, then he adds, with rare vulnerability, “It’s been kind of nice living my life offline the last year and a half. An unexpected side effect.”
I can see that. I have to imagine it was a relief to live a more unscrutinized life. I’ve researched past posts. Seen what she said about him when they were together. Shewas fawning, and sweet, and he was doting—a perfect athlete-and-pop-star couple.
Until it wasn’t. And a few months after the nasty public split, she released a song about how hurt she was, and the world blamed him rather than her new guy. The upshot? Max is like the grumpy mountain man who retreats to a cabin in the woods to live off the grid and make furniture.
“It does sound nice,” I say. But his media disappearance isn’t realistic for him at this critical moment in his career. Not with the team’s expectations or with the potential ofThe Ice Mendocumentary. “But even so, before we head down this path of public appearances and photo opps, I think it would be good if we start upyoursocial again. Or really, a new one for you.” He shut down the old one and killed it.
His face turns stony. “There’s no other way?”
I stay strong as I shake my head. “There’s not, Max. This is how the world works now.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not fucking five.”
And there’s the grump again. The sweetness didn’t last long at all. Which means I have to be all the sweeter by reaching for common ground. “Look, I wish we didn’t live our lives in a fishbowl. But we do. I promise, though, it doesn’t have to be painful.”
“More like soul-sucking,” he mutters.
“I’ve got some ideas that can make it more enjoyable.”
“Like take-a-puck-to-the-eye enjoyable? That level of pleasure? Because that’s what this whole battle plan sounds like.”
And he hasn’t even heard most of it. But I stay cheery. “It’ll be more like vegetarian-sushi enjoyable. We can share more about you on your feed without letting anyonein too deep,” I begin. I know how to do this. If he could stop acting like he has the man flu, I could explain it. “I’ve been working in the sports business for eight years. I have a plan. And here it?—”
“Why not just post on the team’s social media? Why do I have to have one?”
He’s like a lion crying over a teeny splinter in his paw. There’s nothing to do but remove the shard so I try gently, saying, “Of course I’ll post more of you on the team’s social media too. But that’s not enough for what the GM wants from you. And what your agency wants. Which is also whatyouwant. We need to rebuildyoursocial so you have some fan engagement. That’s important to your agency, and that’s step one. For step two, we’ll embark on some meaningful community outreach. Events and such, where you’ll need to pose for photos, and”—I pause, take a breath and gird myself for him to breathe a plume of fire—“talk to the press.”
He drags a hand down his face, sighing the world’s most aggrieved sigh.
What? Did you think you’d pull this off by staying silent?But you catch more flies with honey, so I add, “But I’ll be there. I’ll be with you at all the events and press opps. I’ll make sure you’re not blindsided.”
“If only that were a guarantee.”
Fine. There are no guarantees in life. Still, I add, “I’ll do my best, and I’m very good at my job.”
He offers me a wry smile. “I know. You’re relentless.”
It’s a small admission, but I’m glad he acknowledges my tenacity. “I am.” Then I play my ace. I didn’t show him this card yet because I knew he’d push back. I needed him to pull his protest act first before I offered himthis. “AndI’ll run your social for you. You won’t have to touch it or do a thing. I’ll take care of it all.”
His hardened expression softens at the edges. “Really? You can run it?” His voice is wary but a touch hopeful. Damn, this man has trust issues a mile wide and ten miles deep. I’ve got to remember that. It’ll help me deal with working with him. Since it seems—knock on wood—I’m finally getting through to the beast.
“Absolutely. You won’t have to touch it. I can take care of it all. Think of me like your…social media bodyguard.” I flash him a smile, bright, cheery, and smart. One that says I’ve got this under control.
His lips curve up in a slight grin. Yes! I’m getting through to him. “Okay,” he mutters.
It’s hardly a ringing endorsement, but it’s not a no, and that’s all that matters. “What’s step three?”
I shrug happily. “The easiest one of all. You doTheIce Mendoc.”
“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles. “I’ll be under a microscope.”
Itiseasy for me to say, because if I do steps one and two right, my work is done. I can land the promotion I’m dying to get, and get my life back without having to deal daily with a stupidly hot, annoyingly broody, phenomenally grunty man who loves to bicker with me. “But you’ll be a pro at it by then. Because of the work we’ll do first. I already got you a new handle and everything. The Real Max Lambert,” I say.
