Page 7 of Home Ice

“It’s judging,” Max said. “Everybody’s in on it, nobody’s lying to anybody, he’s twenty and just came out in front of the entire league. Hanging out with me takes every ‘who’s he dating’ question from reporters off his plate for the rest of the season. That’s what the team gets. It’s focus. I’m a public service.”

“And for you.”

“Rafe—that name—swoon.” Max laughed and smiled wide. “Okay, for me it’s visibility with an audience that’s primed for great home-and-design videos, and before you say it”—he pointed at me—“no, that doesn’t make me cynical. It can be great for everyone. That means it’s a good deal.”

“And have they called—um—Rafe?”

“They told me he’s meeting with their PR guy today, actually. It’s his call. If he passes, then it’s dropped, no harm done.” Max shrugged. “He won’t pass, though. From what I hear, he’s the most agreeable human being in professional sports. If all goes well, I might have dinner with him as early as tonight.”

“So you’re in,” I said, “before they’ve even asked him.”

“I’m in, pending his decision,” Max said. “The specifics are important.”

I sipped my coffee.

“You’re doing the quiet thing,” Max said. “Say what you’re thinking.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s always something. You have more things per square foot than anyone I know.”

I turned toward the sideboard and ran a finger along the drawer front’s edge. “It’s your business,” I said without turning around. “Literally. It’s fine.”

“Wow,” Max said. “That’s a glowing endorsement.”

I didn’t respond and got the glue and clamps out for the sideboard’s last piece of business, a loose stretcher on the base I’d been saving for after Callahan left. Max drifted along the wall of clamps, past the wood rack.

“What this light does in here in the morning,” he said, stopping in the long stripe of sun from the east windows. “It’s criminal that nobody sees this. The grain on that walnut slab alone. I could put this room in front of two million people, and they would lose their minds, Niko. Reclaimed everything, hand tools, and you in the apron. It has viral written all over it.”

“Hold this,” I said.

He came and held the stretcher where I pointed, and he held it wrong, hands too close to the joint. I moved his grip four inches down without comment, and he adjusted without breaking stride.

“One video,” he said. “Not even showing your handsome face. Just your hands. You have very trustworthy hands. The comments would be unhinged in the best way — “

“No.”

“How about a photo? One photo of the sideboard before it goes back. Callahan would love it. He would frame the post.”

“Callahan can photograph his own sideboard. It’s his.”

“That’s—okay, that’s a good instinct, giving the client the reveal, I’d steal that if you’d let me say your name anywhere, which you won’t, because you’re the only person in America running an anti-marketing strategy.”

I set the clamp and snugged it, watching the glue squeeze out in a thin, even line. “Word gets around,” I said. “People who want my work find it.”

“Word of mouth.”

“Yes.”

“Is that how you survive?” He wasn’t arguing; he was repeating the points of a past discussion. Max would love to feature my work, but I refused to be packaged for mass consumption.

“Wipe that,” I said, and he took the damp rag off my shoulder and cleaned the squeeze-out along the joint without being told how. Max was neat and thorough, even as he kept talking.

“All I’m saying is the sideboard has a story. Every piece like that does.”

“You got glue on your sleeve.”

He looked down. “Oh, no,” he gasped.