Max

by Sawyer Bennett

  Hawke walks over to the rack on the wall that holds the cue sticks and pulls one down. He then plops down onto one of the high-backed barstools I've got scattered around. I didn't give much thought into furnishing this room other than the red-felt-covered table and vintage Molson beer light hanging over it, so I just purchased the same type of stools that are in the kitchen and threw them down here.

  "Before you even ask," Hawke says as I head to the end of the table to rack the balls, "I'm doing fine."

  "Don't think you are," I return with a grin to lighten the mood. "It's the eyes, dude. Windows to the soul."

  Hawke snickers and takes a sip of his beer. "She's been gone a week and a half. I've moved on."

  "You are so fucking full of shit," I tell him as I place the last ball in the rack, roll it, then tighten it before I pull it free.

  I step off to the side as Hawke sets his beer on a high round table and walks up to the opposite side of the pool table to break. He bends over, lines up and pulls the stick back, launching it forward quickly. The cue ball hits the tip of the first ball with such force, it hops off the table and hits the wall, where it leaves a dimple in the Sheetrock. I notice that a solid drops into a side pocket, and Hawke doesn't spare my poor wall another glance.

  Neither do I because that's not the first time one of my teammates broke the rack in such a way and pelted my wall. There were four other dimples there, and it's why I moved off to the side before he stepped up to the table. Last thing I need is for one of those to catch me in my nuts.

  Hawke grabs the cue ball and tosses it to me. I catch it, grab a stick off the wall rack and head back to the table.

  "Solids," I call out, since it's my choice, and I place the cue ball back on the table, lining up for an easy shot. But before I bend over I tell him, "Neither one of you are going to be able to move on, Hawke. You have too much history. Fate brought you back together. That shit shouldn't be ignored."

  "What the fuck do you know about fate?" he asks with his eyebrow cocked at me.

  "Hey, you're looking at a man who is now a true believer in it," I tell him as I line up my shot. "It's what's steering my life right now."

  I give a tap to the cue ball and cleanly make my shot.

  Hawke snickers at me. "I'm dying to hear this one."

  I move around the pool table, trying to figure out my next shot. I stall by picking up the blue chalk and rubbing some on the end of my cue stick. I do this to collect my thoughts because what I'm getting ready to say is as important to me as it is to Hawke.

  I clasp my hands at the top of the cue stick and rest my weight against it as I look at my friend. "To boil it down in its simplest form, shit happens for a reason."

  "Shit happens for a reason?"

  "Pretty much," I say with a grin. "Simplest form and all that."

  "Well, the only thing I agree with that you've said is you've equated fate with shit," Hawke says dryly.

  I don't respond but go ahead and work on my next shot. I sink it just as easily and start walking around the pool table again. "Listen, all kidding aside, I really don't think you should just write off what you and Vale have together. Your history is deep and you can't take it for granted. Just imagine the odds of her coming back into your life and give some credence to that."

  Hawke sighs and his shoulders slump marginally. "You couldn't possibly understand, dude. Things are going so utterly fantastic between you and Jules that you just don't get it."

  "Then explain it to me."

  His eyes are tortured and filled with pain when they look at me. "Relationships are a two-way street. There is give-and-take on both sides. If you're lucky, it all balances out. But if you ever get out of whack, if just one thing becomes unbalanced, it can cause incredible self-doubt on one or both sides. And it only takes a tiny sliver of that doubt to poison everything."

  I give a slow shake of my head. "I can't accept that. If what you have is strong, a tiny shred of doubt shouldn't destroy everything."

  "Maybe what we had just wasn't that strong," he offers softly, and I have to say, if Hawke isn't willing to try to work this out with Vale, then he may have a point.

  I hear footsteps coming down the wooden staircase and I turn to see Luc trotting down, a small plate with pumpkin pie on it. When he hits the bottom step he says, "Appreciate all this racket down here. You're interfering with my holiday nap."

  "You're Canadian," I point out. "This isn't really your holiday."

  "Bite me," he says, and then to punctuate his position, he takes a huge mouthful of pie.

  Hawke snickers and I turn to the table, line up my next shot, and then miss by almost a mile.

  "I see you still suck at pool," Luc says with his mouth half full as he stands there and watches.

  "When I finish whooping Hawke's ass here," I tell him with a good-natured smile, "I'll gladly whoop yours too."

  "Pipe dream," he mutters and goes back to his pie.

  Hawke and I continue trading shots, and we all make small talk. It turns from the serious talk about fate and love I just had going with Hawke to, weirdly enough, an argument over the best technique to get rid of fire ants in the yard.

  Ultimately I win, so Luc grabs the rack and starts to load it up with the balls. As he bends over the end of the table he says casually, "Your girl seems nice."

  "She's more than," I return.

  "Kids are cool too," he adds on.

  "Totally," I agree.

  "Deep conversation," Hawke mutters as he watches from his barstool, sipping on his beer.

  After Luc tightens the rack and removes the triangle, he looks at me across the table. "So how serious are things with you two?"

  I chalk my stick up but take a moment to look over at my little brother. "Very serious."

  His eyebrows raise up slightly but he nods. "Figured...what with you having us come in to meet her and all."

  I lean over, position the cue ball, and let it fly at the racked balls. There's a resounding crack and then balls scatter in all directions, but none drop in.

  Lucas reaches his hand out for my stick and I give it up. He walks around the table, and as he does, I casually drop, "I'm thinking about asking Jules to move in with me."

  My brother's eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead and he stops his pacing around the pool table to face me. "The kids too?"

  I roll my eyes at him. "No, Luc, I thought I'd just leave them where they're at. I'm sure they can take care of themselves."

  He's now the one to roll his eyes at me. "I'm just saying, that's a lot. It's one thing to ask a girl to move in but another to ask a girl plus three kids."

  "Where Jules goes so too do the kids," I say with a shrug. "It's not a big deal."

  "You don't think that's moving a little too fast?" Hawke asks hesitantly, breaching the conversation. I can tell by his tone of voice he's worried about offending me with his skepticism.

  But I get it. I think most people would think it's too soon. I intend on talking about this with my mother tonight and I'm quite sure she will have the same concerns.

  But I'm not most people. I'm Max Fournier, who is crazy, head over heels in love with Jules Bradley. I don't see that ever changing. And I don't consider her having three children to be a burden. That's part of what makes Jules, well...Jules. It's part of why I love her, and fuck if I haven't started to love those rug rats too.

  "Is it too fast?" I ask them rhetorically. "Time's subjective, right?"

  Yeah, I feel good about this. Still going to talk to my mom about it, and I'm also still going to give it some consideration. While I might be ready to take this next step, I'm anticipating Jules will balk. The key is in making her understand that this is good for the both of us, not something I'm doing to give her a handout, but to further our relationship as a whole.

  It sucks that I still must have those considerations in dealing with Jules, but she's still very sensitive about how she's been perceived by others regarding this relationship. This renews my anger
against that bitch Camille for writing that article, which did nothing but inflame Jules' own self-doubt.

  Luc takes a step toward me, seems to hesitate and then squares his shoulders. "Listen, bro...I like Jules. I really do. And those kids are really great. But this is fast. You've only known each other...what, a month?"

  "Two," I correct him, but even that sounds incredibly short.

  "All I'm saying is, how well can you really know someone in that time frame?" he says softly, and I know he's trying to gentle his tone so I don't take offense. "You're rich and famous, and well...that attracts--"

  "Don't even go there," I growl at him. "Jules isn't like that."

  "No, I'm not." I hear her voice from the doorway and all three of us turn around to see Jules standing there, staring at Luc.

  I immediately want to punch by brother in the face and then perhaps hit him a second time for good measure, because he's responsible for that closed-off look on Jules' face right now. Just one more person looking at her and assuming she's in this for all the wrong reasons.

  "Christ, Jules," Luc says as he takes a step toward her. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean it like that. I just--"

  Jules holds her hand up, palm facing him in a clear indication to stop. He snaps his mouth shut.

  She gives him a hesitant smile and says, "It's okay. I get it."

  She then turns to me. "Listen, I'm going to get the kids packed up and head back to my apartment. I just wanted to say goodbye to everyone."

  Just...fuck. Jules had planned to stay much longer when we made plans for today, but clearly that's her saying she wants out of here.

  And now.

  I brush past Luc, who looks at me with truly miserable eyes, and I can't really be mad at him. He's being a protective family member. He's known Jules all of a few hours.

  I get it.

  But he's not my worry right now.

  I reach Jules and take her by the elbow, steering her through the TV area and out the back French doors that open up onto a patio. When I close the door behind us, I say, "I'm sorry, babe. He's just being a protective brother."

  Her voice is understanding but I know she's still peeved. "No worries. I understand."

  And I know she does.

  I know she gets it.

  But does she truly get that I don't give a fuck about what others think? And that I wish she didn't give a fuck either?

  "How much did you hear?" I ask her.

  "Not much," she admits. "The part about us not knowing each other long, and then the clearly obvious...that you're rich and famous, and the implied statement that I'm not and that obviously is the reason I'm interested in you."

  I wince but try to ignore that. "The part you didn't hear...the part that spurred that conversation, is I was telling them both that I was going to ask you to move in with me."

  She blinks at me in surprise. "With the kids?"

  I force my eyes to hold her and not roll around with frustrated annoyance. "Yes, Jules. You and the kids...come live with me. They'd each have their own bedroom and you and I could have more time together. And I know how you are, so you can pay me rent or whatever...we'll work out the details."

  "It's not good timing," she says quietly.

  "Why not?" I ask a little forcefully. "Why isn't this good timing?"

  "Because I'm clearly a little sensitive to this whole disparity of income thing," she snaps at me, and then immediately looks apologetic. She takes in a deep breath and lets it out. "Look, I'm sorry. I totally understand that's not where you're coming from. I just need to be able to reconcile some things. Your offer is lovely, and I'd be a fool not to consider it. So why not let me think on it a bit. We can talk about this some more, okay?"

  "Okay," I say with a forced smile before I pull her into me for a hug. Because I know it will do no good to press her on this. I know Jules needs to arrive at an answer her own way. "But don't go yet. I want to spend some time lounging on the couch together. It's a holiday tradition, I hear."

  "You're Canadian," she points out. "What could you possibly know?"

  "I'm half Canadian," I tell her with a grin. "My mom is American and I have it on good authority that's what you do after eating volumes of turkey. This isn't my first Thanksgiving rodeo, you know."

  Thankfully, she laughs and relaxes in my arms, her prior pique forgotten at least for now. I let out a small smile of relief that I haven't fucked things up too terribly with my girl.

  I step out of the dressing room, careful to pick up the long skirt so I don't trip on it. It's about two inches too long but I figure with high heels, it will be the perfect length.

  I think.

  Not really sure.

  Last time I wore a formal gown was for my senior prom. It wasn't the magical, romantic evening most senior high school girls dream of spending with their honeys. I went with a good friend of mine, Johnny Davidson. Neither of us were dating anyone at the time so it seemed like a good idea. There was nothing memorable about that night to me and the memories are dull because of that. I do remember Johnny lighting a joint as we sat in the backseat of his best friend's car, and he was driving, with his date riding shotgun. When he passed it to me, I shook my head to decline, and before he could pull it back across the seat, a single ember broke free and dropped down onto my gold lame dress, which promptly melted a hole in it the size of a dime.

  Good times.

  I exit the dressing room, looking for Sutton. I had asked her to come shopping with me because I had no clue what one wore to a celebrity charity gala, for I had never been to a gala, much less a charity one, much much less one that would be swarming with celebrities.

  I look down at the strapless silvery-blue dress. The top is done in satin with a shimmery tulle overlay, and the skirt is nothing but several layers of the same shimmery tulle extending full length to the ground so it puffs out just a bit. When I turn back and forth, it swishes prettily and I feel totally fucking awkward in it.

  "Oh my God, Jules," I hear Sutton say as she walks back into the dressing area, another gown draped over her arm, this one done in a cranberry red. She looks me up and down, her eyes wide with appreciation. "That's the one."

  "Really?" I ask with a healthy dose of skepticism. I haven't had a single "aha" moment with the dresses I've tried on so far, but the choices haven't been that great. I'm working on a very limited budget so I only picked from the sales rack.

  "Trust me," she says with a firm nod. "That is totally the one. I'm not even going to let you try this one on."

  I look down at the dress and reluctantly admit it's probably my favorite. The color looks really good on me, I suppose. And it's definitely affordable.

  Looking back up at Sutton, I say, "All right. This is the one."

  "Perfect." She beams at me and then pushes past to the dressing stall I was in and grabs the five dresses I'd already tried on. "I'll just hang these up and then I'll start scoping the perfect pair of heels to go with that. Come meet me in the shoe section when you're done."

  "Okay," I say halfheartedly, because honestly, I hate shopping. It's never been something I'd been keen on, probably because I've always kind of known what I wanted, so browsing racks of clothes never did anything for me but waste time. I was more of an online shopper for the convenience, but I couldn't do that for a formal gown. It was important to nail the fit as time was ticking down. I was a week and a half away from the gala that Max had invited me to weeks ago.

  Back then I'd promptly agreed because things were new and exciting.

  Since then I've not been as eager, and I think I put off shopping for a dress because the excitement had all but dried up.

  That, of course, had mostly to do with the article written about me, which I see still continues to circulate around social media, particularly after Max has a game. I know I shouldn't torture myself by reading that stuff but I can't help it. I'm like the proverbial kid who will put her hand to a hot stove even though her mom told her it would burn and hurt.

 
; After I get the dress off and back on the hanger, and I'm dressed in my own clothes again, I step out of the dressing room. My head is down as I take one more look at the sales price tag to make sure it really is in my price range, and run into another person.

  "I'm sorry," I say as I stumble, correct myself and look up. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

  A young woman stands there--maybe my age--her arms crossed over her chest and looking at me with absolute disgust on her face. Another woman--about the same age--stands just behind her, not quite as much disgust on her face but her nose is slightly wrinkled.

  "Sorry," I mumble again.

  "You're totally not good enough for Max," the first woman says prissily.

  I blink at her, stunned beyond words. All I can say is, "Excuse me?"

  She repeats it slowly, her words sharper. "You're. Not. Good. Enough. For. Max."

  My mind swims, trying to figure out who this woman is. A former girlfriend who wants him back?

  "I'm sorry," I say as I tilt my chin up at her. "But who are you and how do you know Max?"

  She rolls her eyes at me and says, "I don't know him personally. But I am a Cold Fury fan and he's my favorite player. I read that article about you, and he doesn't need someone in his life trying to take advantage of him. It will totally mess up his game and his fans don't want his heart broken when your true nature comes out."

  I drop my face, looking down to the gown in my hand and mumble to myself under my breath, "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

  Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze back up to her and paint on the brightest smile I can muster. It's completely fake and my cheeks immediately strain trying to hold it. "Well, I respect your opinion on that but have to disagree. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be going."

  As I push past her and the other woman, she gets her last dig in by muttering "Gold digger" as I walk away.

  I exit the dressing area and turn to the rack just outside that holds an array of shirts and blouses. Not caring that the dress doesn't belong there, I shove it in until the hooked end of the hanger catches on the bar and then walk away.

  A slight sting in my nose alerts me to impending tears, so I take in a few harsh breaths and try to conjure up images of puppies and babies, two things guaranteed to brighten any day. It doesn't work on my current mood but it at least averts a full-fledged crying jag.