by Elise Faber
Wookie sounds?
Angie mentally groaned.
Was she fucking serious? She wasn’t supposed to admit to a man she liked that could make mean Wookie sounds. That sounded insane.
“Arrr!”
She blinked. “Uh—”
“Arrgh. Who. Arghhg.” A pause. “In Wookie language that means, ‘It is mine.’”
“You’re lying.”
He cracked up. “I am. Brayden thinks it’s funny when I do that, because it’s pretty much the only impression I can do.”
“Pretty much?”
A chuckle. “Fine. The only impression I can do.”
“That’s still pretty”—she yawned—“good,” she said.
“You’re tired.”
“I have to get up early for work in the morning.”
“I’ll let you go,” he said gently.
“No.” Another yawn. She was pleasantly buzzed, snuggled beneath her blankets and being serenaded by a gorgeous male voice. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that sleep was drawing her in. Yet, she didn’t want the conversation to end.
“Angel—” he began.
“Tell me about the game,” she said.
“It was a shitshow. Sometimes it’s like that—no bounces, can’t quite slide into that groove.”
“And Brit wasn’t playing,” she murmured.
“You really do watch, don’t you?”
“It’s my sister’s team,” she told him, burrowing into her pillow and closing her eyes. “I couldn’t not watch.”
“Yeah.”
“And then I met you, and . . .”
“And what?” he prompted.
Her breathing slowed, her words sounding almost slurred. “And I felt something. For the first time in an eternity, I felt something.”
“Me too.”
She smiled, her eyes slid closed.
“Goodnight, Angel,” he murmured.
“’Night.”
Angie slipped off into oblivion just as Max hung up.
Thirteen
Max
Max had just dropped Brayden off at school—on time and with no panic, so gold star for him—when his phone rang. He pressed the button on his steering wheel to answer the call, eyes staying firmly glued on his surroundings.
A good ninety percent of the time he felt like the kids and their parents were playing Frogger, only the object of the game was for him to not run them over.
Parents barely stopping before opening their minivan door and shoving their kids out into the street. Students popping out from between cars, forcing him to slam on his brakes. Crossing guards jumping out into the crosswalk without looking.
It was the perfect definition of a shitshow.
“Hello?” he said, carefully navigating past the school.
“Max.”
Suzanne.
His heart frosted over, but this was his son’s mother and he was determined to keep things civil. “Hi,” he said.
No, it wasn’t puppy dogs and rainbows, but the greeting had been polite, okay?
Sort of.
“Max—” She broke off.
A kid darted out in front of his car, and he slammed on the brakes with a stifled curse. Fuck but school drop-off was bound to give him gray hairs.
“This isn’t the best time, Suzanne,” he said, careful again to keep his tone neutral. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m—” She sighed.
And he knew that sigh. It was the start of a long and complicated conversation, one that would no doubt have him pulling out all of those freshly grown gray hairs. He’d been with Suzanne since high school, knew how she operated. Delaying this talk would only make things worse.
The best thing was to buckle down and get through it.
“Hang on,” he told her and cleared the next intersection before finding a spot to pull over. “Okay, I’ve parked. What’s going on?”
“It’s early for you to be driving,” she said. “I thought you’d still be in bed.”
“School starts at eight.”
“Oh.”
Yeah. Oh.
As in, Suzanne was the mother of a school-aged boy. Yes, she might have forgotten that fact, but Brayden still had her DNA.
“Brayden misses you,” he said.
So much so that he wanted Max to find a woman to fill that void.
“I’m pregnant.”
He blinked, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
“Say something.”
Fuck. Fucking. Mother. Fucker. How could she? He sucked in a breath, released it slowly. “Well, we’re divorced, and you’re a grown woman,” he said. “You’re allowed to do what you want.”
A long hesitation.
“I want to come home.”
Two years ago? The answer probably would have been yes. But now? He and Brayden had been through too much for him to bring his ex back into their home.
“That’s not possible.” Max knew his tone should be softer, that the mother of his child was clearly distraught. But where in the ever-loving fuck did she get off? She’d abandoned them, abandoned Brayden. She’d hired the woman who he’d supposedly knocked up.
Yeah. Seriously.
He’d been playing in L.A. at the time and the season had been a tough one, longer road trips than normal, a new coach who required extra practices and outside team-building exercises.
Brayden had been four going on five and had just missed the cutoff for kindergarten. He’d been hell on two legs, busy as fuck, and only in preschool for three hours a day. Max got it, knew that it was exhausting, that he was little help when he was out of the state, and Suzanne had always wanted to go to this fancy resort in Mexico.
He’d met with a travel agent and planned a week-long trip for her and her best girlfriend at the resort. He’d picked out and paid for spa packages—hair treatments, nail stuff, massages, the whole works—for them both.
And the last piece of that was a new wedding ring.
He’d been in the minor leagues when they’d gotten married, so her ring was smaller and less fancy than a lot of the WAGS—wives and girlfriends—on the team. Hell, it was tiny when compared to Los Angeles standards.
Suzanne had waxed poetic about a particular jewelry designer for years.
Half of her Pinterest board was devoted to the designs.
Max had set up a meeting with the young woman, Colette Sandindo. She was already visibly pregnant—this was important because Colette was the woman Suzanne had paid to say Max had knocked her up. It didn’t matter she was already in that state when he’d first met her. However, because she was pregnant when he demanded a DNA test to clear his name, her attorneys filed a motion that the court approved, making him wait until the baby was born before it was completed.
Four months.
That was how long he’d had to wait.
Not long in the grand scheme of things, but a fucking eternity when your story goes viral and suddenly you’re someone’s supposed baby daddy.
The sad thing?
Colette had delivered on the ring.
It was sitting in a box at the back of his closet. Pathetic, huh? But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to chuck it into the Bay. Not when some poor innocent creature might choke on it.
Max Montgomery. Pro hockey player. Adulterer. Killer of sea creatures.
Perfect.
He sighed. “You can’t come home,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, but I’ve worked too hard getting Brayden on a schedule.”
“Fuck a schedule. I need—”
“Suzanne. You terminated your parental rights. You don’t need anything.” He plunked his head down onto the steering wheel. “I pay you alimony, and I am happy to keep my verbal promise of renting you an apartment nearby so that we can arrange for you to see Brayden on a regular basis. But you can’t live with me again and especially not with—”
“I’m not a whore,” she snapped. “These things happen, or maybe you don’t remember.”
&nbs
p; What had happened to the woman he’d married?
Or maybe the question should be: how had things gotten to this point?
“Do you want me to start looking for a place nearby?” he asked instead of replying to her statement. Somehow, his typical anger when dealing with his ex had faded, morphed into . . . nothing.
No. That wasn’t it.
He was tired. Drained. Not able to summon up outrage any longer.
Because Suzanne didn’t really matter.
“I fucking hate San Francisco.” Her tone was sharpened to a knife’s edge. “You know that.”
“Okay then,” he told her. “Brayden’s doing great. I’m doing great. Thanks so much for asking.” Max reached a finger for the end button on the steering wheel as she sputtered. “Nice talking with you. Hope everything works out. Take care—”
“Max—”
“Bye, Suzanne.”
He hung up, blew out a breath, and waited for her to call back.
She did, approximately a heartbeat later, but he rejected the call, turned on his Do Not Disturb while driving, and headed back to his house.
He needed to get a meal in, do his daily workout, and then he was supposed to be helping in Brayden’s class.
Something about cutting out paper flowers.
“Poor teacher.” He had the feeling his hands weren’t going to be the best for that particular task. He could just pretend the kids had done the cutting and not him, right?
Max chuckled and flicked on the radio.
“The Imperial March” flooded through the speakers—Brayden’s recent addition to their shared playlist.
That reminded him of Angie and her love for Star Wars.
Somehow—despite Suzanne’s news, despite the unpleasant phone call, despite the sharp right turn his life had taken because of his ex—he smiled.
Just thinking about Angie made him smile.
A woman who made him smile. Now wasn’t that a change?
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and thought of another thing that made him smile: thinking of Angie’s reaction when she saw what he’d sent to her office.
Fourteen
Angie
She stared at the monstrosity on her desk and tried to figure out what in the hell was going on.
Okay, monstrosity was probably an unfair word, but scattered on top of her formerly neat and organized desk was confetti.
“What the—?”
The confetti almost distracted her from the bouquet of flowers.
Except they weren’t flowers.
Yes, there were stalks and they were wrapped in cellophane and paper like a typical bouquet, but instead of flowers, they were sticks with cute little plushies propped on one end.
Star Wars plushies.
“Oh, my God,” she said, finally realizing that the confetti was shaped like droids. “How—?” Angie shook her head, picked up the envelope, tore it open.
Then felt her heart skip a beat.
In fairness, she’d suspected who it was from, but until she saw his signature on the note, she hadn’t really believed it.
Her eyes trailed back up the card before her brain finally processed what was written on it. Laughter bubbled in her chest.
Angel,
Argh grrargh arr arg Rrrrugh.
Translation: Have dinner with me Friday.
Max
“What is that?”
Kelsey came up to her desk. “Is that confetti?” She shuddered.
“Yes, that part is terrible. But look.” Angie held up the note.
Kelsey took it, a little furrow appearing between her brows. “What the fuck is this?” she asked, turning the paper around.
“It’s Shyriiwook.”
Kelsey blinked. “Was that English?”
“It’s Wookie.”
Another blink.
“Star Wars,” Angie said, exasperated. “You need to turn in your nerd card, dude. But I emailed Max last night and then we talked on the phone and . . .”
How could she possibly explain?
“You talked about Star Wars?” Kelsey asked.
Angie nodded. “That and other stuff. I don’t know. It was silly, I guess, because part of me felt like I was in high school or something. I was so giddy and he . . . said I was beautiful.”
“Sounds like he’s got at least one thing going for him,” Kels said.
“What’s that?”
“His eyes work.” Her lips twitched. “Gross use of confetti aside.”
Angie snorted, started piling up the confetti. “Yeah, I don’t know what he was thinking with that.”
“Men need to be trained—”
Jordan, their boss’s brother and the former owner of RoboTech, chose that moment to stride by. “I resent that statement. Though”—he smirked—“it may be true.”
He waved and left them chuckling, striding down the hall to Heather’s office.
“You going to go out with him on Friday?”
“I—” Angie’s throat went tight, but it wasn’t just with panic this time. No, it was with excitement. “I—yes. I think so.”
“Think?”
Angie bit her lip. “Okay. Yes, I am.”
“Yes!” Kelsey fist-pumped. “Look at us, grabbing the world by its balls.” They both wrinkled their noses. “Bad analogy,” Kels said. “But you get what I’m saying. So, Friday you have plans, but want to go to the hockey game with me on Thursday? My brother has a box at the Gold Mine.”
Angie frowned. “Sebastian has a box?”
“No, my other brother,” Kels said. “Devon.”
“Your brother is the Devon Scott?” Angie gasped.
Kelsey rolled her eyes. “God, why does everyone say it like that?”
“Because he was a fucking great player, and he’s hot. Wasn’t he named the Sexiest Man in—”
Kels gagged. “Don’t. I can’t with that. So, game Thursday?”
Angie sucked in a breath. “Well, I’m not sure.”
“Why? Is it the crowd that’s too much? We can do something else.”
“I—it’s not that. Just that . . . you know Wookie Max?”
Kelsey’s brows drew down and together. “Uh, yeah?”
“Well, he’s kind of Gold Max, too.”
Her jaw dropped open. “Holy— Max Montgomery? Seriously?”
Angie nodded. “Yeah.”
“Hot damn, he’s sexy. Those piercing blue eyes.” Kels fanned herself. “I saw him once at a pool party at Devon’s house. Dude, his abs.”
Angie sucked in a breath. “I can’t speak for his abs—”
“Yet!” Kelsey interjected.
“Yet,” Angie amended, and it was funny how that admission might have made her freak in the past—hell, even yesterday—but now it seemed fine. Okay, not fine, exactly, but terrifying and wonderful and exciting, and . . . she was game to see Max’s abs.
That in of itself made her feel like cheering because finally she’d had a normal female reaction. But—
“Is it weird if I go to the game?” she asked. “I mean, I guess it feels slightly stalkerish to accept the date on Friday then like go . . . evaluate him or something on Thursday.”
Not to mention the fact that it was also her sister’s place of employment.
The sister she still hadn’t emailed.
“No.” Kelsey made a dismissive sound and sat down on the edge of Angie’s desk, helping her gather up the confetti. “It’s a few friends getting together. Hell, Sebastian might come along with Rachel, and then you can call it work.”
“There’s also another piece,” Angie said.
Kelsey rubbed her hands together. “More dirt! Give it to me now.”
“First off, you’re ridiculous,” Angie told her. “Though you are extremely helpful, even though I think it comes out of nosiness.”
“Well, that’s a given.”
“Second,” she said. “And this is the honest truth, I’m not sure I can tell you. It’s family stuff, an
d it’s . . . not only my story to tell.”
Kels made a face. “Ugh. Fine, be all reasonable, why don’t you?” She bumped her shoulder against Angie’s. “I get it. I do. I mean I am nosy as hell and want to know every detail, but I can occasionally be a responsible adult and control myself.”
Angie sighed, though her mouth was curving. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“So much!” Kelsey groaned. “But I’ll survive.” She chucked a pile of confetti in the trash. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll email you the ticket and you can figure out if you want to go or not. No pressure either way.”
Impulsively, Angie reached out and hugged her. “Thanks.”
“Any time.” She squeezed her back before standing. “And when you want to dish . . .”
“You’ll be the first one I call. Scout’s Honor.”
“Were you a Girl Scout?”
Angie snorted. “Yeah, that’s a no. An anxious girl doesn’t mix well with the nature and the outside world.”
Kelsey raised her hand as though making a very important proclamation. “Well, I’ve decided that doesn’t matter because I’m holding you to your promise. Kelsey Scott is the first stop for all Angie/Max/future undetermined-and-hereto-unnamed-Angie-related gossip.” She pretended to bow. “I’m ever at your service.”
Angie saved one of each type of the confetti, carefully putting them in the paperclip holder in her top desk drawer before sweeping the rest into her trash can.
“So magnanimous.”
“You know it.” Kels left with a wave, only to pause a few feet away. “Don’t let the confetti distract you from texting yummy Max. I think he picked the right type of flowers, don’t you?”
Angie glanced down at the little plushies—Chewy, Luke, Han, Rey, and Leia, they were all there.
“Yes,” she said, after fluffing Chewy’s fur. “You’re definitely right.”
Except, when she glanced up, Kels was already gone.
She was going to keep Angie on her toes, that was for sure. But, with a soft chuckle, she pulled out her phone and sent Max a message.
And for once, she didn’t overthink it. Just typed out a reply and hit send.
Serious personal growth. It was happening.