He turned, saw Jace coming toward him. Sweat trickled down his face, a towel around his neck.
Meltdown? His expression probably betrayed his confusion because Jace shook his head.
“And you didn’t know because you haven’t even bothered to call her.” Jace got on the treadmill, started it at a walk.
“That’s not true. I . . .” Okay, he’d picked up the phone. Stared at it. Once, listened to a voice mail he hadn’t deleted. “I e-mailed her.”
Jace kicked it up to a run. “That’s teamwork.”
“Listen, she doesn’t want my help.”
“You keep telling yourself that. Hockey Today is doing a spot about the wedding, and they want to include a couple shots of the food. They’re doing it Saturday afternoon at my place. Apparently Grace is a little freaked out.”
A magazine spot? He kept his voice even. “She’d call me if she needed me.”
Jace looked at him. “Seriously? How well do you know her?”
Well enough to feel the burn of his lie. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure. How about the fact that this wedding is everything to Eden, and while I would have preferred to hire a caterer, it means the world to her to have Grace do this. Which means that I need you, Max. Don’t let me down.”
“Fine.”
Jace frowned, but Max didn’t stick around, just headed to the locker room.
But what Jace had said kept dogging him. Meltdown.
He’d seen one of Grace’s meltdowns, and the memory of it hung on to him like a burr, digging in.
But if she’d needed him, she would have called and—
Oh, he did know her better than that. He stepped into the shower. Tried to figure out what to say.
Hey, Grace, I know we haven’t talked, and I said I’d help—
Grace, what’s the deal? Why haven’t you called me?
Grace . . . I need you. Please forgive me.
Yeah, he hadn’t the foggiest idea how to start.
But he got out of the shower, dressed, and sat on the bench, holding his phone in his hand, her number on the screen. Maybe he’d just start with . . .
“Hello?”
Her voice jolted him, sending a thousand currents of heat through his body. He swallowed, dug up his voice. “Grace? It’s Max.”
Silence.
Then, “Hi.” To his surprise, a hint of warmth layered her voice. Wow, he didn’t deserve that, but he leaned into it.
“Hi. I was just checking . . . I mean—” He blew out a breath. “Grace, I’m sorry I haven’t called you. I sort of thought that maybe you didn’t want to talk to me.”
She sighed. “No, Max. It’s just . . . I don’t want you to feel obligated to help me. You got roped into this, and I’m letting you off the hook.”
He tried not to lunge too desperately to refute her words. “No—I want to help. How can I help?”
Please, let me help.
“I hear you’ve got a magazine shoot Saturday.” He could see her, dressed in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, her blonde hair in a messy ponytail. The ache filled his chest, turned his voice ragged. “I could . . . We could—”
“Oh, Max, it’s just a disaster.” Her voice broke a little then, and there she was, his teammate, the woman who, for a while, felt closer than any friend he’d ever had.
“What’s going on, 9B?” He took a chance with that but couldn’t help the tenderness in his voice.
“I threw around a few different menus and finally settled on poke and manapua, misoyaki butterfish . . . but I couldn’t find butterfish anywhere, so Casper ordered it sent in, and we just found out it’s on its way to Milwaukee, not Minneapolis. It’ll get there and the dry ice will be dissipated and I’ll have rotten gourmet fish—”
“There’s no butterfish in Minneapolis?”
“I’ve called every fish market, but they only have the usual—tuna, salmon, some local varieties, and shellfish. One place hadn’t even heard of butterfish. I tried to substitute with mahimahi, but even that I have to fly in. And the worst thing is if I don’t get it today, I’m sunk. The butterfish has to marinate for at least twenty-four hours.”
He got up, closed his locker. “Okay, so the butterfish is taking a side trip to Milwaukee. You know, there’s not a lot to do in Milwaukee. No surfing, no parasailing—”
He got a giggle and it only urged him on, like the roar of the crowd.
“Listen, I got this. You don’t worry about a thing.”
“Max, you don’t have to—”
“Please don’t say that, Grace.” He grabbed his stuff and left the locker room. “Because I do.”