“That will be seven dollars and thirty-two cents,” I tell the guy across the counter from me. I peg him as single, because no wedding ring first and foremost, but also because he’s purchasing a twelve-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and that just screams of a lonely Friday night to me.
He hands me a ten and I make change, passing it to him with a smile.
Yes, a smile.
“Here you go, and have a great night,” I tell him with a grin that’s actually genuine and fueled by a little bit of peppy energy I seem to be oddly sporting only an hour before midnight.
Here I am, back at Whalen’s convenience store and gas station on the outskirts of Raleigh, going on my twelfth hour of work today, not counting the time spent cleaning and cooking after I got home from Sweetbrier, and I actually feel a little giddy.
Maybe even euphoric.
And that’s simply from the fact that I’m back at this crappy job I’d lost two days ago. I’m so relieved not to have to worry about finding a new job, or how I’m going to manage things financially until I do, that I’m actually fucking over-the-moon happy to be back here.
The guy nods at me, stuffs his money in his back pocket and tucks the boxed twelve-pack under his arm. I watch him walk to the double glass doors, which automatically open on the exit side just as he reaches it, and I can’t help the tiny smirk that comes to my mouth when I see Max Fournier on the other side.
He holds the door open for the sad single guy getting ready to get drunk tonight on cheap beer. Single guy does sort of a double take when he sees Max but Max isn’t paying attention. He’s actually sauntering in as if he owns the place.
“I was wondering when you’d be in,” I say with a pointed stare that I try to level as chastising but completely misses the mark.
“Well, wonder no more,” he says with an answering grin that is unapologetic. “I wanted to wait until things died down here. Glad to see you’re settled back in.”
“Yes, well, it was sort of hard to decline Chris’ offer when he called me yesterday all in a tizzy that the Max Fournier stopped into his store to pay him a visit and politely begged him to give me this job back.” My tone is dry, slightly disapproving, but he can tell by the sparkling tease in my eyes that I’m overjoyed to be back.
Max shrugs as if he did nothing special. “I don’t like to take advantage of my celebrity but this seemed like one of those times it was warranted.”
Indeed.
Yesterday, Max Fournier approached me in the Sweetbrier courtyard as I was on my lunch break and I really didn’t know what to do. I immediately recognized him and he was just as insanely gorgeous…like the type that took your breath away gorgeous. How could I forget that face from last week when he witnessed my near-meltdown after the redneck-masking-tape-kid fiasco? Despite how tired I was, despite how stressed and worn down I was, I could not disregard his ruggedly handsome face or his wavy, stylishly messy brown hair with lighter brown streaks attesting to the fact this man likes being outdoors in the summer. Those wavy locks fell boyishly over his forehead, highlighting a pair of amazing hazel eyes that were filled with kindness and sympathy as he’d watched me peel tape off Annabelle.
Yeah…I remembered him, and when he approached me yesterday I ogled the hell out of him those first few moments because I was so stunned to see him, it seemed like all my wits had melted away. Of course, by the time I’d gotten them back, he was being called away and caught me completely off guard by asking me out. My heart wanted to say yes, but my head was already saying no to him. It was just terrible timing.
So I was sad when he walked away, wondering how that might have played out had I not had the responsibility of the kids, and what opportunity had just passed me by. I tried not to think too hard on that because it would only make me feel guilty.
I always felt guilty anytime I imagine the what-ifs in my life.
While I recognized Max as being the guy from the gas station, I had no clue who he actually was. I was enlightened by Chris, who had left an urgent voicemail for me while I was working. When I got off duty from Sweetbrier and was in my beat-up old Maxima heading to the apartment, I called him back.
“It’s about time you called me,” Chris said urgently when he picked up.
“I’ll try to get by there today to pick up my check and give you the key,” I responded.
“Forget that,” he said impatiently. “You’ve got your job back. I know this is late notice for you today, so I’ve got tonight covered, but you can start back tomorrow night.”
“Huh?” was about as intelligent a response as I could muster.
“Girl, I had no idea you had friends in such high places,” he said in awe. “Here I was today, doing inventory while Jody worked the register for the lunch rush, and Max Fucking Fournier walks into my store.”
Max Fucking Fournier?
He deserves “fucking” as a middle name?
I didn’t want to appear stupid, so I just said, “Uh-huh.”
“I’m a huge fan of his, of course, and I about died. Walked right up to me…asked me to talk in private. You know…sort of man-to-man?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And well, he lobbied for me to give you your job back and I just couldn’t say no to him, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, you can come back tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
I did have to listen to Chris ramble on and on about what a god Max Fournier is, and I heard words like goals against average and maybe something about a Stanley Cup, but I was so stunned that this man had the ability to command Chris that way, I was in overload. It was only after I got home that I Googled Max and realized who in the hell he is.
Max Fournier is a professional hockey player and the goalie for our own Carolina Cold Fury.
His bio is impressive.
Twenty-seven years old and born in Montreal. He’s bilingual, speaking English and French-Canadian, and that explains what’s not quite an accent I’m detecting but more of a soft flow of his words together that hinted he might not be American. I hadn’t recognized it for what it was until I read that.
He left home at sixteen to join the Ontario Hockey League and played for the Ottawa Stallions for two years before he was drafted into the NHL at age eighteen to the Florida Spartans. He spent three years there as first a backup goalie, then a starting goalie, before being traded to the Cold Fury, where he’s been for the past four years although he suffered injuries that kept him on the bench last season.
I am not completely ignorant of hockey. I’ve dated guys in the past that are all about the sport and so I learned some things. I’ve even been to a game once before. But I didn’t know enough to recognize who Max Fournier was, and I sure as hell have no idea who any of the other players are.
But it all made sense to me why Chris jumped to give me my job back. The Cold Fury are the defending Stanley Cup Champions and I know Chris is a huge fan as he’s always talking about them.
I watch as Max turns his back on me and walks down the aisle that displays gum and candy on one side and chips on the other, until he reaches the back cooler and pulls out a Mountain Dew. He snags a Snickers when he comes back through and drops them both on the counter.
I ring the purchases up while casually saying, “You should let me buy these for you. It’s the least I can do for you getting my job back.”
“Not necessary,” he says, and my eyes slide from the green digital display on the register to him. He looks back at me with an expression that clearly says he was glad he could help. He hands me a five dollar bill without even looking at the total and I take that to mean this is not his first Snickers and Mountain Dew combo he’s purchased.
My heart starts beating a little quicker as I make change for him, then quicker yet when I pass him the coins and our fingers brush against each other. A flood of warmth courses through me, leaving a little prickle of excitement behind, and when he smiles at me and shoves the change in his front pocket, a feeling of serenity settles over me.
That’s…odd and not exactly altogether unpleasant.
I wait for Max to tell me goodbye and walk back out that door—back out of my life, probably for good—but he stuns the hell out of me when he walks the length of the counter and then rounds the end to come behind the register with me. He casually leans against the back counter, setting his Mountain Dew there and opening up his Snickers bar.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stunned, with equal measures of excitement he’s not leaving and terror that Chris will walk in and find him here. I cannot lose this job again.
“Going to hang out with you for the rest of your shift,” he says with a shrug and then takes a bite of his candy bar.
I get sidetracked a moment by the strong lines of his jaw moving as he chews, and my fingers itch to touch the stubble there, which looks the same length as when I saw him yesterday.
“You can’t,” I blurt out. “If Chris comes in…I can’t lose this job again.”
“He knows I’m here,” Max says calmly after he swallows, and then waves the candy bar in my direction. “Want a bite?”
My eyebrows draw inward and I shake my head at his offer. “He knows you’re here?”
“Yup,” he says with a grin. “Told him I was going to come by tonight for a little bit and hang until you closed up, and then make sure you got to your car safely.”
“And he was okay with that?”
“He was more than okay,” Max says nonchalantly, takes another bite and grins at me through his chewing.
I narrow my eyes. “You bribed him, didn’t you?”
“Yup,” is all he says.
“With what…tickets to games?”
“And signed shit,” he adds on.
I shake my head, my eyes lowered in amusement. I keep them lowered, afraid to look at him again as I might just grab his face and plant a huge kiss on his cheek.
I’m saved from embarrassing myself when the door opens and a young guy walks in. Tall with light blond hair, fashionable white polo, and khaki shorts with loafers. He doesn’t spare us a glance and heads to the coolers.
Max sets his half-eaten candy bar down, pushes off from the counter, steps to the end and nabs a baseball hat off a rack that holds several done in local collegiate colors. He chooses a red Wolfpack one, glances at the price tag before pulling it off. I watch all of this with interest as he puts the hat on, pulls it low, and then fishes in his wallet to hand me a twenty along with the tag.
I look down at the items in my hand, then back to him, and he winks. “Don’t feel like getting recognized.”
I grin and turn to the register, where I ring up the hat for $14.99 and hand him his change.
Max pulls his phone out, bends his head over it, and leans back against the counter just as the young guy puts a case of beer on the counter. He doesn’t even give Max a glance and it takes no more than a few minutes for me to card him, ring up his purchase, take payment, give him the difference, and he’s back out the door without once looking at the man behind the counter with me.
I turn to face Max, resigned—no, okay, excited—that he’s going to spend the next hour here. Positioning myself on the opposite counter, with the register behind me, I lean back and ask, “It’s kind of weird…a professional athlete eating a candy bar and drinking a Mountain Dew.”
“We all have vices, Jules,” he offers before polishing off the candy bar.
“I bet you train super hard so what’s a candy bar here and there, right?” I observe.
“That’s kind of my theory,” he says, after which he swallows the last bit and uncaps his Mountain Dew. He holds it up toward his mouth, but before taking a drink he says, “But let’s just make an agreement right here and now that if you ever meet Vale Campbell, my strength trainer, you do not tell her about the candy bars and soda, okay?”
I laugh, tilting my head back and realizing it’s been a long time since I’ve let out an actual spontaneous laugh. When I lower my face and look back at him with a fading chuckle, he’s staring at me, bottle still poised in the air.
His eyes are intense…pinned on me. We stare at each other, and as my laugh dies, an electric current seems to sizzle in the air between us. His gaze drops to my mouth, holds there a moment and then moves back to my eyes. A slight flash of longing and then it’s gone and he’s giving me an easygoing smile. “Agreed?”
“Sure,” I say, desperately reaching out to grab ahold of that magnetic feeling again, but it’s gone. “It’s our secret.”
“So what do you do to entertain yourself in here at night in between customers?” he asks casually.
I sigh internally because that pulsing vibe of attraction that was just here is absolutely gone, but I’m bolstered somewhat by the fact that Max’s attention on me is no less focused.
“Um…let’s see. I’ll often read People magazine so I can stay up-to-date on celebrity news, or I’ll just surf on my phone, but I have to be careful because my data plan isn’t very big and there’s no WiFi here. Oh, and I like to play a game when customers come in…I try to figure out what their life story is just by what I observe about them.”
“For example,” he prods me.
“Well, that kid that was just in here…I think he’s from a fairly well-to-do family, probably goes to private school judging by his clothes and car. On his way to a party and he stopped in here to grab beer for the night. In fact, I bet the party is in one of these huge developments with the mega mansions and he’s on his way there, probably hoping to get laid by a cheerleader or something.”
“But he would have bought condoms,” Max points out. “Actually, I think he had a date tonight and was stood up…and he’s depressed and came in to buy beer so he can get drunk and drown his miseries.”
“You’re a romantic,” I say with a grin.
“I can be,” he says softly, and that causes me to flush warm again.
God, I can’t even remember what it means for a guy to be romantic.
The door to the store opens again. Max pulls his cap lower and we watch as a woman of about fifty walks in wearing a black tank top with white bra straps sticking out. Tight jeans, and tattoos up and down both arms. Her eyes are done with blue eye shadow and lips are bright red. She weaves a little, clearly drunk.
She orders two packs of cigarettes and without a thank-you walks back out. We both watch as she gets on the back of a Harley driven by a big burly guy with a long gray beard.
I turn back to look at Max and he laughs. “That’s way too easy. No fun in trying to figure out her story.”
For the next fifty minutes I am thoroughly entertained by Max. We make up people’s life stories and in between I read him snippets from People magazine. I find him witty with an amazing sense of humor, and I laugh more than I have in a long time. Our conversation is casual and not very deep, but it is very easy and I appreciate that more than he’ll ever know. That electric pop never happens again, but I expect it’s because Max is being respectful of me, and he’s showing me what a nice guy he is.
And God…he’s so nice.
At midnight I lock the doors and turn off the outside lights to indicate we’re closed. Max waits patiently as I zero out the register and fill out the paperwork that goes with it, before putting the cash into the safe.
It’s when he follows me out of the store, waits for me to relock the doors, and then walks me to my car that I start to feel nervous.
I open my car door and slide into the driver’s seat while Max rests his hand on the top of the door and peers down at me.
“You work again on Monday, right?” he asks.
I nod, putting my key in the ignition.
“I’ll come see you then,” he says.
“You don’t have to—”
Max cuts me off. “I’ve got an away game tomorrow in Boston but I’ll be back Sunday. Give me your phone number.”
“What? No,” I blurt out, wondering why he would possibly want to come hang out in a convenience store with me or even want my number. Getting involved with me is a terrible idea, and why he can’t see that is beyond me.
“Yes,” is all he says as he pulls his phone out. “Give me your number.”
I weigh my options, but before I can even give adequate consideration to the first one—which is to refuse him again—he narrows his eyes at me and says, “I’ll just get it from Chris. You know he’ll give it to me.”
I try to be mad or affronted that he’s being so pushy, but damn it…his smile and dimples are so fucking persuasive, I give him my number.
I do it with an eye roll, but I give it to him all the same.