Would Have

Max was perplexed. He didn’t understand the small-print behind the NHL Awards and every time he thought to ask a question, no one knew the answer. What did they mean, that he was encouraged to bring a date? He didn’t have anyone to bring. Well, no one worth bragging about. Definitely no one that could behave in public.

“Are you bringing your girlfriend?”

Geno looked at him, face blanketed in confusion. All Max could do was sigh. Rooming with the Russian had undoubtedly taught him a thing or two about patience—and creativity. He’d all but taken up interpretive dance in trying to communicate with him in a language they both understood.

“Your girlfriend,” Max repeated.

“What ‘bout?”

“Vegas?”

Geno nodded. “She come.”

Max pulled a face, trying to rack his brain for a suitable girl to wear on his arm. The thought was foreign and nearly preposterous. He didn’t go out to find girls to take to award shows. Most of the women in his phone didn’t even have real names, just the city they were from and a number from one to 10. While Geno laughed at something on the television that Max was sure his teammate didn’t even understand, he scrolled through his lengthy list of contacts.

Philly 9, Philly 10 CALL FIRST, Phoenix 8, Quebec 9, Raleigh 4 but willing...

Then he stopped. For a second, the world did, too. His breath hitched, his palms started sweating, and his knees felt wobbly. Max could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat but didn’t pay it much mind—there were bigger fish to fry now, like how the woman whose name his finger lingered over was sure to laugh in his face before hanging up on him, once again rendering him dateless and thoroughly embarrassed. Still, he took a deep breath, stole a glance at his teammate, and pressed the ‘send’ button.

“Merde, pick up!” Max swore under his breath.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Max was positive his heart had stopped that time. She sounded older, almost wiser, than she had the last time they’d spoke. Even though that was nearing a year and a half ago, one thing still held true: Sarah Davignon could still turn his world inside-out with the mere sound of her voice.

“Sarah.”

“Maxime.”

“It’s, uh, been awhile, eh?”

She scoffed in reply, not bothering to answer a question so stupid and fruitless. Max hadn’t bothered to contact her in years. Now that he’d just won himself a Stanley Cup, he suddenly came calling? It wasn’t fair, and Sarah had the mind not to let him get away with it. Just because they’d known each other since they were kids, Max having been a teammate of Burke’s, her brother, didn’t excuse his selfish and inexplicably rude behavior. She’d never been anything but supportive and kind to him. Nearly two years of silence was how he repaid her.

“What do you want, Maxime?”

“I need to ask you for a favour.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sarah knew it was a bad idea before Max gave her the specifics. In the nicest way possible, he was asking her to be arm candy, to pretend she cared more about him than she really did. Two years ago she would’ve been a willing participant, wouldn’t have to fake her affection for Max, but things were different now. They were strangers, and this was too much to ask of her.

“I don’t have anyone else to ask, cherie.”

Sarah wanted to growl at the pet name, wanted to tell him he wasn’t at liberty to be calling her anything than the name her parents had given her, but Max’s tone told her he was telling the truth. As selfish as she accused him of being, she was acting the same. Wasn’t she supposed to be the bigger person?

“Why don’t you call that girl you dated in juniors? I’m sure she’d love to go with you, what with your shiny new trophy and all.”

Max had remembered Sarah as being a lot of things, but never spiteful. Never condescending or bitter or vindictive. The Sarah he’d left back in LeMoyne was warmhearted, compassionate, and…not the woman currently on the other end of the line. This left him with nothing to say. Fueling the fire would only make things worse, even though he hadn’t known they’d gotten this bad at all.

“She wouldn’t go with me, Sarah.”

“What was her name again? Slutbag? Syphilis?”

“Christ, Sarah,” Max scolded. “Her name was Sylvia.”

“Close enough,” she replied.

Max was growing irritated now. He’d merely called to invite her to Las Vegas, not to ignite an argument. Whatever thoughts he had of Sarah being able to act maturely were long gone now, and Max couldn’t help but think so was their relationship. Maybe it’d been doomed from the start, as Burke had warned him that even as a teenager Sarah wasn’t the type of person he should bother getting involved with. True to his nature, Max ignored him, but kept his intentions pure. They became quick friends and he refused to let it go any further. Sarah knew his secrets, Max knew hers. He’d reserved her glass seats for his first NHL game and she sat with his family. During his first year in the league, she was the one he called after a tough loss or to share his elation with after a big win. Then things began to change.

When he’d call at two in the morning, just wanting to hear her voice, she wouldn’t answer. If she did, she never sounded happy. She stopped texting him her congratulations after he scored a goal or had a particularly special game. He’d offer to leave her tickets but she always refused. A trip from Quebec to Pittsburgh used to be no big deal for her; now it was like pulling teeth.

So Max did what anyone with an ounce of pride would do: cut her out of his life. He stopped calling, stopped expecting text messages, and stopped bothering to reserve box seats when he knew she wouldn’t show up. He’d tried to call Burke once or twice, just to see if something more serious was going on, but he didn’t return his calls, either.

“I think you owe me,” he said.

“I don’t owe you shit, Maxime,” she snapped. “If anything, you owe me.”

He glanced at Geno, who was staring right back at him. He was sure his teammate had no idea what he was saying but he still made a point to excuse himself so he wouldn’t bother him with the yelling that was inevitable.

“You’re the one who stopped returning my calls,” Max fired back. His face was beginning to grow hot. Although one would never be able to guess from his recent altercation with Dan Carcillo in Philadelphia, Max wasn’t a fan of confrontation. It was a last resort. Typical Frenchman, he scolded himself.

“Did you even think to ask why? Or were you too emerged in your new superstar life to realize that not everything is seven-figure salaries and Stanley Cups?”

Max didn’t say anything because she was right. Whatever the world was to him, that’s how he envisioned it being to everyone else. When he took off for Pittsburgh, Sarah took off for university. She’d always been smart—much smarter than him and her brother combined—and he always figured she’d graduate at the top of her class and start her own business and make triple whatever the Penguins were willing to pay him. Their phone calls had always been about him; he never bothered to ask how she was doing in school or what things were like back home.

“Okay,” he relented. “So let me make it up to you, cherie. Go to Vegas with me—”

“No, Max!” She never called him Max. “What don’t you understand? I’m not going with you. I have a life of my own to worry about, you know. I can’t just drop whatever I’m doing to go with you to a stupid award show.”

“That’s honestly what you think?” he asked, the hurt reducing his voice to just above a whisper. “You think all of this is stupid?”

He’d backed her into a corner. She hadn’t meant to say it—one of those heat of the moment things—but he’d just one-upped her. Now she owed him something, and it wasn’t going to be an apology.

She sighed. “When do we leave?”


Max and Geno had been given a private jet to take to Las Vegas. To them, it was normal. The organization didn’t want to risk sending them into general population, especially now that Maxime Talbot and Evgeni Malkin were household names to anyone who knew even a little bit about hockey. However, it just seemed obnoxious to Sarah.

When Max told her the trip itinerary, she immediately offered to book her own flight to Las Vegas. Even driving there on her own seemed better than taking a private jet to the other side of the continent. But Max was relentless, thinking she’d seize the opportunity to run away and leave him hanging, so he bribed her. In exchange for both her presence on the plane and at the NHL Awards, he was to reward her with three hours of alone time everyday. He wasn’t allowed to call her, text her, or ask where she was going.

Sarah was halfway through a book—some historically important biography that Max was sure would bore him to tears—when Katya, Geno’s girlfriend, began asking questions. At first, Sarah didn’t know who she was talking to so she didn’t bother looking up. Max turned a deep crimson. He didn’t want his teammate and his teammate’s girlfriend to get the wrong impression of her, that she was cold and dismissive. He nudged her and mumbled something about Katya asking her a question.

“Oh! So sorry, I thought you were talking to Maxime,” she smiled brightly. Even if she didn’t want to be there, with Max, she wasn’t going to treat everyone else like dirt.

“I asked how you met Max.”

Sarah noted that Katya’s English was much better than Evgeni’s, who she’d talked to briefly when she arrived on the tarmac. She’d taken a few courses in Russian Literature while in college and wanted to test out her (very thin) grasp on the language. Even though Geno seemed to have no idea what she was saying, he appreciated her effort.

“He used to play with my brother.”

Max blushed even further. “Hockey. I used to play hockey with her brother.”

Sarah dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “So he says.”

Katya laughed along with Sarah, who was thankful for somewhat of a friend. If she played her cards right, she now had someone to spend her free time with. Even though she’d constantly been surrounded by male friends and hadn’t the slightest clue how to interact with a woman whose interests were so clearly opposite of her own, she was excited to start trying. Maybe Katya could help her pick out a dress to wear to the show.

“So you two grew up together, then?”

Sarah nodded. “I’ve had the misfortune of knowing him since I was thirteen.” Wanting to direct the conversation away from her and Max, she turned it around. “What about you two?”

“Oh my god,” Katya squealed, probably having been waiting for someone to ask, and launched into a story that spanned from the day she turned seventeen to the current day. Sarah had tuned her out sometime around her twenty-first birthday and nodded along when appropriate. She stopped talking long enough to gaze lovingly at her boyfriend, who was cluelessly playing a portable video game. “He’s, uh, really rather romantic, really…”

Sarah gave her a warm smile before returning her attention to her book. The flight was only halfway over and the words on the pages in front of her were much better conversation.

“What are you reading?” Max asked, peering over her shoulder.

“Go away, Maxime. I’m reading,” she scolded.

“What is it?”

Sarah sighed and let him see the cover. “The Time Traveler’s Guide to Medieval England. Happy now?”

Max smiled and settled back into his seat. Winning her over wasn’t going to be easy. He was going to have to apologize a hundred times over and bend over backwards to get back in her good graces, but the hint of a smile on her lips told him it was possible. Nothing was out of his reach quite yet—including Sarah.


Las Vegas was unlike anything Sarah had ever seen. The lights, the buildings, the people—everything was new and exciting. She’d relocated to Montreal after graduating from college, and while that was a stark contrast to her hometown of LeMoyne, it paled in comparison to the Sin City.

She’d done exactly what Max had asked of her. She let him wear her on his arm the night of the awards show. She smiled for the cameras and let Katya pick out a stunning dress for her—a striking black number that made Max excuse himself to the bathroom. She introduced herself to his friends and tried to remember their names. She graciously accepted flutes of champagne and minded her manners while around someone of importance. When Max was busy she spent her time gossiping with Katya and simply laughed when women would send her dirty looks.

Max hadn’t gone into the trip with very many expectations, but Sarah was undoubtedly exceeding them.

“Do you want anything from the bar?”

Sarah nodded, an easy grin creeping onto her face. “Surprise me.”

What was that supposed to mean? There were millions of drinks he could order and the last time they’d hung out, Sarah didn’t drink. He knew she’d been drinking during the show but those were flimsy chutes of champagne. He couldn’t order her one of those and live to talk about it. Was this some sort of test? Would she let him see what was under that dress if he ordered her the right drink? No. That wasn’t Sarah.

He doubled his order and made his way back to the table he’d left her at. “Merde,” he muttered, taking in the scene before him. “You have a thing for Russians or something?”

Sarah laughed at the blatant jealousy Max was horrible at trying to hide. “Alex was telling me some great stories about your semifinal series.”

“I’m sure he has such nice things to say.”

“Are you jealous, Maxime?” she teased.

“No,” he snapped, “but there’s such a thing as fraternizing with the enemy, and the last thing I need is you getting cozy with Ovechkin.”

“Ah, I see,” Sarah chimed. “He did say you called him a douchebag on the radio.”

“Well, he is.” Max took a large sip of his Jack and Coke. “What else did he say?”

Sarah finished hers in two gulps. “Not much.”

“Did he hit on you?”

“You are jealous.”

“Would you quit it? I’m not jealous. No one would want Ovechkin hitting on their…”

Max stopped. His what? Sarah wasn’t his girlfriend. They were barely even friends anymore, but he’d hoped the trip would change that. So far all it’d done was ignite in him some sort of primal possession that certainly wasn’t justified. She wasn’t his for the taking. Sure, they’d been something at one point, but whatever it was, they weren’t it anymore.

“Your what, Maxime?” Sarah asked, inching dangerously close. Clearly, she was drunk. That was the only explanation Max could muster to explain her sudden change in attitude toward him. Not even 48 hours earlier she’d been biting his head off and avoiding him at all costs. Now she was slipping her hand underneath his dress shirt and wordlessly begging him to take her back to their hotel room.

“You’re drunk, belle.”

She frowned. “Can’t we get out of here? It’s too loud.”

Max sighed and grabbed her by the elbow, steering her out of the club without another word. It was more difficult than he would’ve liked it to be, with Sarah tripping over her feet. He cursed Katya for talking her into those ridiculous pumps, although they did make her legs look killer. Once she was safely outside, he hailed a cab and rattled off the name of their hotel.

They’d only been driving for five minutes when they passed one of those chapels. Max laughed; who would do something like that? He had no plans to get married, but he knew that if that day were to ever come, he’d want it to be special. Getting hitched in Vegas, probably while drunk out of his mind, didn’t seem appealing in the least. It was cheap and impersonal—the exact opposite of what he envisioned a wedding being.

“Max,” Sarah said suddenly, tugging on his sleeve. Once she was sure she had his attention, she delivered the bomb. “Let’s go there.”

“Go where, belle?”

“There,” she said again, pointing to the chapel. “Let’s get married.”

Max felt his stomach fall to the floor, instantly reminding himself that Sarah was drunk and had no idea what he was saying. Still, he’d just berated everyone who eloped at A Little White Wedding…so why did it sound so appealing when Sarah suggested it?

“Sarah, you’re drunk.”

She shrugged, obviously indifferent to her state of mind. “I don’t care.”

“We can’t get married.”

“Why?” she scowled. “You don’t want to marry me?”

The cab driver chuckled, probably having seen this exact scene a million times. Max shot him a look that clearly screamed help me! but he only shook his head and kept his eyes on the boulevard in front of them.

“It’s not that, cherie—”

“Then what is it?”

The words formed and evaporated on Max’s tongue. He didn’t know what to say. “You didn’t want anything to do with me a few days ago.”

Sarah shrugged again, her anger having already faded. “I was jealous, Max.”

“Of what?”

“I’d heard stories. Ones about you with other women.”

Suddenly he felt sick to his stomach. “Belle—”

“I guess I always thought it’d be you and me in the end, that you wouldn’t get to the NHL and forget all about me back home in LeMoyne.”

“I never forgot about you.”

Tears sprung to her eyes just as the lump finished forming in her throat. “Then why, Max? Why them and not me?”

“Cherie,” he sighed, wiping the few tears that’d fallen. “I’m young and stupid and don’t think with my brain. If I’d known it was hurting you, I never would’ve done it. I didn’t know you felt that way.” Now he was starting to get choked up. “You always seemed so out of reach.”

Sarah shrugged as she continued to stare out the window. The city had suddenly lost it’s sparkle. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and go back to Quebec as soon as possible.

“I wasn’t, Maxime. And I’m still not.”


The moving crew had brought in the last of the boxes sometime around six-o’clock. As Max dug a few twenties out of his wallet, Sarah made quick work of putting them in the corresponding rooms. Judging by the weight of the one marked KITCHEN, they’d finally have a coffee machine.

“Is that the last of it?” he called out as he moved back into his new apartment.

“Yeah,” Sarah answered, appearing at the bottom of the steps. “Finally. I think my arms are going to fall off.”

Max laughed and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. He moved into the living room and pulled the drapes open, revealing a breathtaking view of center-city Philadelphia—their home for the next five years.

Sarah moved behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Truth be told, he’d been less than confident in his decision. All he’d known was Pittsburgh. To go anywhere else felt horrifying, like he was clearly making the worst possible choice. But Sarah had talked some sense into him, making him realize that a change in scenery wouldn’t be the end of the world if that’s truly what he wanted. Most importantly, she told him she’d go wherever he wanted, and if that place happened to be Philadelphia, then so be it.

“I would’ve said yes, you know.”

“What?” she laughed, having no idea what he was talking about.

“That night in Vegas. If you weren’t drunk, I would’ve said yes.”

A furious blush crept up Sarah’s neck. Drunkenly asking Max to marry her hadn’t been her best moment and earned her a pile of shit from their friends and Max’s teammates. He promised to never bring it up, but clearly all bets were off now.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Max looked down at his girlfriend of the last two years and smiled. “No, I guess not.”