3. Maverick
THREE
Something is touching my ass.
Which is weird, because I thought I went to bed alone last night.
I open an eye and groan at the sunlight filling my bedroom. It’s too early. Too bright. And my head hurts too damn much.
“Christ,” I mumble into my pillowcase. “I’m never drinking again. I’m too old for this shit.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” a high-pitched voice says from somewhere behind me, and I scream.
A full-on scream like I’m in one of those theme park haunted houses and someone in a Michael Meyers jumpsuit is chasing me.
What the hell?
My memory of the last twelve hours is hazy at best. I remember going to a club after we beat New York 3-0. Strobe lights and free-flowing alcohol. Laughing with a couple of my teammates and a brunette grinding against me to the beat of EDM music.
I lift my head and look over my shoulder. A blonde woman smiles back at me, way too perky for this early in the morning, and there are bite marks all down her neck.
“What time is it?” I ask, because I do not remember inviting her to stay.
“Ten.” She leans forward and drags her tongue over my ear. Her hand grips my ass, and when her finger slides between my cheeks, I roll off the bed with a thud and take the sheets with me.
“Christ on a mother fucking cracker.” I rub my elbow. “That’s my good arm.”
“Why are you running away? You wanted to play last night,” the blonde says.
“Listen, I’m down to try anything once, but that was definitely the alcohol talking. Drunk thoughts are not the same in the morning, and they should not be repeated. Especially when they involve my ass.”
“That’s no fun. Come back to bed,” she says.
“Kind of busy at the moment.”
The world tilts a little bit as I lie on the floor under a pile of overpriced silk. It’s nicer down here, and I think this might be the way I die: with tequila in my blood, my vision blurring around the edges, and my ass thoroughly groped.
I take a deep breath and glance up at her, ready to launch into my usual speech.
It’s not you, it’s me.
It would never work—I’m hardly home.
You deserve a man who can drop everything and be by your side.
The sex was great, but last night is all it’ll ever be.
“Look, Bailey. I had a great time with you, but I?—”
“It’s Bethany,” she says, and she crosses her arms over her bare chest.
I whimper at her cleavage, and now I remember why I let her palm me through my jeans on the ride home; her tits are fan-fucking-tastic.
“Right, sorry. Bethany.” I sigh like this is the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do. It kind of is; my head won’t stop throbbing, and I’m going to need three Advil just to get through the day. “I have a meeting with my coach in an hour, and I have to pull myself out of this hangover.”
It’s not a total lie. I am hungover and I do need to see Coach Saunders, but I also want her to leave as soon as possible.
“Can I give you my phone number? Maybe we can get lunch sometime. Or dinner. Oh! My sister is getting married next month. You could come as my plus-one,” she says. “Her fiancé is a big hockey fan.”
“I’m not looking to date right now,” I toss back, trying not to cringe.
A fucking wedding?
We’re entering the stage five clinger zone, and I have to get out of here.
“But—”
“We agreed it was only for the night, right?” I stare at her, and she’s pouting. Full on pouting, with her bottom lip sticking out like a kid who didn’t get their way.
“I thought maybe I could change your mind. You told me how much you liked it when I?—”
“Mav?” A voice booms from my living room, and I groan again. Too many loud noises. “Where are you? I brought breakfast.”
“This has been fun, but it’s time for you to go…” I hesitate. What the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t remember this woman’s name? “…Becky,” I inject all the confidence I can muster that I’ve guessed right.
“Bethany,” she huffs.
Swing and a fucking miss.
“Bethany,” I repeat, pretending like I’m trying to make it stick.
“Fine. I’m going.”
She grabs a dress and a pair of sky-high heels off the floor and storms out of my room buck naked. I hear murmured voices out in the living room, then the door to my apartment slams shut.
“I handled it,” Hudson Hayes, my teammate and one of my best friends, says, appearing in my room. “Lovely girl. She’s not a fan of you anymore, though.”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean for you to be on clean up duty.”
He runs his hand through his blonde hair. A sheepish smile breaks across his face, and he lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “What are friends for?”
“You said something about breakfast?” I ask.
“I did. Pancakes from that place up the road. Thought I’d stop by and see if you were hungry.”
“Fuck.” I groan and try to stand. My feet get caught in the sheets at my waist, and I topple back down. “I love you.”
He laughs, and his attention moves to the bed that’s missing half its pillows. The box of condoms on the nightstand and the underwear Bethany left behind.
Fuck yeah,I’m getting good.
“You really need to find some new hobbies, Mav,” he says.
“I’m young, Hud. There’s plenty of time for hobbies.” I reach out a hand. “Help me up?”
“I swear to god if you drop that sheet and I see your tiny dick again, I’m going to be pissed.”
I check to make sure I’m wearing boxers. They might be on backward and inside out, but I’m covered. “Tiny? Go get a ruler. Let’s settle this right now. You know I’m the biggest guy on the team.”
“I don’t carry around a ruler. Do you?”
“No. I guess I need to start keeping one in my pocket so when this argument comes up again, I can provide clear evidence of size ranking. You would lose so bad, Hayes.”
He rolls his eyes and pulls me onto my feet, heading for the kitchen. It’s even brighter out here, and I regret not closing the shades last night. I straddle one of the barstools at the island, and my mouth salivates when he puts a plate of flapjacks in front of me.
“Are you going to Seymour’s later? He’s throwing a pool party and grilling burgers to celebrate our weekend off. His girl is also making brownies,” Hudson says, sitting next to me. I swear there’s a drop of drool hanging in the corner of his mouth—the man loves food more than he loves hockey. “Should be a good time.”
“Can’t.” I shove half a pancake in my mouth, and the carbs soak up the last bit of alcohol in my system. “I’m meeting with Coach today. He wants me to skate with the new guy.”
“Which one?”
“Some dude from the west coast. Coach sent me his footage, but I haven’t gotten around to watching it. I’ve been busy playing catchup.”
The guys know I spent the summer coaching the junior Stars hockey camp. As much as I’d kill to spend my first weekend off in months drinking beers and eating burgers, we’re two weeks into the season, and I’m already in over my head.
“Are you talking about Emerson Hartwell?”
I knock over the salt shaker and grab my phone. I ignore the Instagram DMs flooding my inbox and pull up the email from Coach, double checking the name. “Yeah. Hartwell. Know anything?”
Hudson hums and takes a bite of his breakfast before answering. “I think Emerson Hartwell will be exactly what we need this season. More than any of the other players we’ve rotated through the last couple of weeks.”
“I really thought this was going to be our year.” I rub my eyes and sigh. “The guys in the locker room are finally proud to wear their jerseys, and Coach is getting more confident in his play calling every game. Then Adams went and tore his ACL in the fucking Bahamas, and our playoff dreams went out the door. Rookies shouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere without a chaperone—I don’t care if it was only for a weekend. He needs an adult watching him at all times.”
“Chin up, Cap.” Hudson reaches over and clasps my shoulder. “We’ve been through this before, and we can go through it again. The younger guys are going to be looking up to us now more than ever, and we have to show them that patience pays off. It’ll all work out.”
Hudson was drafted by the Stars the year after me. We clicked right away, and it’s been a comfort to suffer through all this shitty bad luck with someone who gets it.
“I wish you could look into a crystal ball and read the future. It would bring my stress levels way the fuck down,” I say.
“Think of it this way: things can’t get worse. Anything better than last place in the league standings is a vast improvement.”
“Wow. We’re really grasping at fucking straws, aren’t we?”
“Glass half empty, half full kind of thing. Our team psychologist would be proud,” he says.
“Of you at least. I’d get another lecture about how my coping mechanisms are shit.”
“Because your coping mechanisms are shit.”
“It could always be drugs, Hud. Consensual sex never hurt anyone.” I look at the time and sigh. “Shit. I gotta go. Coach is going to chew me out for being late.”
“You’re not going to watch Emerson’s tapes first?”
“Don’t have time. It’ll be fine.” I jump off the stool and give him a thumbs up. “Thanks for the nourishment, Dad.”
He laughs and flips me off. “You can walk your one-night stands to the door from now on. And no more pancakes for you either.”
I grin on the way to my bedroom to get changed for the arena.
I’ve played with thousands of guys over the course of my career, and I hate to be the realist, especially after hearing Hud so optimistic, but I doubt Emerson Hartwell is going to be what turns our team around.
No fucking way.