4. Maverick
FOUR
I love beingat the rink, but on a Friday when the sun is shining and the temperature is hovering around eighty without a cloud in the sky, I’d much rather be with my teammates by the pool enjoying one last hurrah before late fall rolls in.
I park my Mercedes in the arena garage and twirl my keys around my fingers. My head is still pounding, and I hope this session is quick. An introduction and a few laps around the rink should be enough to get to know this guy and make Coach happy.
“What are you doing here, Mav?” Bill, the security guard who’s worked for the Stars for nearly two decades, closes his newspaper and looks at me. “Thought you kids were all off today.”
“Captain duties,” I explain. “We’re bringing in another guy to try to fill the left winger position. I’m meeting him now.”
“I sure hope this season is the turning point.” Bill shakes his head, and I can feel the years of disappointment in the movement. “I was sorry to hear about Adams. That kid is going places.”
“Me too, Bill. Maybe we’ll have a shot next year.”
“I have a lot of respect for you,” he says. “Other players would’ve demanded a trade years ago, but you’ve stuck around. With you and Coach Saunders changing the mindset around here, I think we might come out on top one of these days.”
“Thanks for your support, sir.” I reach out my arm and we shake hands. “I better run. I’m already a few minutes behind schedule.”
Bill waves and goes back to his newspaper as I head for the players’ entrance. It’s tucked away from the doors the fans use so we can slip into the locker room unnoticed.
I turn the corner and stop in my tracks.
There’s a woman hanging around security screening in a spot the general public isn’t allowed. Her elbows rest on the metal railing, and her head is tipped toward the ceiling like she’s lost in thought.
I’ve never seen her before.
She’s not one of my teammates’ girls or someone I’ve slept with, which means she snuck in here without anyone noticing her.
I grin.
I’ve always liked rule breakers.
Her eyes are closed and her red hair is up in a high ponytail that hangs halfway down her back. The black pants she’s wearing hug her curves so well, there’s nothing left to the imagination—I can see every line of her body.
God damn.
She’s hot as sin.
Exactly the kind of woman I could get into trouble with.
I’m staring, but it’s hard to look away. There’s this energy about her that makes my palms sweaty and my heart pound in my chest like I’ve been running for miles.
It’s not the hangover, either.
It’s her.
My lips curl into a smile.
“Hey,” I call out, and her eyes flutter open and cut over to me. Bright green, and dangerous enough to make me think she could eat me alive. “Can I help you with something, sweetheart?”
She scoops a duffle bag off the floor and slings it over her shoulder like it’s as light as a feather. Her hips sway as she walks toward me, and she’s got to be pushing at least 5’10”. The hem of her shirt rides up above her belly button, and I notice the muscles spanning across her stomach.
Fuck me.
I’d be shocked if I didn’t have heart eyes right now. Athletic women are my goddamn kryptonite, and this one clearly knows her way around a gym.
“Yeah, actually,” she says. “I’m looking for you, Maverick Miller.”
Guess it’s my lucky fucking day.
I grin, flashing her the trademark smile that gets me any number I want. “Well, here I am. Fans aren’t allowed back here, but we can head to my place after my meeting if you don’t mind waiting an hour.”
She stops in front of me and lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. I wait for the agreement that usually follows, but she doesn’t say anything. She just stares, and I blush when her mouth pulls up into a smirk that almost makes me drop to my knees.
The goddess sets her hand on my chest, and I take another good look at her.
There are freckles all across her nose and cheeks. They look like little constellations, clusters of stars I’d like to draw into pretty shapes. Her shoulders are sculpted, and she’s wearing lipstick, a dark shade of red that nearly matches her hair.
She drags her nails down the front of my shirt in the cruelest form of torture I’ve ever experienced. I puff out a strangled breath, and my throat goes dry.
“Does that line normally work?” she asks, her voice sultry and low.
I think this woman is going to kill me.
“Hundred percent success rate,” I croak.
“Even when you have a hickey on your neck?”
I touch the skin under my silver necklace and shrug. “Yeah.”
She stands on her toes and brings her lips to my ear. I smell vanilla and something flowery. Her breath is warm, and I wonder what she would feel like underneath me.
“It’s a shame it’s only going to be ninety-nine percent effective now. The only thing I want to do with you, pretty boy, is kick your ass on the ice,” she whispers.
I swallow and try to get my bearings. She’s so close, and I fucking love it. “You think I’m pretty?”
“You would only hear that part, wouldn’t you?”
“Is ice play some sort of kink of yours?”
“God, no.” She takes a step away, but I want her to come back. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted you’re hitting on me.”
“Flattered,” I blurt. “Definitely flattered.”
When she laughs, it doesn’t sound like she thinks I’m funny. “For being the captain of an NHL team, I thought you would’ve done your research.”
What the hell does that mean?
The woman turns and heads inside the arena like she’s been here a thousand times. I’m left gaping after her, confused and soothing the sting of rejection.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up. When I float back to earth, I realize I should probably chase after her and ask what’s going on. I fly through security and follow the swish of her ponytail as she heads into the team’s administrative offices.
By the time I tumble into the boardroom, she’s already sitting at the long oval table and those pancakes are feeling like a brick in my stomach. Coach is across from her, grinning from ear to ear, and I’ve never seen the fucker look so happy.
“You’re late, Miller,” he says, and he doesn’t bother to glance my way. “Sit down.”
“Sorry.” I slide into the chair closest to the door. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean what’s going on?” Coach Saunders frowns. “Why aren’t you in your skates?”
“My skates? I’m just—” My eyes flick over to the redhead. She’s watching me, and that smirk is still in place. “It would be great if someone could bring me up to speed.”
“You’re kidding,” Coach says. “You didn’t watch the videos I sent you?”
I wring my fingers together. “The Emerson Hartwell tapes? No, I didn’t.”
“Who’s going to be the one to tell him?” the woman asks Coach.
“Someone please tell me,” I practically whine, and he motions for her to continue.
“I’m Emerson Hartwell,” she says, and I burst out laughing.
It takes a minute to get myself under control. My stomach muscles cramp up, and when I finally settle down, I have to wipe a tear from my cheek.
“Yeah. Okay,” I say. Another round of giggles hit me, and I wonder if I’m still drunk. “And I have an ocean front property in Iowa.”
“Wow.” The woman looks over at Coach, unimpressed. “This guy is leading your team?”
“You’re Emerson Hartwell?” I ask. “But you’re a?—”
Her eyes narrow, and heat flickers behind the green. It’s like her claws are at the ready, waiting for a fight. “Please, finish that sentence.”
“I thought Emerson Hartwell was a dude,” I say, which is clearly the wrong thing to say. The scowl on her face tells me she’s definitely going to eat me alive. “And you’re… not that.”
“I’m not a fan who wants to go to your apartment either,” she tosses back.
My cheeks turn bright red. I hate being embarrassed, and right now, I want to crawl into a hole.
“I made an assumption,” I say. “Big deal. Usually when a woman is looking for me, it’s to give me her number or… well, to come back to my hotel room. It’s not because she’s a professional hockey player.”
“Classy,” Emerson draws out.
“Miller,” Coach says, and my head whips in his direction. “My office. Now.”
If this man told me to jump, I’d ask how high. So I hustle out the door and follow him down the hall.
Brody Saunders isn’t much older than me.
He’s a guy in his late-thirties who got injured early in his hockey career and turned that misfortune into some solid scouting and assistant coach stints before landing the head coach position with the Stars a few seasons ago.
There’s a level of mutual respect between us—he was a bullet on the ice when he played center, and he knows what he’s talking about.
He asks my opinion on lineups and plays, and we’ve always gotten along. But from the way he’s looking at me right now, I think he might murder me then leave my body out for the vultures.
“What’s happening, Coach?” I ask. I lean against the door and kick my foot up. “Is she serious, or are you all fucking with me? Is this one of those hidden camera shows?”
“What’s happening is your head is so far up your ass, I ought to take away your captain title. What the hell have you been doing this week, Miller?”
“I’ve been busy,” I admit, and the skin at the back of my neck prickles. “I haven’t been able to?—”
“To, what? Give me five minutes of your time instead of spending all night at the club?” Coach demands, and my shoulders curl in.
“You know we were at the club?” I ask, choosing to dodge the insults to my character.
“Hard not to, when TMZ is posting pictures of you with your hands on every woman in this goddamn state. You’re in charge of this team, Maverick, but you’re not acting like it. You’re acting like a rookie who can’t handle responsibility, not a thirty-year-old man.”
I hang my head. “Sorry, Coach,” I mumble. “It won’t happen again.”
“It’s not me you should be saying sorry to. You disrespected Emerson, and you’re wasting our time. Time that should have been used to get to know each other on the ice, but instead, I’m playing mediator like you’re preschoolers.”
“Are you serious?” I glare at him. “I’m not saying sorry to her. She was rude to me first and made me look like an idiot when she could’ve told me who she was from the get-go.”
“I don’t care who did what. If you don’t want to act like an adult, I’ll dock your pay for every minute you stand here and act like a child.” Coach Saunders points at me. “Ball is in your court, Miller.”
“Missed opportunity not saying ‘the puck is on your stick,’ Coach.”
“Don’t start with me.”
I grind my teeth together. There’s no way I’m going to win this argument. He’s is a stubborn motherfucker—once he has an idea in his head, he runs with it.
“Fine,” I say.
“Good. You better be on the ice with her in ten minutes,” he says. He pushes past me and leaves me standing in his office, annoyed as hell.
He told me I had to skate with her.
He didn’t say I had to be nice to her.
If she’s going to dish it out, I’m sure as shit going to give it right back.