5. Emmy
FIVE
Grady:
How did it go with Maverick?
Me
…..
No comment.
Grady:
That bad?
Me
If you see me on the news, know I acted in self defense.
Studyinghours of Maverick Miller’s game film did not prepare me for meeting him in person.
He has this overwhelming presence about him. Dark hair and even darker eyes. Six-foot-four with broad shoulders. Tattooed arms and long legs. The hint of a smirk and the cut of a dimple on his angular cheek, sharp enough to cut glass.
He walks with a confident swagger and the roll of his shoulders is boastful and proud, like he knows he’s that hot.
His good looks irritate me more than his cocky attitude.
I knew he would be a little arrogant, but hitting on me and not having a goddamn clue who I was threw me for a loop.
It’s not that I expected him to know everything about me.
He’s a professional athlete with half a dozen endorsement deals. Captain duties and a personal life that stretches to a hundred different women in a hundred different zip codes. Probably some in other countries too, and maybe one in Antarctica, just to prove he can.
But I expected a little more respect when I met him. Less eye-fucking and more professional courtesy. Now we’re off on the wrong foot, and it’s his fault.
The door to the boardroom opens, and I sit up straight. Coach Saunders slides back into the room and gives me a hesitant smile.
“I’m sorry about that, Emerson.”
“You can call me Emmy,” I say. “And I’m sorry too. I wasn’t an innocent party in that exchange, and I apologize for acting so immaturely. It’s not the first impression I wanted to give you.”
“Emmy, you could hit someone with a car in the parking lot and I’d find a way to have you on my team.” His smile turns softer. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I. Thank you so much for this opportunity. I know you’ve gone through several players while trying to find the perfect fit, and it means a lot to wear a Stars jersey.”
“I want you to know I didn’t bring you here to check a box or any bullshit like that,” Coach Saunders says. There’s a fierceness in his tone that wasn’t there before, and I feel horrible for initially assuming exactly that. “We want the best hockey players on our team, and that includes you. I figured a solo session with Maverick would be beneficial before your first practice with the whole team, but now I’m second guessing myself.”
I grab the bag with my skates and pads off the floor. “We’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. I want this to work out, Emmy. There’s a restroom down the hall where you can change, and the rink is just past it. I’ll touch base with you after and see how things went.”
I give him a smile I hope doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “Can’t wait.”
I stand on center ice in the famed Civic Center, awestruck. Exhilaration like I’ve never felt before pounds in my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe as I take off around the rink.
All the tension I’ve been holding onto this week melts away the longer I move. Packing up my apartment. The cross-country flight. A new team and a new normal.
I skate faster and harder until my muscles relax. Until it’s easier to breathe and the cool air fills my lungs.
After my sixth lap, I finally relax..
“Hey,” a deep voice calls out, and I glance over my shoulder. Maverick is standing on the edge of the ice in his practice gear. His hands are on his hips, and he makes the stick next to him look small. “What are you doing?”
“Skating,” I say innocently, just to piss him off. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I give myself a point. “Is that allowed?”
“This is my rink. We’re going by my rules.”
“Funny. I didn’t see your name on the building, hot shot.”
“All I heard in that sentence was hot.”
“How do you plan on skating with that inflated head of yours?”
“I’m captain.”
“Congratulations. Since you like to tell people what to do, what do you have planned for the next hour? Are you going to waterboard me?”
There’s that dimple in his right cheek, and I hate the fucking thing. “Sounds kind of fun. Is thatone of your kinks?” Maverick smirks.
“You’re awfully interested in the sex life of someone who will never get in bed with you,” I say. “Do we need to get HR involved?”
“I love a good challenge. My determination is one of my best qualities.”
“Right up there with annoying as hell, probably.”
“I promised Coach I’d play nice, so we’ll do a 1v1 tag up,” he says.
I scowl. “A peewee drill? You can’t be serious.”
“Come on, Red.” Maverick gives me a wicked grin that warms my skin. For half a second, I can see why women fawn over him. He moves across the ice like it was made for him, heading for the goal. “You don’t think I’m going to waste my time until I know you can actually play, do you?”
“This could’ve been avoided if you had just watched my tapes.” I sigh. “But okay. I’ll bite.”
Maverick tracks my position as I move toward him. He watches me line up at center ice. He follows my hands when I adjust my grip on my stick, and for one fleeting second, I think I see admiration in his eyes before he blinks it away.
“I don’t have all day, Hartwell,” he says with a lazy drawl. “Unless you want to talk more about biting. Then you have my attention.”
“Any last words, Miller?” I drop the puck and tap it with my blade. “There’s still time to walk away, sweetheart.”
He laughs.
It’s manly and low, filled with gravel. If he wasn’t so obnoxious and full of himself, I might find it sexy.
He leans forward, and his grin stretches wider. “Good luck, Hartwell. You’re going to need it.”
Maverick doesn’t play goalie, but from what I’ve seen in videos of scrimmages and dick-measuring shootouts with teammates, he favors protecting the left side of the net over the right.
He doesn’t know I know that, though, and I use it to my advantage.
I move from side to side, taunting him. He watches me, a predator tracking its prey.
When I shift back to the left, he reaches to the top corner of the goal, falling for my fake out. I take advantage of his misread, winding up and hitting the puck as hard as I can to the right, a slapshot that sails straight into the net.
“What was that?” I ask. “Did you say something about luck?”
“What the fuck?” Maverick looks at the puck then at me. “Again.”
“If you say so.”
His stance widens and his broad body takes up every inch of space to play defense. I set up like I’m going to do another slapshot, but I change my grip at the last second.
The blade cuts around the puck. I shift my weight from my back foot to my front foot as I move with the motion.
My hands follow through, an upward trajectory resulting in a wrist shot I used to spend hours perfecting with my dad on the lake behind our house.
Maverick stares at me. I think he might be seconds away from kicking me out of the rink, and I brace myself for whatever wrath he’s about to unleash.
“Do it again,” he barks out, passing the puck my way.
So I do.
He blocks my third attempt, a sloppy backhand I fumble from a stationary position. I score on the fourth and fifth tries, two more slapshots I net despite Maverick’s best efforts to stop them.
Again and again we go. Ten minutes stretches to twenty, then thirty. Neither of us say anything, but every now and then, he lets out a grunt that’s just as deep and low as his laugh.
My arms ache. Sweat rolls down my cheek, and my sports bra is soaked. My breathing turns labored, and even Maverick seems winded when he lifts his chin and looks at me.
“Stop,” he says. He pushes his fingers into his side and leans on the goal post. “We’re taking five.”
“Can’t keep up, Miller?” I ask, skating toward him warily. My heart thumps in my chest, and his eyes drop to the pulse point on my throat before he drags his gaze back up to my face. “I thought you’d be quicker on your feet.”
“Given I play forward and not goalie, I’m not sure how much quicker you want me to be. My save percentage is forty.”
“Means I scored on you sixty percent of the time.”
I haven’t gone head-to-head with anyone in ages, and it’s invigorating to push myself. To feel that slow rise of exhaustion hug my bones and tire me out.
“AHL?” Maverick asks, and his voice echoes in the empty arena.
“ECHL,” I answer. “San Diego Iguanas.”
“Record?”
“Kelly Cup. Two seasons in a row.” I pause and give him the curve of a smile. “Better than what your team can say.”
“Glad to know you’re keeping tabs on our team, Red.”
“Some of us like to be prepared when meeting people we’re going to be playing with.”
The laugh that slips out of Maverick is easy and light. He pulls off his gloves and unbuckles his helmet with long, nimble fingers. He shakes out his sweat-soaked hair, and I catch the heart tattooed on the back of his hand with the letter J in the center.
I wonder what girl he kept around long enough to ink his skin for. Maybe it was a drunken dare in Vegas.
“We’re done for today. I’ve seen enough,” he says.
“You don’t want your ego to take another bruising, do you?”
“I’m looking out for you, actually. Coach is going to put us through the fucking ringer at practice on Monday, and I’m going to mop the floor with you.”
“Any other peewee drills I should study? Maybe a refresher on how to tie my skates correctly?”
“You rely too heavily on your dominant side, and you’re weak on the right. It leaves room for someone to steal the puck from you.” Maverick lifts the hem of his jersey and wipes his face. The muscles on his torso are nothing short of what I imagine Adonis looked like in his prime. Even with his gear on, I see a deep cut V. Chiseled lines and sharp edges. My stomach swoops low at the sight, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Hudson Hayes is going to make you look silly. He’s our?—”
“Defenseman,” I finish for him. “I told you I like to be prepared.” Hudson Hayes is a former all-American and a Frozen Four champion. He has two rescue dogs, and he spends almost all his time on social media posting about the local shelter where he volunteers. “Can’t wait. It’ll be nice to have other people around. Someone to back me up when I give you hell and you don’t like it.”
Maverick’s smirk is a dangerous thing. I ignore how it makes my heart race and turn my cheeks pink. I tell myself it’s just from the exertion of the last half hour, not his pretty face.
He moves toward me. When he’s six inches away, just close enough for me to fist his practice jersey if I wanted to, I have to crane my neck to look at him.
His smirk turns into a pleased smile, glad to have the upper hand, and I’ve never hated my height more.
“Are you going to think about me between now and then, Hartwell?” he asks, and I hate that I haven’t skated away.
“Only about ways to destroy you,” I answer, voice impossibly soft as I unbuckle my helmet and his eyes gleam with delight. “You better make sure you eat your vegetables on Sunday night, Miller. What you saw today doesn’t touch my A game.”
“I have no problem with that. I love to eat.” He licks his lips, and the implication behind his words is obvious. “Sleep tight, Red. You have no idea what you’re in for.”
“Do you have stupid nicknames for all the people you antagonize, or am one of the lucky ones?” I ask.
“I only have them for the ones who try to pretend they don’t like it. But it’s obvious you’re blushing.”
“Someone really needs to knock you down a few pegs, pretty boy.” I elbow his stomach and give his shoulder a light shove as I push past him. He stumbles on his feet and falls onto his ass. I look down at him with an innocent smile. “Oops. I tripped.”
“Glad to know you still think I’m pretty.” His grin is proud as he stretches out on the ice, a long-limbed starfish. “Game on, Hartwell. I hope you’re ready for war.”
“I always win, Miller,” I say as I skate toward my bag, glad to leave him behind.