7. Emmy
SEVEN
Unknown Number
Morning, Hartwell. Happy first day of practice.
Me
Who is this?
Unknown Number
Some people have referred to me as pretty.
I think hot was thrown around too ;)
Me
Does using winking faces in your texts normally work on people?
Unknown Number
IDK. I’ve never had to work to get someone to like me.
Me
I’m happy to be the first.
Unknown Number
Are you more of an emoji woman?
I’m partial to the smiley face with the party hat. That guy seems like a good time.
Me
You’re so weird.
How the hell did you get my number?
Unknown Number
Captain privileges.
I have all the guys’ contact info in my phone in case of emergencies. You’re inking a contract today. Figured it was time to add yours too.
Me
Why are you bothering me?
Unknown Number
Is it really bothering you if you’re messaging me back? Seems like you might be enjoying this.
Me
I’m going to block you. And probably knee you in the balls.
Unknown Number
Can’t wait ;)
The makeshift lockerroom the Stars created for me is an old utility closet that smells like dirty mops and glass cleaner.
It’s not ideal, but it’s only temporary until Coach Saunders can find a better solution. For now, I get to stare at a pile of used rags while I dress.
“Hey,” Piper says, and our gazes meet in the mirror. “Are you okay?”
I inhale a deep breath and hold it for a count of three. “Yeah. No. I’m not sure.”
“Want to talk about it?” She tilts her head to the side, and I know it’s a gentle coaxing. That she’s saying I’m here. “We have time.”
“I’m panicking.” I run my hands over my pants, and I tap my fingers against my thigh. I didn’t get any sleep last night, and I’ve been vibrating with nerves since the sun came up. “This is going to be a lot.”
“It is.”
“I think I’m making a mistake.”
“You’re not.”
“There are going to be interviewers and cameras everywhere. I knew this was going to happen, but… I like my life of solitude. I like only being semi-recognizable. Just good enough for people to know my name but not spot me out on the street when I’m getting froyo at eleven o’clock at night. That’s going to change after today.”
“That’s what all trailblazers experience.”
“I’m not a trailblazer.”
“You are, Emmy. I know you don’t like to boast about your accomplishments, but it’s okay to own it.” Piper braids my long hair into two pigtails and adds a tiny ribbon to each side. “Besides, how hard can it be to play on an NHL team? Boys do it.”
“Yeah. Boys do it. Thanks, Piper.” I reach over my shoulder and squeeze her hand. “I mean it. Thank you for being here.”
She loops her arm around my chest and hugs me. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”
“Do you know when we’re doing the signing?”
“After practice. Coach Saunders decided to put together a panel of players to join you in talking with the media. Maverick will be there. Hudson Hayes, too. I’m trying to corral Liam Sullivan, our goalie, to come, but he has a giant stick up his ass. He doesn’t like interviews.” She fixes my left braid. “You won’t be alone, so you’ll be able to deflect a little bit.”
“Until Maverick makes me look like an idiot in front of everyone.” I pull away from her and stand up. “I can’t believe what an ass he was during our first meeting. He thought I wanted to sleep with him.”
“Definitely not a meet-cute,” she agrees. “And, to be fair, most women want to sleep with him. You’re an anomaly.”
I snort. “In his dreams.”
“At least things can only get better from here. The press love Maverick. He does a good job of telling them just enough information to keep them off his back. Don’t worry about him,” Piper says.
It’s hard not to worry about him when he’s the best guy on the team. When he’s the biggest, fastest, most intimidating specimen in the NHL whose opinion also happens to carry the most weight in the locker room.
He might drive me up a wall—and I’m going to have to change my phone number—but Maverick Miller is the key to keeping my position on the Stars.
I don’t have to pass to him.
I don’t even have to like him.
I just have to keep things professional so the people who write my checks think we get along well enough to keep me around.
“You’re right.” I grab my stick and shuffle toward the door. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Look at you.” Piper claps her hands together, and I think she’d find happiness even on the gloomiest, rainiest day. “You’re going to do great. It’s the same practice you’ve done hundreds of times. Worry about the media after, and tonight, we can stuff our faces with Mexican food.”
“And wine?” I ask, and she grins.
“Bottles and bottles of the stuff. I haven’t gotten tipsy since the night I signed my divorce papers, and I’m overdue.”
“Wasn’t that a year ago?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I don’t like to drink alone.”
My stomach drops to my feet. “Shit. I’ve been a horrible friend.”
“You have not. You’ve been busy living out your dreams, just like I thought I was living out mine. We’re here together now, and that’s what matters.” Her smile is kind and full of encouragement that I feel deep in my soul. “Give them hell, Emmy.”
My first day of middle school, I ate lunch in a bathroom stall by myself.
I’m worried today is going to go the same way.
The core group of these guys have been playing together for years. They might suck, but they make it obvious from interviews and photos they love each other.
It’s hard to wiggle your way into a team’s already tight-knit circle of trust without coming across as trying too hard.
I’m purposely the first one on the ice so I can shake out some nerves, and I take four quick laps around the rink. By the time the rest of the team shows up, that lingering self-doubt that’s pounding in my chest starts to quiet down. I pull off to the bench and grab my water bottle, not wanting to look like an overeager showoff.
A few of the players nod my way. The guy decked out in goalie gear—Sullivan, his jersey tells me—gives me a grunt for a greeting that sounds like he’s either pissed off or in pain.
Piper was right—he does seem to have a stick up his ass.
Grant Everett, a five-foot-ten guy who barely looks legal to drink, asks if I could sign a towel for his sister after practice. I’m so flustered by the number three pick in last year’s NHL draft wanting my autograph, I miss my mouth when I try to take a sip of water and drench the front of my practice jersey.
I recognize Hudson Hayes across the ice, and when he gestures for me to join him, I make my way over to the corner of the rink where he’s stretching.
“Hey.” He pulls off his glove and holds out his palm. “I’m Hudson.”
“Emerson,” I say, and his hand dwarfs mine when we shake. “But you can call me Emmy.”
“Nice to meet you, Emmy.” His smile is warm and kind, and I already like him. “How’s DC treating you?”
“It rains too much here. I’ve barely seen the sun since I landed.”
“You’re telling me. You moved from California, right? I’m sure this is a big change.”
“Mhm. San Diego by way of Michigan, with a few stops in between.”
“Lansing, I think?”
“Someone did their homework. You could teach your captain a thing or two.”
“Probably more than that,” he jokes, and a soft, surprising laugh slips out of me. Guess I don’t need to be specific about which teammate I’m talking about. “Does the gender-neutral name throw people off?”
“All the time. When I took my SATs, the proctor tried to kick me out of the room because he thought I was impersonating someone. I got a whole lecture on how identity theft is a felony, even as a teenager. It kind of makes me want to legally change my name to Emmy, but seeing people’s reaction when they’re wrong is hysterical.”
“You mean like dumbass hockey captains who try to hit on you?”
This back-and-forth is exactly how it felt when I met Grady the first time. A full-on grin bursts across my face at the thought of my best friend, and I wonder if Hudson could be that to me too.
“Exactly. I wish I had video footage of that day,” I say.
“I could probably track some down. There are security cameras all over the arena. We could use it as blackmail.” Hudson grins back at me. “Let me know if Mavvy pisses you off too much. I have no problem putting him in his place.”
“Mavvy? That is an obnoxiously cute nickname, even if his pretty-boy charm doesn’t work on me.”
“You sure about that?” a low voice asks from behind me. “Maybe the charm is working, because you still think I’m pretty.”
“Your selective hearing is something else.” I turn around, and Maverick is standing there with his helmet and stick in his hands. “Maybe I’ll call you a troll instead. Or a leech, since you can’t seem to leave me alone.”
“The compliments keep getting better and better,” Maverick says. “I can’t wait to hear what you think up next.”
“Did you need something?” I ask.
“Just wanted to say good luck today.”
“Since when are you nice to me?”
“I’m nice to everyone.” He puffs out his chest, and I swear he grows another inch taller. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but if we’re going to be around each other for the next seventy games this season, I figured I’d be civil. It’s going to be hard to win if your hands are around my neck and cutting off my air supply.”
“You’re not into that? I’m surprised.”
“I might be. Want to find out?”
“Dream on.”
“Says the woman who won’t stop talking about me when I’m not around.” His grin stretches into a proud beam and his eyes crinkle in the corners. “Are you obsessed with me or something, Hartwell?”
“He can be delusional,” Hudson says. He skates over to Maverick and clasps a hand on his shoulder. “If you ignore him, he tends to find someone else to bother.”
“So he’s a pesky gnat. Got it,” I say.
A whistle blows. The coaching staff stands on the red line with clipboards in their hands, and my heart moves to my throat.
“Huddle up,” Coach Saunders calls out, and we all head over.
“Don’t suck too badly,” Maverick tells me, knocking his stick against mine. “Having you on the team wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly, but all my confidence leaves my body.
“Hey,” Hudson says, and his smile matches the one Piper gave me earlier. “You’re one of us now. We’ve got you.”
His words buoy me toward something I can’t quite describe. Gratefulness, maybe? Appreciation? The start of a friendship and letting myself think I can get comfortable in a place that feels so unfamiliar?
The sensation strengthens when Maverick nods his head, his eyes locked on mine, and adds, “Yeah, Hartwell. We’ve got you.”