8. Maverick
EIGHT
I’ve never seenthe media room so packed, and they’re all here for Hartwell.
Every chair is filled. There’s a wall of bodies in the back, and more people keep filing in. I don’t know where the hell they think they’re going to go.
Microphones are set up in a neat little line at the table at the front of the room, and cameras from the largest sports networks point to the spot where my teammates and I will be sitting. Nearly everyone has a phone in their hand, ready to record an answer to their question.
“Fucking hell.” I step back into the hallway. “That’s insanity.”
“What?” Emerson asks, and I gesture to the door.
“Take a look.”
She pokes her head around the corner and her shoulders lift to her ears when she spots the sea of people. She moves away from the glass and takes a deep breath, the door slamming behind her.
“Holy shit,” she curses.
“Thinking about what I look like shirtless, Hartwell?” I joke. “I’m flattered.”
A smile—the tiniest, faintest smile I’ve ever seen—pulls at her lips, and I’m the proudest motherfucker in the world.
I want to set off a confetti cannon. Hang a banner from the rafters of the Civic Center that says I MADE EMERSON HARTWELL SMILE. Put it on a T-shirt and wear it around town.
I think she’d actually strangle me if I did that, but it makes me want to do it even more.
“Is it always like this for you all?” Emerson asks. “The media room back in San Diego has one chair.”
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Doug from the San Diego Chronicle. He writes down all of his quotes in a notebook and has no idea how to use a microphone.”
“He sounds like a gem. Our media room never looks like this. The last time I remember seeing it so packed was after my first game as a rookie, but even then, it didn’t turn to standing room only. You’re hurting my ego by outshining me, Red.”
That earns me another half smile from her, and I want to collect them all. Shove them in my pocket and keep them for myself.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad you all are going to be here today,” Emerson admits. “I don’t want it to be all about me, and it’ll be nice to share the spotlight. I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you. You probably have cameras at the foot of your bed.”
“The flattery continues. Keep it up, and I’m going to develop a complex.”
“If this is you without a complex, I don’t want to know what you’d be like with one.”
I grin. “Can I ask you a question?”
Emerson lifts her chin and looks up at me. Her green eyes almost sparkle under the shitty fluorescent lights, and I see a little bit of brown mixed in there too. “Why?”
“So we can get to know each other. If I’m going to be playing next to you, I need to know how you take your coffee. Consider it a very lengthy, very drawn out game of Twenty Questions. Better yet, let’s make it Five Hundred Questions. Every time we’re together, we get to learn something new.”
“You say that like I plan to be around you more than the required amount of time. The less I see you, the better, Miller.”
“I can be very persuasive,” I say.
“You say persuasive, I say obnoxious.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
She sighs and puts her hands on her hips. “I hate games, but I know you’re not going to stop bothering me until I agree.”
“Look at you. You’re already learning things about me.”
“Fine. What do you want to know?”
A lot of things,I think, and that’s a first.
I never make small talk with women. I don’t have to.
Everyone knows what they’re getting into with me—sex. An orgasm or four, depending on how the night goes. A good time before we go our separate ways, and absolutely nothing deep and meaningful.
But for whatever reason, I’m really fucking curious about Emerson Hartwell.
I don’t care that she’s not going to end up in my bed later tonight.
I don’t care that she’d probably hit me over the head with her stick if given the opportunity.
I just want to know something about her.
The name of a childhood pet. Her Mount Rushmore of hockey players. If she’s an early bird or night owl.
Fucking anything.
I’m willing to bet she doesn’t give out personal information willingly, and, just like with her smiles, I’m fucking greedy for more.
“Who’s the asshole who made you believe you shouldn’t be proud of your accomplishments?” I ask. On the other side of the door, Coach Saunders rattles on about the future and next steps for our team. I should probably be listening and getting ready to be hounded by the media, but I tune him out and focus on the freckled redhead in front of me. “Did they give you a reason not to celebrate everything you’ve achieved?”
A muscle in Emerson’s jaw works. Her eyes flare with heat, just like they did the first day we met, and, fuck, I like that fire she’s got in her.
“Why do you care? We’re not friends, and we’ve only been teammates for three hours. I’m not going to drop to my knees and worship the ground you walk on just because everyone else does, and I don’t understand why you want to get to know me.”
Why wouldn’t I want to get to know her?
She might be a little rigid, but she still seems really fucking cool. It’s obvious someone fucked her over in the past, and I hate that she’s so hesitant to even let her teammates learn things about her.
“My selective hearing only picked up dropping to your knees,” I say, trying to make a joke, and she rolls her eyes. “Do you remember what Hudson and I told you before practice? I know you don’t give a shit about me. I know we’re not friends, but loyalty is kind of my thing. I take care of the people in my life, Hartwell, which now includes you. If someone told you that what you’re doing—what you’ve done—as an athlete isn’t deserving of recognition, I’d like to know names so I can kindly tell them to fuck off and stop messing with my left winger’s head on what should be the biggest day of her career.”
“I’m sorry,” Emerson says, and it’s the softest I’ve heard her speak. She breaks her gaze away from mine and digs the toe of her shoe into the carpet. “That was aggressive, and I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got a lot of bark behind your bite, Hartwell. I can’t wait to see you take it out on the puck.”
“Says the guy who follows people around like a lost dog.”
“I’m just looking for an owner I guess.”
“Maybe someone should take you back to the pound.” She studies my face for a second before sighing and adding, “I had an ex-boyfriend who used to tell me I only got opportunities handed to me because I’m a woman, not because I’m a good player. Because I…” she trails off and swallows. “Anyway. Once you hear the same thing so many times, you start to think it’s true.”
My hand flexes at my side. I narrow my eyes. Irritation rips through me, and I have the urge to hurt someone really fucking bad.
“You dated this guy?” I ask, and she nods. “I don’t know jack shit about relationships, but putting your girlfriend down because you don’t like watching her become more successful than you doesn’t seem like someone I would want to be around.”
“We all do dumb shit when we’re young and in love. Play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. Mine happened to be an asshole who liked to make me feel small while he was the one with the tiny dick.”
I choke on a laugh. “How tiny are we talking?”
Emerson holds up her fingers barely four inches apart. “That tiny.”
“I need to send you a fruit basket and offer my condolences.”
“I’m allergic to strawberries.”
“Noted. You gonna give me a name?” I ask.
“Nope,” she answers.
“I have friends who could track him down. They could hack into his computer if you ever feel like retaliating.”
“Who the hell are you friends with?”
“Stop wanting to know things about me,” I say smugly. “I’m going to think you like me, Red.”
“If your ego gets any bigger, there’s not going to be any room for us in the hallway.”
“You could stand closer to me, if you want.”
“I think I’d rather die.” She looks down at her shoes and holds a foot up. “Should I put on flats? I don’t want to look too tall in the photos.”
“Too tall?” I wrinkle my nose. “Is there such a thing as too tall? I love tall women.”
“I’m definitely going to put on flats then.”
“Stop.” I touch her elbow then pull back when I realize what I’m doing. “Sorry. I’m not a judge on Project Runway, so my opinion on fashion has little merit, but I like the heels. And if you like them too, who cares what anyone else thinks?”
“I read your GQ article from last summer. You seemed to have a lot of thoughts on fashion,” she says, and she covers her mouth. Her eyes widen, and a pretty pink color pops up on her cheeks when she realizes what she just told me. “Shit. Pretend I never said that.”
I break out into a slow grin and lean my elbow against the wall above her head. “Well, well, well. Are you reading up on me, Hartwell? Writing my name in your diary?”
“I was using the photos as a dartboard. Your face was the bull’s-eye.”
“Did you hit your target?”
“Right between the eyes. Every time.”
“Atta girl,” I say, and the pink on her skin changes to crimson as it moves down her neck. “That makes me?—”
“Am I interrupting?” Hudson asks. His eyes bounce from me to Emerson, and he smiles. “Glad to see you two can get through a conversation without someone getting hurt.”
“The day is young,” Emerson says, and she slides away from me.
“Where were you?” I ask Hudson. “You’re late.”
“Sorry. Ethan has this spot on his ass he thinks is skin cancer, and he wanted me to check it out. He was going to ask Lexi, but she might’ve ripped it off his body for bothering her.”
“Who’s Lexi?” Emerson asks.
“Our head athletic trainer. You’ll meet her soon,” I tell her. Then, to Hudson, “How the hell would he have skin cancer on his ass? Is he walking around naked?”
“It’s Easy E. I wouldn’t put it past him,” he says. “I’ve seen his dick more times than I’ve seen my own.”
Emerson snorts, and something sharp slices through me at the sound.
I don’t like that he’s making her laugh. I don’t like that she thinks he’s funny, and I liked it better when it was just the two of us.
The applause on the other side of the wall breaks up my pissy mood, and the door to the media room swings open. Piper gestures us inside, and she glances over Hudson’s shoulder.
“Where is Liam?” she hisses.
“Sorry, Piper. He said something about a bird and a cage.” Hudson blushes, and he scratches his right ear, his nervous tic he does when he’s uncomfortable. “I know it’s a lie, and I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you.”
“That man.” Piper huffs and grabs my arm, yanking me toward the table. “Too late now. You all are up.”
“Hey, Red,” I say, making sure to keep my voice soft enough so the reporters can’t pick up on it. “If you need a break, tap your nose and I’ll start talking about tiny dicks or something.”
“Bonding over genitalia doesn’t mean we’re friends, Miller,” she says.
“Wouldn’t dream of assuming anything of the sort, Hartwell.”