9. Maverick
NINE
These reporters are pissingme off.
We’ve been here for an hour, and they won’t give Hartwell a second to breathe.
As soon as she finishes answering one question, another is thrown at her like we’re in the middle of a goddamn tennis match. I’m exhausted just listening to her, and I can’t keep up with how quickly she pivots from talking about her college career to what she’s most looking forward to this season.
I get it—she’s a hot commodity.
The story everyone wants to read about.
But Jesus Christ.
Can’t they let her stop for half a second to take a sip of water? She keeps reaching for the bottle in front of her, but she hasn’t had a chance to open it.
“Emerson,” a squirrely looking guy calls out from the second row, getting her attention. “This all must seem like a lot of unnecessary production for a hockey team who hasn’t won more than twenty games in the last couple of seasons.”
I narrow my eyes when I recognize who’s talking to her.
It’s Simon Buttecker, the same asshole who once wrote a scathing article on Hudson’s defensive weaknesses the day after his mom passed away from cancer. The piece of shit who called him out for being distracted during games, as if Hudson was on the beach in Saint Tropez instead of visiting his sick mother in the hospital every chance he fucking got.
Nothing good comes from that fucker’s mouth, and I brace myself for whatever bullshit he’s going to spew Hartwell’s way.
“Maybe,” Emerson says. “But the Stars still generate over a quarter of a billion dollars in revenue every year. My ECHL team didn’t make a profit last year, so I think a little fanfare is fine. Plus, it’s nice to feel important. Who wouldn’t want a red carpet rolled out for them?”
Everyone in the room laughs. Simon sits up straighter, getting ready to go for the kill. “You’re coming into the NHL as the first woman to play a regular season game with a team. How do you think you’re going to stack up against the men in the league? Do you think you’ll get minutes, or just spend time riding the bench?”
My fingers curl around the lip of the table and my eye twitches. Hudson stiffens beside me, and the grin he was wearing disappears from his face.
“I hope I’m going to do well,” she says, giving off no hint that she’s irritated by his question. “I’ve always relied on my speed, and I’m going to use that to my advantage when I’m playing against athletes who are larger than me. As for how many minutes I’ll get, that’s for Coach Saunders to decide. I’m honored to be here, no matter if I’m on first line or fourth line.”
I had a little bit of media training when I was a rookie, but eventually it boiled down to not being a dick and never throwing anyone under the bus. It’s obvious Emerson went through something more intense, because she’s way more cordial than I would be.
“Your stats are impressive.” Simon pauses, and his grin is lethal. “For a female athlete. I noticed your assists?—”
“Hold up,” I say, and every head in the room turns to look at me. I crack open the water bottle that’s sitting in front of Emerson and shove it toward her. “We’re not going to do that.”
“Do what?” Simon asks, and he’s lucky there is a barrier between us.
“Throw in the for a female athlete one-liner. You’ve been around since I was a rookie, Buttecker, and I’ve never heard you tell me my stats were good for a male athlete. If you’re going to cover us this season, you’re going to recognize Hartwell is an NHL player. Full stop.”
“In that case, I’ll amend my statement. Her stats are impressive, but she’d be last in the league in all categories.”
“She hasn’t played a game yet and you’re already throwing her under the bus?” I ask, grabbing the microphone. “Pardon my language, but that’s not going to fucking fly around here. Treat my teammates with respect, or I’ll make sure we remove your press access for the foreseeable future. You can watch games on channel 5, not from the cushy media box, asshat.”
I take a breath and wait for Piper to drag me away from the table. Revoke my interview privileges for three months like she did with Connor when he dropped half a dozen vulgarities on live television after an embarrassing 7-0 loss last year.
I didn’t know there were so many ways to tell someone to fuck off.
Instead, she grins and flips off Simon from the side of the room where he can’t see her and motions for us to keep talking.
“Uh, maybe we can get back to the excitement surrounding Thursday’s game,” Hudson jumps in, always one to defuse the tension. “We’re playing at home. We’ve won two in a row, which is far from impressive, but, hey. It’s better than losing fifteen straight like we did my rookie season.”
Everyone laughs again, someone asks him a question about the number of young players on our roster, and the conversation continues.
I spin to face Emerson to gauge her reaction from the last few minutes. She looks unbothered, but I’m starting to think that’s just how she is.
Cool. Composed. Not giving a shit about what’s said to her. It rolls off her like waves, and I wish I had the ability to be so nonchalant—I’m over here gearing up for a fight.
“You good?” I ask. “Sorry for interrupting you.”
“I’m good,” she says. “I’m normally better about holding my own, but I’m exhausted. I thought I was used to how quickly my life moves, then I got here, and it’s like everything is zero to a thousand in two seconds.”
“Welcome to the big leagues. We have ten more games than you all played in ECHL and four more teams. There’s more traveling and longer stretches of time on the road. You have to take care of yourself first, and that means telling these people to wait a damn minute with their questions so you can have some water.”
“I’m going to cut this off here,” Coach says. “It’s been a long day for my players, and Emerson needs to sign her contract.”
“You read it over with your agent, right?” I ask out of the corner of my mouth, and she nods once. “Good.”
She crosses and uncrosses her legs. Plasters on a smile when Coach sets a stack of papers and a fancy pen in front of her and rolls her shoulders back like she’s about to get down to business.
“I want to thank the Stars organization for this opportunity. I know there are people out there who might think I don’t deserve a spot on this team, but I’ve always thrived on criticism.” Emerson uncaps the pen and twirls it between her fingers. “It’s my motivation to keep working hard, so thank you for the fuel.”
I look over her shoulder as she signs the first page of her contract. Her signature is all pretty cursive and swoopy letters, and I wonder if she ever took a calligraphy class.
“Stop breathing down my neck, Miller,” she mutters, turning to the next page with a flick of her wrist.
“Sorry. My penmanship looks like shit compared to yours, and I’m fascinated.”
“You don’t have a girl’s handwriting inked on your body?” Her eyes bounce down my tattooed arm then back up. “I’m shocked.”
“I don’t. Can I use yours?” I ask. “I’ll put pretty boy right over my heart.”
“You never stop, do you?”
“Nope. Twenty-four-seven job, Red. But at least I made you smile again.”
“You did not make me smile.” Emerson flips to the next page and signs two more times. “You’re imagining things.”
“Is that why you’re biting your bottom lip?”
“I’m biting my bottom lip so I don’t snap at you.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to admit it. We can pretend you’re smiling for the camera. Look. There’s one over there.” I wave and grin at the long lens pointed at us. “Say hi.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“Nicest thing you’ve said to me all day. Hey. What are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask, dropping my voice.
“Not you.” Emerson stands up and nods at Coach, shaking his hand as they pose for a set of photos I know are going to be on the front page of every sports website tomorrow morning. “We aren’t friends, remember?”
“Like I could forget in the five minutes since you last reminded me,” I tell her when the media starts to pack up their things. “We do this team dinner every Tuesday night at my place. Everyone brings a dish and we hang out for a couple of hours. Some people play video games. Some people drink. Some break out the stack of puzzles I have in the living room. There’s no hockey talk. It’s chill. You should come.”
“You like puzzles?”
“Is that your question of the day for our game?”
She rolls her eyes for the hundredth time, and her irritation makes me grin. “I guess.”
“I love puzzles. I did them a lot when—” I clear my throat and switch directions. “My niece loves them too, and when I’m watching her, we always put one together.”
“Thanks for the invite, but I told you I intend to spend as little time with you as possible.” Emerson looks down at me with something I’m going to pretend is a hint of regret. “It’s better for all of us.”
“Wish I could do the same,” Hudson chimes in. “You’re smart to keep your distance, Emmy.”
My insides coil into a tight knot when he calls her that. Like they’ve been best friends for years and I’m the outsider trying to break into their circle.
“The invitation is there,” I add. “This week. Next week. A month from now. You don’t forfeit it just because you don’t come tomorrow.”
“Noted. See you at practice on Wednesday,” she says, slinging a black purse over her shoulder and walking away.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth,” Hudson says, and he smacks my shoulder. “And stop staring at her ass.”
“My tongue is exactly where it belongs, fuck you very much.” I scrub a hand over my face and lean back in my chair. “And I wasn’t staring at her ass. I don’t want to lose a hand, and that woman wouldn’t hesitate to use a buzz saw on me.”
“She seems like the stabby type, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “That’s going to work well for us on the ice.”
“You think she has a shot? Simon’s a dick, but he asked what everyone’s thinking.”
“She has a shot. It’s like you said—things can’t get any worse around here. Maybe Hartwell will help light a fire under us. God knows I’ve tried and failed.”
“Are you on her side now?”
I shrug. “I’m captain. I do what’s in the best interest of the team. If that means getting along with the woman who would rather feed herself to the lions than spend time with me, so be it.”
Hudson scoots closer and drops his voice. “I heard what you almost told her about the puzzles. You never go there with anyone.”
“It almost slipped out unintentionally,” I say. “Besides, I don’t think Hartwell is just anyone.”
“Watch it, Cap. Don’t go falling in love with her.”
“Easy, Hud.” I stand up and flash him a grin. “You know falling in love isn’t in my DNA. The same woman every night? Sounds fucking horrible.”
“We have women in the NHL now. Anything is possible.”
I clasp his arm and squeeze his shoulder. “Anything except me settling down. That’s impossible.”