10. Emmy
TEN
“You can do hard things,”I tell myself in the mirror. I’ve repeated the mantra fifty times, and I’m not any closer to believing it. “This is just another game. Pretend it’s a scrimmage or morning skate. It’s no big deal.”
Except, it is a big deal.
It’s my first game in a Stars jersey, and I’m nervous as hell.
I’ve played hundreds games since graduating college and god knows how many before that, but this is the most important one.
This one dictates my future as a professional hockey player, and as someone who’s never imagined my adult life without the sport, it needs to go perfectly.
It’s been a frenzy since I signed on Monday. Every time I log into social media, I have more and more followers. I’m pushing a quarter of a million on Instagram, and overwhelmed is an understatement.
Messages and comments flood in from people who are cheering me on and asking where they can purchase my jersey. Good luck and make us proud.
For every comment of support, though, there are a dozen hoping I fail.
She won’t last a month.
Can’t wait to see her cry LMAO
Man, get this shit off my television.
What happens when she gets a cramp? Is she going to be out a week?
#FreeMaverickMiller
I screenshotted a handful of them and posted them on the wall in my locker room, right where I can see them when I dress every night.
I’ve always wanted to silence the haters, but I really want to prove the internet trolls wrong.
I want to play so well they come crawling back with their tail between their legs. I want them to be so embarrassed they beg for forgiveness.
But I’ll never give it to them.
I’m not doing this only for myself. It’s for all the girls out there who have ever been told they can’t. That they’re not good enough, and they’ll never be good enough, so why bother trying?
It’s a giant fuck you to anyone who’s ever made us feel two inches tall—in sports, in life, in a relationship—because we deserve so much more.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down. I usually ignore my devices this close to puck drop so I can go through my pregame warmups without any distractions, but Grady’s name pops up for a FaceTime call. A pep talk from my best friend is exactly what I need right now.
“There’s my star,” he says, and his face takes up the whole frame. Light brown hair, green eyes that match mine, and a smile that’s nothing but kind, it feels like he’s in the room with me. “Look at you in your uniform.”
I prop the phone against the mirror and take a few steps back, spinning so he can see the full jersey and my name on the back. “This is the first time since this whirlwind started that I feel very, very legit.”
“Signing a million-dollar contract didn’t do it for you?” Grady teases, and I stick out my tongue. “We’re in Duluth tonight, and I had the hotel set up a projector in the conference room so the guys and I can have a watch party.”
“I doubt I’m going to play very much. I’m still learning the lines, and Coach said he’s going to gradually work me in.”
“Who gives a shit? You’re going to be in an NHL game, Emmy. We want to cheer you on, no matter if it’s ten seconds or ten minutes of ice time.”
My heart swells three sizes with his support. “You’re too good to me, Grady. How’s everything going in San Diego? I saw you scored a hat trick two nights ago.”
“First one of my career.” He grins proudly and sits back in his hotel room chair. “Things are good. We’re still adjusting to you not being here, but we’ll figure it out. How are the Stars treating you? Do you miss us?”
“You know I miss you all. The guys are nice. There’s a lot of youth on the team, and sometimes I feel really freaking old when they start talking.”
“You’re thirty, Emmy, not two hundred.”
“Yeah, I know. Hudson Hayes is my favorite. He reminds me so much of you.”
“I swear to god if I get replaced, I’ll raise hell,” Grady says. “He might be taller than me, but I could take him.”
“You could. It also helps that he’s the nicest man in the world, and he probably wouldn’t hit you even if you hit him first,” I say.
“What about Prince Charming? I heard him stick up for you during your press conference.”
“Don’t get me started on Miller.” I sigh and flip my braid over my shoulder. “He’s hell-bent on us becoming friends, and I don’t know why.”
“He wants his squad to do well, Emmy, and camaraderie with his teammates, even the cactus-like ones, is important to him.”
“Thanks for the reminder that I need to water my plants.” I grab my helmet off the floor and hold it against my hip. “I should get going. Showing up late to my first game will probably earn me a stern talking to from Captain Know-It-All.”
“Have fun tonight. Remember how much you love the sport, and it’ll be a blast.”
“No pressure whatsoever. Thanks for the pep talk, Grady.” I wave. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
I click off my phone and take a deep breath, buckling my helmet under my chin. I grab my stick off the wall and slip into the hallway, surprised to find it empty. The noise from the arena echoes down the tunnel, and I smile at the voices of fans filing in to their seats.
“Hartwell,” a voice barks out.
I look over my shoulder and see Maverick leaning against the wall in all his gear. One ankle is crossed over the other, a lazy slouch to his tall frame.
“Yes?” I ask, turning to face him.
His eyes sweep me up and down, from my jersey to my skates, and even from here, I can see his dimple pop. He motions me forward, and my feet move on their own. I trudge toward him, wondering what he has to say, and I brace myself for the worst.
We’re sending you to our AHL affiliate.
You’re headed back to California.
Finn Adams had a miraculous recovery, and we don’t need you anymore.
“You good?” he asks when I get close.
“I’m fine. What did you need to tell me?”
“Need to tell you?” Maverick pushes off the wall. He looks down at me and frowns. “What would I have to tell you?”
“Some bad news or something.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug and slip my hand under my jersey to fix my shoulder pad. “Why else would you be looking for me?”
“Uh.” He wrinkles his eyebrows. “To wish you good luck. Today is a big day.”
“Oh.” I pretend to inspect my gloves, not wanting to look him in the eye. “Really?”
“Yes, really. You and your self-doubt, Red. We’re going to have to work on that,” he tuts. “Do you want to hear about my first game?”
“I know you’re going to tell me anyway,” I say, and I am curious.
Maverick laughs, and it unknots the string of tension in my spine. “I spent thirty minutes before puck drop barfing in the bathroom. My coach at the time couldn’t find me, and when I finally dragged myself out to the ice during player introductions, my pants were on backward. But the worst part came eight minutes into the first period.”
“What did you do?” I ask, unwillingly captivated.
“I scored on the wrong goal.” He giggles, a high-pitched noise that almost makes me smile. “Sent the puck straight at my own goalie because my nerves got the best of me. The ESPN headline the next day was Miller’s Mishap,and I hid my face for a week.”
“Shit.”
“I know.”
“How did you survive with all the attention?”
“It was tough, but I persevered. I’m not a quitter, Hartwell.” He grins, and there’s an unexpected swoop low in my stomach. “All that to say, you’re going to be fine. I’m not sure how much Coach is going to use you tonight, but as long as you skate the right way down the ice, I think we can consider it a success.”
“The bar sure is low,” I say, surprising myself with a laugh. Maverick’s grin grows brighter, and I narrow my eyes. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop smiling at me.”
“I forgot how much you hate it when I’m nice to you, Red.” Maverick knocks my helmet with his knuckles, and a fire flickers inside me. “Are you ready to get this party started?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m ready.”
I received a standing ovation when I took the ice for the first time, and I didn’t miss the way Maverick encouraged the crowd to cheer. I played three minutes in the first period and four in the second.
When I’m not in the game, I study the Stars’ transitions. I’m sloppy tonight, and I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.
Maverick spends more time on the ice than anyone, shaking his head when Coach tries to replace him with Grant late in the third period. Watching him fly past me, a blur of blue jersey and white helmet, is nothing like seeing him at practice.
He’s a beast on the ice, determined to help his team win and ready to sacrifice his body in the process. I knew he was competitive, but in a game environment with the clock ticking down, he’s lethal.
It’s easy to see why he’s one of the best players in the league. Nothing is half-assed, and I admire the way he makes skating look easy.
“Hartwell,” Coach says, and I lift my chin. “You’re in.”
“There are two minutes left,” I say, and I buckle my helmet with a shaky hand.
“And?”
“And… and nothing,” I say, knowing better than to push back on a coaching decision.
Coach Saunders nods, and I stand up. When Presley Donohue, our left winger on the second line, glances toward the bench, I make my move, tumbling onto the ice and taking off with the offensive attack.
“There she is,” Maverick calls out. He shoulders a defender into the glass and grunts. “You looked a little bored sitting for so long.”
I catch a pass from Hudson and cross the blue line, my eyes scanning the ice. I spot Ryan Seymour open to my right, and I send the puck toward him.
“Maybe I was bored from watching you,” I say.
Maverick’s laugh wraps around me as he skates past, a towering mass of man charging toward the goal. Seymour passes back to Maverick who toys with the defense for three seconds before rearing back and netting a perfect snap shot that sends the hometown crowd into a frenzy.
“Still bored? That one was for you, Hartwell,” he says, adding a wink.
“Such a showoff,” I say, joining the guys huddled around him.
“Think you can score one more?” Ethan asks, his arm slung over Maverick’s shoulder. “I’ve won every face-off so far tonight. I can win another so you can really bring this home, Cap.”
“Let seventeen have it,” Maverick says, nodding my way. “We’ll set her up for a shot.”
“What? No way,” I say. “Coach is about to take me out and?—”
“No, he’s not,” interjects Riley Mitchell, Hudson’s defense partner. “He never takes out players in the last minute, especially if it’s after a goal. You’re in until the final buzzer, Emmy.”
“You’re fine,” Hudson says gently, and he nudges my side.
“Unless you don’t think you can handle it,” Maverick adds. “Grant can step up.”
“No,” I blurt out, and his smirk tells me he was trying to egg me on. “I can do it.”
Our huddle breaks, and Ethan does win the face-off. The puck goes to Hudson then Maverick, a cruel game of keep away from the opposing team as they charge for the attacking zone.
“Red,” Maverick calls out, and he taps the puck my way. “Let’s go.”
I catch it and take off, my blood buzzing with excitement.
I’ve always lived for these types of moments in sports. The game winners in front of a crowd that cheers my name. Gatorade dumped on my head and a dogpile on the ice after a victory. With twenty seconds on the clock, the dream is close to becoming a reality.
Hudson angles a defender toward the boards, and I know this is my chance. Another defender appears on my right, just as I pull my blade back, and there’s no way for me to score without the puck being stolen from me.
I see Ethan open on my left, and I pass to him, watching him score time expires.
“Yes!” he yells, skating toward me. He wraps me in a hug and laughs against my helmet. “What a pass, Emmy.”
“An assist in her first game,” Hudson says, hugging me next. “Helluva way to start an NHL career.”
“That was awesome,” I pant.
“Way to go, Red,” Maverick says, nice and low. “I thought you had the goal.”
“I dumped it so I didn’t give up a breakaway.” I shrug. “There will be more opportunities for goals.”
“Damn right.” He pulls on the end of my braid and grins. “Are you proud of yourself?”
“Yeah.” I match his smile. “An assist is awesome, and, on the plus side, I didn’t own-goal myself like someone else here.”
“I mean, shit. I think you might be a better player than me, Hartwell.”
“I know I am, Miller.” I skate toward the bench where the rest of my teammates are cheering for me. “And I can’t wait to prove myself right.”