12. Maverick
TWELVE
I spottedHartwell the second the girls walked in.
That hair is hard to miss, and I think even in a crowd, I’d be able to pick her out. She’s impossible to ignore and goddamn sexy in her tight jeans and that cropped tank top showing off her shoulders.
Our table is on the opposite side of the restaurant, but I’ve been watching her.
Studying her like I do my opponents; the way she swirls her drink around before she takes a sip. The laughter that’s half a beat late, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to find the conversation funny. How her teeth sink into her bottom lip.
Fuck.
Those damn lips.
Plump. Painted pink. Kissable to the point of being a distraction.
And fuckable.
Now that I’m standing in front of her, I start to imagine what she would look like with my cock in her mouth.
I wonder what it would feel like if she left lipstick marks on my shaft while she sucked me down until I hit the back of her throat.
“What are you doing here?” Emerson snaps, and I’m yanked out of the fantasy of her on her knees. That fiery hair wrapped around my hand. Wicked green eyes blinking up at me with a drop of drool on her chin. “Please don’t tell me you followed us.”
“Ladies,” I say to the group, ignoring her because I know it will piss her off. My gaze bounces to Maven. “You and your fiancé are on the same wavelength. He suggested Johnny’s without knowing you were here.”
“I love that man.” Maven sighs, all happy in love and shit. She peers around me, no doubt looking for Dallas. “Who’s watching June?”
“You don’t see her at the bar? She’s behind the counter slinging handles of vodka.”
“Maverick Miller.”
“Just kidding around, Mae. She’s with a babysitter. Reid had a bad day, and he needed to get out of the apartment. I should call him over here. So many beautiful women, his mood would pick right up.” Emerson scoffs, and I look down at her. “I’m still waiting to hear what you think of me.”
“You really don’t want to know what I think of you,” she tosses back.
I love when she’s sassy. All tough girl and independent woman who doesn’t take shit. It’s kind of fun to be put in my place.
“Yeah, I do.” I lean my arm against the wall to my right, and I don’t miss the way her eyes linger on my tattoos for the quickest of seconds. I wonder which one is her favorite. “I’m a big boy, Red.”
“I’ve heard you’re small. Average at best.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who listens to gossip. C’mon. Give it to me.”
“I need a drink before I dive into a deep psychological deconstruction of the parts of you I dislike. Do you all want another round?” Emerson asks the rest of the women, and she gets three nods.
“Please,” Maven says.
“And french fries!” Piper adds. Her eyes glaze over, and she’s past tipsy and barreling toward drunk as a skunk. “So many french fries.”
“With extra salt,” Lexi chimes in, and she stirs her empty drink with her straw. “Buckets of salt.”
“Got it.” Emerson slides out of the booth and stands. Her heels make her taller than she is on her skates, and I whistle when she comes up only a few inches shorter than me. “What?”
“I told you I liked your heels the other day at the press conference. That’s still true.”
“Flattery isn’t going to get you very far, Miller.”
“What about a few feet forward to the bar so I can help you carry the drinks and food back here?”
Emerson blows out a heavy sigh. “Fine. But only because I know the sooner I give you what you want, the sooner you’ll leave us alone.”
“I’m easy to figure out, aren’t I? Let’s top you off before you destroy me.”
The bar is tiny, and when we sidle our way up to the counter, there’s no way around touching each other.
“Sorry,” I say when my arm brushes against hers. I shuffle backward and stand behind her so she can have some space. “Not a lot of room in here.”
“It’s okay.” She looks at me over her shoulder. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Offering to help.”
“I just wanted to steal a fry—I’m still starving after practice this morning. Are you having fun tonight?”
“Yeah.” A small smile dances across her face. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and I spot three piercings I never noticed before. I see sparkly, dangling earrings that make me think she likes to spoil herself and buy nice things. “Piper invited me, and I’m glad I came.”
“Even with the interruption?” I ask.
Emerson bites her bottom lip again, and it really shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. “Even with present company.”
“They’re all really good people. I’ve known Piper the longest, and it’s been cool to see her work her way up to the broadcasting team. I hope she’s the lead sideline reporter one day.”
“I’ll be shocked if she isn’t. Every time I get home, she asks two dozen questions about practice and my thoughts on how the game went.”
I haven’t spent any time with Emerson outside of the rink. She didn’t show up to the team dinner last week and she doesn’t hang around after practice long enough for us to shoot the shit with her. On the flights to our away games, she sits up front with the girls, away from the chaos the boys get into and leaving me no time to get a good read on her.
Her soft laugh and the way she doesn’t run away tell me she might be enjoying this conversation, and that gives me the encouragement to keep talking.
“What’s your drink of choice?” I blurt.
“Is that your question of the day?”
“Yeah. Then you can ask me yours. I know you’ve got one ready to go. I can practically see the wheels spinning in your head.”
“If I’m at home, I prefer red wine.” Emerson turns to the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention, but he doesn’t see her. “If I’m out, I like to have a martini, but this bar doesn’t strike me as somewhere that has good olives.”
“Don’t underestimate this place. I came here once after a loss, and I was craving something sweet. Johnny—who’s a real person and the only cook in the building—handed me a plateful of giant chocolate chip cookies twenty minutes later—freshly baked. I’m still not sure where he got all the ingredients, and it’s probably better for everyone if I never find out.”
“That’s the Maverick Miller effect.”
“I haven’t heard about the Maverick Miller effect. Please, enlighten me.”
“Your charm. It makes people do things for you because of who you are.”
“Nah.” I run my free hand through my hair and shrug. “That’s not who I am here. I’m just Maverick, the guy who can’t throw a dart to save his life and puts quarters in the jukebox so it plays shitty songs on repeat. I eat frozen mozzarella sticks and pretend like I don’t know why “Funkytown” is playing eight times in a row.”
“It could be worse. You could play “Achy Breaky Heart” instead.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time. You sure you don’t want me to run out and get you some olives? I will. There’s a grocery store that stays open until midnight a few blocks up the road.”
“Are you always this accommodating?” Emerson asks.
“Not really. Must be a you thing. A captain/teammate dynamic. I take care of my people, remember?”
“And tracking down olives is part of that caretaking?”
“It is. Top of the list, I’m pretty sure.”
“It’s fine. Really.” Her eyes drop to the beers I should’ve brought back to the table ten minutes ago. “You’re a beer guy?”
“If I’m with my friends, yeah. If I’m at a club, I’ll drink something stronger. Loud noises and all of that.”
“Interesting.”
“Was that your question?”
“No,” she says. “I was throwing your question back to you. That’s how this game works.”
“I see.” I rub my lips together to stop myself from smiling. “I didn’t realize there are rules now.”
“There are.” Emerson spins around so she’s facing me, and there’s even less distance between us now. I can smell her perfume. See the freckles across her nose and a small, jagged white scar above her eyebrow. “Is your tattoo for June?”
She surprises me when she reaches over and taps the back of my left hand. The touch jolts me, and I feel like I’ve been short-circuited. Shocked awake and buzzing with energy.
I smile and put my hand over hers. I guide her fingers over the curve of the heart and the hook of the J, and I hear a quiet hitch in her breathing.
“Have you been looking into me, Hartwell? I’m flattered.”
“Maven told me. I didn’t ask. I thought it was for some woman you got drunk with and married in Vegas.”
“I’m not the marrying type, and definitely not one to tattoo a woman’s name on my body.” I keep my hand over hers and trace the heart, slower this time. She hasn’t pulled away yet, and I’m going to enjoy this for as long as I can. “Except for June Bug. Dallas didn’t know she was coming into his life, and when he did, he panicked. Reid and I stepped in to help, because he would’ve done the same for us. I know she’s not mine, but she is mine. I’m going to take care of her for as long as I can. Spoil the shit out of her. Love her and help teach her life lessons—the good and the bad. She can run away to my apartment when she’s pissed at her parents, and I’m absolutely going to interrogate her first boyfriend until I’m sure he’s a decent guy.”
“You’ll also dress up like a carrot and look like an idiot.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Maven showed you those photos?”
“You had a stem on your head.” Emerson steals her hand back, and I miss her touch. “And orange shoes.”
“Damn right I did. And I’d do it again.”
Ralph, one of the bartenders, finally makes his way over to us and jots down Emerson’s drink orders and the basket of fries. I pull out my wallet and ignore her argument when I drop three twenties on the counter.
“I can pay for this,” she tells me, and I shrug.
“I know you can, but I wanted to.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” I stare at her collarbone then the spot where her shirt dips toward her chest. “Do you have a tattoo?”
“You already used your question up.”
“I did, but, per your rules, I’m obligated to get an answer to the question you asked me.”
Her cheeks flush a dark red, and she licks her lips. “Yes,” she says slowly. “I do have a tattoo.”
“Where is it?”
“Someplace you’ll never see.”
“That makes me want to see it even more,” I say, and I imagine where it could be hiding. On her ribs. At the jut of her hip or her lower back. “Is it?—”
“Excuse me,” a voice says, interrupting us. I turn, and a blonde woman smiles at me. “You’re Maverick Miller, aren’t you?”
“Depends. Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” She flashes me a flirty smirk. “But I’m hoping you’re in the mood to be a little bad. My friends are leaving, and it’s too early for me to call it a night. Want to come back to my place?”
“Sorry,” I tell the blonde with a grin. “I’m kind of in the middle of something with my baby’s mother right now. The kid is half alien, half potato, and we’re trying to figure out where they got these genes from.”
“Ooookay,” the woman says, and she wrinkles her eyebrows. “That’s weird. I didn’t know you had kids.”
“Are we classifying tiny extraterrestrials as kids? I guess we should. It’s inclusive and better than calling them skin dogs—since we all call dogs fur babies, you know?—or something like that.” I point my thumb over my shoulder. “I better get back to it. Janet here thinks the UFO has her eyes, but I’m pretty sure he looks most like me.”
“I’m so confused,” the woman tells me. “You’re not Maverick Miller, are you?”
“No way. That guy is way better at hockey than me. All I bring to the table are alien children.”
“Don’t forget the potato part,” Emerson adds, and I almost lose it.
“Ew. I knew my friends were wrong. You’re not nearly as hot as him.” The blonde looks me up and down and scoffs before storming away.
“Wow. Talk about a blow to your ego,” Emerson says.
I face her again and steal a french fry from the basket that just arrived. “I’ll get over it.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“What, alien babies?”
“No. Women coming up to you and thinking they’ll go back to your place.”
“Everywhere I go.”
“And you always say yes?”
“Most of the time. Why not? Everything is consensual. I use protection. They know I’m not going to get down on one knee and propose, and, honestly? It’s nice to think about something other than hockey.”
“Will your dick fall off if you don’t sleep with someone tonight? How will you survive?”
“Your compassion knows no bounds, Hartwell. Thanks for your concern, but I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about you. Birthing a life form that looks like a potato spud was probably really traumatizing.”
“Almost as traumatizing as standing here and talking to you for the last ten minutes.” She puts her hands on her hips and stares at me. “You’re frustrating. That’s what I think about you.”
“Good frustrating or bad frustrating?”
“I haven’t decided yet. You’re cocky and flashy, then you go and do sentimental things like tattoo your niece’s initial on the back of your hand. It’s confusing.”
“Have I been that flashy guy tonight?”
“No,” she admits quietly. “You haven’t.”
“Did I go home with that girl?”
“No.”
“Then that should give you an insight into who I really am.” I grab half of the drinks and hold them close to my chest. “Get a water for Piper, too. That woman is drunk, and we have a game tomorrow night.”
“Good call. My legs are killing me—I’m not going to be able to help her home.”
“I’ll call you all an Uber.”
“We live four blocks away.”
“Better than walking and hurting yourself. Let’s get you back to your friends before they start to worry I kidnapped you.”
“Or before any more of your alien babies find their way into the world. That’s a terrifying thought. One of you is more than enough.” Emerson glides by me. Her hip brushes against mine as she passes with arms full of alcohol and food. “And for the record, if you tried to kidnap me, you wouldn’t get very far.”
“I’m going to win you over one day, Hartwell,” I call out. “Just you wait.”
She might flip me off after she distributes the drinks to her table and ignore me the rest of the night, but I see the smile she’s fighting to hide.
Point: me.