14. Emmy
FOURTEEN
I’ve giveneverything to hockey.
I’ve missed out on birthdays and family events because of practice and games. I’ve sacrificed blood and sweat and tears. Pushed my body to the brink of exhaustion time and time again, only to come up short on the biggest night of my life.
I’ve never been this angry or disappointed in myself.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and sigh. My legs throb and my feet burn. New blisters sprouted up on my toes between the first and second periods, but I taped them and pushed through the pain.
As the adrenaline wears off and the reality of the last couple of hours settles in, everything hurts.
My calves.
My forearms.
My heart.
I re-lace my skates and stand, shuffling to the door of my locker room with a new wave of determination. I crack it open and peer out to the hallway, and I’m not surprised to find it empty.
The game ended ninety minutes ago. The arena lights are off. The music has long quieted down. There are no more boos or cheers.
It’s totally silent.
I step toward the rink, unable to stay away.
Whenever I lost a game as a kid, my dad and I would trudge out to the pond in our backyard. The bitter Michigan air nipped at our noses and our fingers turned red with cold, but we didn’t care. We’d replay the game in slow motion and break down where things went wrong or right. Debate if I should’ve made the extra pass or taken the wide-open shot.
It was cathartic to work out my frustrations. To send them out in the world instead of holding them inside.
By the end of the night, once the moon was high in the sky and the stars began twinkling, everything was better. A weight lifted, so I could let the past go and start fresh for the next game.
My dad might not be here to decompress with me tonight, but I know what I need to do. The only thing that is sure to clear my mind and get me back on track before our road game later this week.
It’s an important matchup against our division rival in Milwaukee, and I can’t allow myself to fuck up again.
I don’t bother with gear and pads, skating around the rink in a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved Stars shirt. I shiver at the temperature, but I welcome it.
Some people like to talk about the feelings they’re keeping inside.
I prefer skating.
I always have.
There’s a puck at center ice, and it feels like it’s waiting for me. A consolation prize to make up for some of the worst playing in my career.
I tap it with my stick, a hit that crosses the blue line, and I take off after it with a grunt.
Pretending like I have two defenders in front of me, I fake left then right, just like I did in the second period. I pull back and slap the puck as hard as I can, my aim on the net ten feet in front of me.
I miss.
The puck ricochets off the post with a loud plink, and I narrow my eyes.
“Dammit.”
I go through the play six more times, relaxing as the tension leaves my body with every goal.
Satisfied, I move to my next big mistake of the game: a missed pass from Hudson that resulted in a turnover and a scored point by our opponents.
I know exactly where I went wrong—I was too slow. A half beat late, and I need to practice my speed.
I lean my stick against the boards by the bench and skate toward the opposite goal as quickly as I can. My hamstrings and quads scream as I reach the goal line, and I take a deep breath.
“Again,” I tell myself, knowing the only way I’ll be able to hang with the men in this league is to match their speed and intensity.
I don’t know how long I stay out there.
It could be minutes or hours.
I go back and forth, from one end of the ice to the other, only stopping when my lungs burn like they’re on fire.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The deep, rumbly voice echoes across the rink, and I know exactly who it is.
I’m still caught off guard when I turn around and find Maverick watching me. The ends of his messy hair are wet and he’s wearing a matching long-sleeved Stars shirt with gray joggers that hug his thighs. There’s an angry look on his face I’ve never seen before, and I falter.
Shit.
I thought he’d be the first one out of the garage after our loss. Speeding away from the scene of an athletic massacre in whatever fancy car he drives—I bet he rotates them depending on the day.
But he’s here.
Watching me with a dark glint to his eyes and wrinkled brows. Storming his way around the rink until he’s in the player’s box and glaring at me.
I swallow.
In the couple weeks I’ve been around him, he’s always been the joker. The team’s funny guy, giving out goofy smiles and one-liners like they’re party favors.
He looks pissed right now, and if he wanted my attention, he has it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“I’m going to ask this again: what the fuck are you doing?”
His voice is rougher this time. Some low timbre I’ve never heard from him before, and it makes me shiver. Makes my nipples pebble under my sports bra, and I’ve never hated him more.
“Don’t worry about it,” I repeat. I try to grab my stick, but his large hand folds over the top of it, preventing me from moving anywhere. “I get it, Miller. You’re stronger than me. Congratulations.”
“The game ended two hours ago,” he says, brushing off the compliment he’d usually make a big deal about.
I give up on the stick and drop onto the wooden bench. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break. “And?”
“And you should be home by now.”
“So should you,” I challenge, and he turns quiet. Loses a little of his gusto. “Please don’t tell me you were fucking someone in the locker room.”
“No.” Maverick sits close to me, taking up too much space with his long legs and broad shoulders. He drops his elbows to his knees and stares out at the ice, a far-off look in his eyes. “I was giving a Make-A-Wish family a tour of the arena.”
I stop breathing. “What?”
“Yeah. I saw you when I was showing them the VIP suites and promised Rachel—that’s her name—I’d get one of your jerseys signed for her.”
“I am such an asshole,” I whisper.
“Why are you out here?” His gaze cuts into me. “And without a fucking helmet? Come on, Hartwell. You know the rules.”
He told me something. I can tell him something back. Information for information, a fair trade. “I played like shit today.”
“We all played like shit today. Liam gave up three goals, which is more than he’s given up in the last few games combined,” he says.
“I especially played like shit. And on my first night starting? The media is going to have a field day.”
“Welcome to the NHL. Everything you do is scrutinized, and even on your best nights, people find a way to shit on you. After my first hat trick, all they could talk about on ESPN was how I was selfish and should’ve gotten my teammates more involved.”
Quiet hangs between us.
This isn’t our usual back-and-forth, and knowing that Maverick is peeling back a layer of my story makes me uneasy.
I want to run—I normally run.
But I can’t move.
“It’s something my dad and I used to do,” I tell him. “It helps me move on from a bad game.”
“What helps you move on? Running yourself ragged? We have a road trip in two days. We just got off a stretch of three games in four days, and there have been full practices on either end of that. When the hell are you getting your rest?”
“I don’t like to sit still. It’s better this way. I can come back stronger.”
“Christ, Red.” Maverick laughs, but it’s not humorous. “The only way you’re going to get better is if you take care of yourself. That includes not skating around like a bat out of hell after a grueling game.”
“I appreciate your opinion, but this is something I have to do. I’ve taken care of myself for years just fine.”
Maverick hums, like he wants to say something else.
He pops onto his feet instead, and I think that might be the end of it.
“Then I’ll join you,” he tells me.
“What?” I stand too, staring at him. “That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. It’s part of my captain duties—no one gets left behind.”
Maverick disappears toward the locker room, and I sigh. There’s no use trying to fight him—he won’t stop until he gets what he wants.
He’s only gone five minutes, but when he returns, he looks just as mad as when he left.
“Why the hell is your locker room a supply closet?” he asks, and he hands me my helmet.
“It’s a temporary fix until the building development team comes up with a more permanent solution.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.” He buckles his helmet and moves onto the ice. “You deserve a space just like us. Where’s your shower? And massage table?”
“I shower at home, and I don’t have a massage table.”
“That’s going to have to change real quick.” He motions me forward. “Come on, Red. I’m not getting any younger.”
“What are we doing?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is you’ve been out here doing by yourself for god knows how long.”
I give in and join him. “Can you play defense? I want to practice a breakaway.”
“Sure. Whatever you need.”
I don’t know why his agreement makes my heart skip a beat. Why it puts a heavy pressure on my chest, but it does, and I shove the feeling away.
We spend the next forty-five minutes going through different parts of the game. Quick bursts of speed. Slower glides as I work on maneuvering the puck around him. Physical moments that end up with him pinned against the boards and his laugh warm on my neck.
“I’m going to take a second.” I lean on my stick, panting hard. “A timeout.”
“Take as many seconds as you need.” Maverick unbuckles his helmet and sprawls out on the ice, flat on his back. “You’re making me feel ridiculously out of shape.”
“Whose fault is that, pretty boy?”
“I’m going to blame you, Red. I had plans to eat ice cream with my niece and bitch about the game from the couch, but this is fun too. I love when my ass is frozen and sore.” He puts his hands on his stomach and sighs. “If I die here, tell June I love her.”
“How was your tour with Rachel?” I find myself asking, and before I know what’s happening, I’m dropping onto the ice next to him. “I didn’t know you do things like that.”
“I don’t advertise it, because I hate when people have the resources to help and they only do good things when there’s a camera in their face.” His eyes flutter closed and he exhales. “But I love it.”
“Will you tell me about her?”
His smile is soft, and that weight on my chest is back. “She was born and raised in DC and grew up as a Stars fan.”
“Talk about some recent disappointment.”
“Seriously. She got sick a couple years ago, and her health has started to deteriorate the last few months. Hockey is the thing that makes her happy, though, and her family still gets out to the games. They have season tickets in the upper bowl, but her wish was to sit right behind the bench and get a tour. I upgraded them for the rest of the season, and she really liked seeing the arena without anyone in it.”
My eyes sting. A lump settles in my throat, and it won’t go away. “That’s really generous of you.”
“What good is being rich if you don’t spend the money on people who deserve it? It’s also really fucking humbling. Of all the things she could’ve done, she picked hanging out with me. She has all these dreams and aspirations. She wants to work for NASA and also find a cure for cancer.” His voice cracks, and I feel it too. “I’m just a fucking hockey player.”
“You’re more than a hockey player,” I say, and he opens his eyes to look at me. I think he can see straight into my soul. “You’re her hero, and there’s not an honor higher than that. Just think: one day she’s going to be at NASA or some prestigious research hospital, in a room with really smart people, and she’ll tell them all about how she got to spend time with you. That sounds like my idea of hell, but I’m glad she likes it.”
Maverick’s smile shows off his dimple. “She likes me a lot, but she loves you. Gave me your entire stat line from college and the ECHL. I know you think you played like shit, but guess what? She still wants your autograph. She’s still going to be here next week cheering for you and wearing your jersey.”
“I have this tremendous opportunity, and I don’t want people to think I’m disappointing them,” I say. The words won’t stop, and for once, I let them out. “I don’t want to let anyone down.”
“You’re a woman in the NHL, Hartwell. You’re breaking fucking barriers. There’s not a damn person out there who thinks you’re a disappointment.”
My skin prickles like it always does when someone tells me nice things. “It’s tough to remember that sometimes. I’m hard on myself.”
“No shit,” Maverick draws out, and I snort. “Was that a laugh, Red?”
“No. It was a chortle.”
“The fuck is a chortle? Is that a Pokémon?”
“I don’t know. Not a laugh, though. And definitely not at something you said.”
“Admit it. You think I’m funny.”
“You’re mediocre at best.”
“Better than being the worst.” His grin is smug. “You want to grab some food?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my stomach picks that moment to decide to make an embarrassing loud noise I try to cover with a cough.
“You’re such a bad liar.”
“Why do you want to grab food?”
“Because you’re hungry and tired and you’ve made your fucking point. Do you like sandwiches?”
“I love sandwiches.”
“Good. You’ve had enough ice time today, and I’m cutting you off.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here,” he tells me without hesitation.
“I don’t think you could lift me.”
“Is that a challenge, Red?”
Warmth pools in my stomach and between my legs.
It feels wrong to imagine his arm around my thighs. His hand near my ass and my chest pressing against his back.
But fuck, I like the thought of him showing off. Being the big, strong man and not leaving me a choice.
I like it more than I should.
“I’ll walk out on my own,” I say, and I tuck my chin to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks.
“Good.” Maverick pops onto his feet and offers me a hand. “Shower first, then we can go.”
“I’m not supposed to be in there, remember?”
“It’s just me here, and I’m not sitting next to you when you smell like that.”
I let him pull me up. “I’ll be quick.”
“Take as long as you want. Do you have a car?”
“No. I do Ubers or the Metro.”
“I’ll drive us. It’s not that far.”
I dust ice shavings off my leggings. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because I’m a nice guy, and I can see how today is getting to you. I don’t want you to sink into some funk just because of one loss. I’m also really fucking hungry, so the faster we get there, the better.”
“Fine.” I give him a small smile, and he answers with a beam of his own. “Show me where these showers are.”