16. Maverick
SIXTEEN
Puck Kings
Me
I think we should start a book club.
Might be fun.
Riley
I’m in. What are we reading?
Connor
Huh?
Me
Books. Have you heard of them?
Easy E
Why would we read for fun?
Me
Hartwell told me women love romance books.
Maybe we should read them too.
Hudson
I read romance books.
Easy E
The fuck? You do?
Hudson
How else are you supposed to learn what women want in a relationship?
G-Money
Who said anything about a relationship?
Easy E
Don’t they just want to be fucked?
Hudson
You two are not allowed to talk to women ever again.
Me
Any recommendations, Hud?
Hudson
What do you want to read?
Me
IDK. She said cowboys were popular.
Hudson
I’ll report back.
Seymour
Speaking of Emmy, don’t you think we need to have a group chat with her in it?
Riley
Shit. She’s not in this one?
Hudson
No.Thank god.
Liam
I wish I wasn’t in this group chat. She can take my spot.
G-Money
That’s because you have a stick up your ass.
Riley
I’ll add her.
*Riley has named the chat Professional Stick Handlers*
*Riley has added Redheaded Assassin to the chat*
G-Money
What happened to Puck Kings?
Me
We have a lady in our midst.
Redheaded Assassin
What is this?
Liam
A group chat that goes off at all hours of the day and night. Welcome to hell.
*Liam has left the chat*
*Redheaded Assassin has left the chat*
*Easy E has added Liam and Redheaded Assassin to the chat*
Redheaded Assassin
I don’t want to be here.
Easy E:
You can run, but you can’t hide.
Hudson
Really, Ethan. Just stop talking.
Riley
Yeah, dude. Next thing you know, you’ll be growing a creepy mustache.
Easy E
I’d rock the shit out of a mustache.
Me
Team dinner tonight. 6 sharp at my place!
I love playing in front of thousands of fans in sold-out arenas.
I love scoring the game-winning goal on the road and silencing the haters who were booing me for sixty minutes.
I love signing kids’ jerseys and taking selfies with them.
But my favorite part of being a professional athlete is having team dinners on Tuesday nights with the people I adore.
The tradition started when Coach got to DC four years ago. He inherited a shitty team with players who had shitty attitudes.
We were in the middle of a ten-game losing streak.
No one had any pride in wearing their jerseys.
Hell, I even asked my agent to start looking at trades because I was fed up and sick of playing with guys who only wanted to collect a paycheck.
Until one day when Coach told me to invite a teammate over for a meal and gave me one rule: no hockey talk.
I started with Hudson. We were already friends, and I figured he’d be the easiest to talk to.
He brought Thai food. I popped open a couple of beers. We sat in my kitchen and talked about the Fast and the Furious franchise for two hours. He came back the next week, and he brought Ethan with him.
Something cool happened.
Relationships formed, and they were deeper than the connection we had on the ice.
I learned that Connor has a brother on the autism spectrum. Riley’s dad lost his leg after a house fire. Grant’s mom walked out on him and his sisters when he was eight, and Liam is fluent in Spanish.
The guys weren’t just my teammates anymore—they were my brothers.
Our dinner group grew to five, then ten.
Eventually, the whole team started coming around. Tuesday nights turned into a chance for us to shut off the sports talk and just be together.
In the last year, we’ve expanded to other people coming by too. Piper and Lexi joined in, and so did Dallas, Maven, and my other best friend, Reid Duncan, who manages the social media accounts for the DC Titans.
Seymour’s girlfriend, Brooke, started making appearances, and the family keeps growing.
Nothing makes me happier than a room full of good food and even better conversation.
“I’m going to make sure everything is set up in the kitchen,” I tell Grant and Ethan. They barely look up from the NBA2k game they’re playing on my eighty-inch television, and I could be talking to a wall right now. “You guys need anything in the meantime?”
“For you to get out of the way, Cap.” Ethan leans to his right to look around me then groans when Grant dunks on him. “Goddammit, you motherfucker.”
“You snooze, you lose, E. Get out of here with that shitty defense.”
“Be glad I don’t unplug that console, you ungrateful shits,” I laugh.
I head for the kitchen and grab empty water glasses as I go. We have an early flight to Milwaukee tomorrow, so I’m forcing everyone to stay hydrated.
“Need some help?” Dallas asks, trailing behind me.
“I’m good.” I check the foyer to see if anyone else got here while I was handing out drinks. “Thanks, though.”
“Why do you keep looking at the door?”
“I’m not.” I drop the cups in the sink and grab the two charcuterie boards Seymour brought from the fridge. “I’m being a good host.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
Dallas laughs. “Bullshit. You can’t even look at me. What’s wrong with you, Miller? Don’t tell me someone’s pregnant.”
“What? No. Fuck, no. I haven’t been with anyone in a month, and I always wrap it up.”
“A month? That must be a personal record.”
I flip him off. “Hartwell might be coming tonight.”
“Sweet. Did she say she would be here?”
“No. I reminded her ten times at morning skate that her invitation still stands, but I doubt she’ll show up. She’d rather throw a shoe at my head. I wish she would, though.”
“You wish she’d throw a shoe at you?”
“No. I wish she’d show up.”
“Wait a second.” Dallas drops his chin into the palm of his hand and grins. “Do you have a crush?”
I stab a piece of cheese with a knife, because it’s definitely not a crush. “Hartwell and I hung out after our game the other day. She seemed like she could use a friend. Someone in her corner. I get the impression people haven’t done that for her in the past.”
“You’ve never been friends with a woman.”
“Uh. Yes the fuck I have. I’m friends with Maven. And Piper and Lexi.”
“You’re friends with Maven because of me, and you work with Piper and Lexi. The only f-word you know when it comes to women is fuck,” he says.
“It’s not like that with Hartwell. We’re not friends, and we’re not fucking, either. She can’t stand me, and sometimes, she annoys the shit out of me too.”
“But you hang out after games?”
“Only because I found her on the ice working herself to exhaustion and forced her to stop and get food. It’s not like we’re falling in love or some shit like that. She’s part of the team, and it would be nice if she were here.” I shrug. “That’s it.”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything. Sorry if it sounded that way,” Dallas says.
“It’s fine.” I pull him into a hug. “I don’t want her to feel left out, no matter how badly she wants to throw things at me.”
“You probably deserve it, Mav.”
“Yeah.” I grin and think about the six text messages I sent her earlier this afternoon. The ones that were delivered and read but went unanswered. It’s a wonder she hasn’t blocked me yet. “I probably do.”
“Why are you two hugging?” Reid asks. He barely looks up from his phone as he walks into the kitchen and swipes a cracker off the cheese tray. His glasses slide down his nose and a lock of red hair falls into his eyes, but he ignores the distractions for his screen. “And why am I not included?”
“Because you’re using your phone even though it’s against the rules. No devices at team dinner. Put it away, Duncan.”
He grumbles under his breath and shoves the phone in a drawer. “There. Happy?”
“Ecstatic. Do you want a hug?”
“No. I’m too stressed for a hug. I need the girl who manages the Thunderhawks account to stop getting on my last nerve. Do you know what she did today? She changed their handle from @ThunderhawksFootball to @footballindc. They play in fucking Baltimore,” he groans.
“Okay. And why is this bad?” I ask, missing the point.
“Because now I’m getting notifications for them. Our handle, the one I set up years ago, is @dcfootball, and people are confused.” Reid glares at the oven like it’s the woman he’s talking about. “I swear she’s doing it to get a rise out of me.”
Dallas and I exchange a look, both knowing his feud with the other social media manager is bound to reach a breaking point soon.
“I would too. Your mad-face is cute, Duncan,” I say, and I move the charcuterie boards to the buffet table with the rest of the food my teammates brought. “Come and get it, kids!”
There’s a stampede to the kitchen. Connor gets shoved into a wall and a stack of napkins goes flying. Hands grab for plates and silverware and the Swedish meatballs Riley brought.
“I’m first.” Grant elbows his way to the front. “Youngest ones start the lines. You fuckers are too old to enjoy the finer things in life.”
“Absolutely not.” Hudson nudges Grant out of the way. “I’ve given more time to this team, and my knees suck the most. I’m going first.”
“I think we can agree that Liam’s knees suck the most,” Seymour says, and Liam scowls.
I laugh and stand off to the side, watching them all act like idiots. There’s more than enough food to go around, but it’s fun to see them riled up and competitive over who gets first dibs on the chicken piccata Dallas grabbed from an Italian restaurant on his way over.
Over the loud noise and name-calling, I hear the soft click of a door.
I jerk my head toward the foyer and it feels like all the air is sucked out of the room.
Emerson Hartwell is standing in my apartment, looking like a goddamn knockout.