17. Maverick
SEVENTEEN
I’m still not usedto seeing her in normal clothes, and it throws me out of whack.
Thank god she doesn’t walk around like this all the time. I’d be distracted as hell.
Even right now, someone is trying to get my attention, but I’m not listening.
I’m too busy staring at the leather boots that make her legs look a mile long. The black skirt that hits the tops of her knees and the crop top that shows off her stomach.
“Hey,” I say, walking toward her.
“Hey.” Emerson tilts her head to the side, and her gaze locks on mine. “What’s a girl have to do to get a plate of food instead of getting eye-fucked around here?”
I give her a guilty grin. “I wasn’t very smooth, was I?”
“Nonchalance isn’t in your vocabulary, is it, Miller?”
“I’m afraid not, Red. I’m not sure I can even spell it. Sorry for objectifying you. You look really good, and I didn’t think you would show.”
“Is it okay if I’m here?” she asks hesitantly, rubbing the toe of her boot on the marble floor.
“Of course it is,” I say right away, not wanting her to feel unwelcome. “I’m surprised, but it’s a good surprised.”
“Piper sent me eight thousand texts.” Emerson shrugs, an unbothered pop of her shoulders, but she’s not scowling. I can work with that half-assed enthusiasm. “I admire her tenacity.”
“That woman might be small, but she sure is mighty. Grab a plate and help yourself. There’s no order to things, and it’s pandemonium in the kitchen.”
“I think I’ll hang out here for a minute and let the madness die down,” she says. Her fingers brush along the hem of her skirt and she gives the velvet a little tug. “If that’s cool. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“I could give you a tour while you wait. You’re the only one who hasn’t seen the apartment. It’s nothing special, but I’ll show you around.”
“Nothing special? It’s the penthouse of a luxury high-rise.”
“You’re right.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my black joggers and rock forward. “This place is fantastic and well worth the hefty price tag.”
Emerson eyes me. She glances over my shoulder at the mayhem unfolding with our teammates, then bites her bottom lip.
She does that a lot, I’ve noticed.
When she’s deep in thought. When she’s not sure how she’s supposed to react to something. When she’s trying not to smile.
Fuck. I want to make her smile.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Only because it’s better than standing here and looking like a creep.”
“You do remind me of a Peeping Tom. Admit it: You want to know all of my secrets.”
“Seeing how you organize your socks might give me some insight into why you’re so obnoxious.”
“Not sure we have enough time for you to figure that out. Come on,” I say, and she follows me without another word.
I lead her into the living room and point out all the features of my apartment—the framed team photos on the shelf, the fancy Barbie dollhouse I bought for June to play with when she comes over. The old mahogany coffee table I purchased from a small shop down in South Carolina, hauling it the five hundred miles back home by myself.
Emerson takes her time and studies every little detail. She stops at the antique clock on the wall. My board game collection and the couch in the middle of the room.
I wonder if I should’ve fluffed the pillows or thrown a blanket over the back to make it homier. It looks sad right now with the gray cushions against the gray walls.
It’s weird to stand here and let a woman pick through these parts of my life I’m not used to showing off. I’m normally stumbling home with my tongue down someone’s throat and my hand under their dress. Fingers curled around the waistband of her underwear and trying not to stub my toe as I carry her down the hall.
This is…
I don’t know what this is.
“What do you think?” I ask, and that old habit of seeking validation, of needing to hear if someone likes me, is pounding in my chest.
“It’s nice.” She runs her finger along the wood of the entertainment center and stops at the stack of puzzles in the corner. “You said you like puzzles.”
I brighten up. “Look at you paying attention. I love puzzles.”
“Is that your favorite thing to do when you’re not on the ice?”
“Is that your question of the day?”
“Yeah.” Emerson nods. She looks at me over her shoulder, and the smallest smile curves at the corners of her mouth. “As long as you don’t mind sharing.”
“We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but there were always puzzles around. The first time I put one together, my brain went quiet. I focused on what was in front of me, and… I don’t know. I always feel relaxed when I do one. Which I realize sounds so fucking stupid. I’m a thirty-year-old man who?—”
“The things that make us happy are never stupid. That’s how I am with plants,” she says. “Plants and flowers and gardening. It’s a way to turn my mind off.”
“Really? I’m going to have to introduce you to Reid later. He loves plants too. You can be botany enthusiasts together.”
Her laugh is loud, and I puff out my chest. Stand a little taller like a smug bastard, because I’m finally getting somewhere with Emerson, and that boosts my pride.
The woman has more walls up than a castle. She’s determined to keep people out, but I’m dead set on getting in.
“I need to figure out what I want to grow while I’m here.” She pivots and walks down the hall. “Winter in DC is harsher than California.”
“Not nearly as harsh as Michigan, though,” I say, and she stops in her tracks. “I finally watched your tapes. I found some of your high school clips too.”
“Only took you a month.”
“Better late than never, right? You were good, Red.”
“Am I not good anymore?”
“You are. Just not as good as me,” I joke, and she flips me off with a middle finger painted in red nail polish. “My room is the one on the right.”
“Is there some sort of curse on it? If I go inside, will all my clothes come off?”
“That would be a cool party trick, wouldn’t it?” I crowd up behind her and turn the knob on the door. Her breath catches, and I wait for her to elbow my stomach. To tell me to get lost. When she doesn’t, I move an inch closer to her. “Your clothes aren’t going to come off,” I say low in her ear. “I know how to be a gentleman.”
Except, all I’m thinking about is her spread out on my bed.
That fiery hair all over my pillows and her fingers gripping the sheets. My hands under her thighs, dragging her toward me, and my head between her legs.
It doesn’t feel very gentlemanly.
“Good. I’d hate to have to cut off your dick. Women everywhere would be so disappointed.”
“Are you trying to see my dick, Hartwell? You could’ve just asked.”
I swear her ass brushes against the front of my pants, and I start reciting the presidents backwards in my head so I don’t get hard while she’s pressed against me.
“No,” Emerson says. “I prefer men who actually know how to use their stick.”
“Professional stick handler, remember?” I say, and I sidestep away from her. I need to clear my head. “You can go in.”
“Thanks for the permission.” She tugs at her skirt again and walks into my room. I do my best not to stare at her ass. “Wow. This is not what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Three women in your bed. Bras everywhere. Sex toys on the floor and a sex swing hanging from the ceiling.”
I grin and scratch at the taco tattoo on my arm. “Sorry to disappoint. This building’s been restored, so a sex swing might make the whole roof collapse in.”
Emerson puts her hands on her hips and surveys the bed. Her attention shifts to the doors out to the balcony and the floor-to-ceiling windows that show off the night sky. She hums when she opens my closet and rifles through the jerseys and shirts and suits.
“You have a signed Mario Lemieux jersey?” She yanks it off the hanger and holds it up to her chest. “How much did you spend on this?”
“Nothing. I met him at an event benefiting Hodgkin’s lymphoma a couple years ago, and we started talking. At the end of the night, he gave me the jersey and told me how much he appreciated the awareness I was helping to raise for the disease. I’ve thought about auctioning it off for charity, but he was my idol growing up. The little boy in me can’t let it go, and I’d rather write a check anyway.”
She pulls the jersey away from her body and slips it back on the hanger. Her eyes drag from the clothes to me, and she bites her bottom lip again.
“I think I might have been wrong about you,” she says quietly. “At least some parts of you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“Here I’ve been, thinking you only care about yourself. Turns out, you’re a nice guy.”
“That makes you mad, doesn’t it, Red?”
“Downright furious.” Emerson tucks the Lemieux jersey back where it belongs and moves to the balcony doors, throwing them open. “And I hate these views.”
“So do I. They’re the worst.” I follow her and lean my arms over the metal railing. “You see the Washington Monument over there?”
“Yeah. It’s beautiful at night. I still need to do all the touristy things in town. Museums, monuments. There’s so much to see.”
“I’ll go with you. If you want some company,” I volunteer.
“That would require spending more time with you.” She turns to face me, and her attention hangs on my necklace before she stares past my shoulder. “And that sounds revolting.”
“You’re surviving just fine right now.”
“Because I can escape whenever I want.” She rubs her hands up her arms and shivers at the cold breeze that whips through the air. I pull off my hoodie and toss it to her. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I laugh. “Normal people would put it on and warm themselves up.”
She tosses it back to me and shivers again. “No, thank you.”
Stubborn fucking woman.
I love that she doesn’t give into me like everyone else does.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask.
“Is that your question of the day?”
“Yup. I figured I’d spend the first fifty questions asking you all the boring shit, then we’ll get to the good stuff.”
Emerson blows out a breath, and I lay the hoodie between us. An invitation to take it, if she wants, because I really can’t stand to see the goosebumps on her skin.
“Potatoes,” she says around an exhale that sounds tired and heavy. “Mashed. Scalloped.”
“Makes sense why the alien babies are half potato. How do you feel about twice baked?”
“My least favorite, but I wouldn’t say no.”
“You’re a carb girl.”
“I’m an athlete.” Her fingers inch toward the sweatshirt before she pulls her hand back and taps her nails against the railing. “What about you?”
“Pasta. Lasagna, specifically. Had it once a week as a kid, and I never got sick of it.” I smile into the night and glance at her. “Don’t tell any of the guys I have some hidden in my fridge. I’m going to warm it up when they all settle down.”
“Speaking of, I think I’m going to head in and grab some food.”
“Too cold out here for you?”
“No.” She shoots me a look and turns for the door. Her skirt spins with her and I get a glimpse of creamy thighs. The curve of her quad muscles and smooth skin. “I’m hungry.”
“Avoid the charcuterie boards—there are strawberries on them. I’ll make sure there aren’t any next time.”
Emerson hesitates. “What are you talking about?”
“Strawberries?” I repeat. “The fruit? You’re allergic, right? The flight to Milwaukee tomorrow would suck if your eyes were all puffy.”
Her mouth opens then closes. A deep flush of pink settles on her cheeks, and she grips the door knob with white knuckles.
“Yeah, I’m allergic. I’m surprised you—” She shakes her head. “I’ll see you inside, Miller.”
I grin when she shuts the door softly behind her.
I managed to not get thrown off the balcony and I made her laugh.
Twice.
Hat trick for me.