26. Maverick
TWENTY-SIX
Sleepingwith Emerson twice accidentally turns into a third time (on a warm night in Florida) then a fourth (in New York City after the heater in her room stopped working).
Around our teammates and on the ice, everything between us is exactly the same.
She still rolls her eyes at me and acts like I’m the biggest pain in her ass. I still try to make her laugh and am smugly satisfied when I get half a smile out of her.
When we’re together behind closed doors, it’s fucking electric.
I’ve never wanted someone the way I want Emerson—repeatedly.
Consistently.
Every second of every day.
The best part?
We keep winning, and as a superstitious motherfucker, I need to find a way to convince her this needs to be an every night thing.
We head into early December with an eight-game win streak. I’m playing the best hockey of my career, and the league hit me with a no-notice drug test last week.
I almost called the commissioner to tell him I don’t need performance enhancing drugs when I’m having the best sex of my life, but I figured that would open up a line of questioning I really don’t want to answer.
“Finish your warm-ups,” Coach calls out. “We’re starting in five minutes.”
I stretch my hamstring and grimace at the tightness in my leg. It’s been sore since I fucked Emerson against the window with the Empire State Building behind us two days ago, and I’m trying my best to keep it loose so no one asks why I’m limping.
Worth it, though.
I scan the rink, looking for her red hair and her snarky smile, but I can’t find her anywhere.
She’s usually the first one on the ice, and after six weeks on the team, she’s never been late.
I grab my phone from my duffle bag and fire off a quick text to her.
Me
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Not Hartwell.
Not Hartwell, who?
Not Hartwell, because she isn’t at practice.
Are you alive, slacker?
“Is there something going on in your life that’s more important than practice, Miller?” Coach asks. I look up, and half the team is staring at me. “Do we need to revisit the personal devices policy? I could put it in a picture book. Will that help you understand it better?”
My cheeks flame, and I throw my phone back in my bag before he can yank it out of my hands and read the incriminating messages before the stupid knock-knock jokes.
The ones where I tell her I’m still thinking about her. The photo of her in the shirt she stole from me in Miami, sprawled out on her bed with her hand between her legs.
I should probably delete that, but she looks so damn hot.
“Sorry, Coach. It’s Hartwell. She’s not here,” I say, and the rink goes quiet.
Grant freezes midway through his groin stretch. Liam lifts up his mask. Ethan pulls off his gloves, and Riley drops his stick.
“What do you mean she’s not here?” Coach asks.
“She’s usually twenty minutes early, but I can’t find her,” I say.
“Holy shit,” Seymour says. “I knew something was off when I got on the ice. What if she was murdered? I’ve been listening to a lot of true crime podcasts lately, and over seventy-five percent of the women knew their killers.”
“I can’t even kill a spider. How are people out there murdering other human beings then sitting down at the breakfast table like it’s not a big fucking deal?” Connor shivers. “That creeps me out.”
“What if the Metro crashed? Oh, hell. Maybe she got pushed onto the tracks. That happened at Federal Triangle last week,” Ethan says.
“Sometimes she runs to the arena,” Grant tells us. “She might have gotten kidnapped.”
“All of you need to stop.” Hudson looks at me, and he’s the only one being rational right now. “Did you call her?”
“Can I?” I ask, and Coach sighs.
“Fine,” he says, and I know I have eight seconds before he confiscates my phone for good.
I scramble for my bag. My palms are clammy, and when I call her, it goes straight to voicemail. I try two more times, and there’s still no answer.
“She’s not picking up,” I tell the guys, and someone gasps.
“Try Piper,” Liam grumbles.
I find her contact info in my phone, but it goes to voicemail too. “No luck there either.”
“What if someone hurt both of them?” Grant asks. “This could be sabotage.”
“Enough with the dramatics.” Coach rubs his forehead. “Do you know where she lives?”
“With Piper, but I don’t have an address.”
“I’m not supposed to give out this information, and if I find out you did anythingwith it besides check and see if she’s okay, I’ll suspend you,” Coach warns me, then he thumbs through his phone.
“Do you have a lot of secrets on there, Coach?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood, but my heart won’t stop racing in my chest.
“Don’t push it, Miller. She’s in Garden Villas on Connecticut Ave.”
“What?” I frown. “Are you sure?”
“Eleventh floor. Number seven.”
“What the hell? That’s next door to my place. I could throw a rock at her window.”
Did I hear any sirens when I left my place an hour ago?
Was there caution tape outside her building marking a crime scene?
Fuck.
Where the hell is she?
“Go,” Hudson tells me, and I’m already halfway off the ice.
I tear through the locker room like a bat out of hell. I drop my skates on our logo, and I put my shirt on inside out. I’m still tugging on my shoe when I hop into the players’ garage, calling her another time without any luck.
I nearly rip off the door of my Mercedes and head for Emerson’s apartment, yelling at the traffic that keeps me from doing less than fifty when I really want to do one hundred.
The entire drive through the city, I keep calling her, and she still doesn’t answer.
Panic claws at my throat. I almost leave the keys in the ignition when I park in the visitor’s spot at her complex. A bright piece of paper taped to the elevator tells me it’s out of order for the day, and I curse under my breath.
I head for the lobby. After a ten minute conversation with a security guard and convincing him I’m the same Maverick Miller he watched on TV a few nights ago, he finally points me toward the stairwell.
I climb all eleven flights faster than I’ve moved my entire life, and when I get to Emerson’s apartment, I lean against the wall, huffing and puffing.
“Hartwell?” I call out, knocking loudly. I press my ear to the door and listen. It’s silent on the other side, and I bang again. “Emerson? Piper?”
I hear a faint groan, and I freeze.
Mother fucking shit.
Is she hurt?
Is there someone with her?
Why the fuck did I come here alone?
“You have six seconds to tell me not to break down this door,” I yell.
When I don’t get an answer, I run my shoulder into the barrier until it busts open.
“Goddammit,” I groan.
I stumble inside and nearly fall across the hardwood floor. Pain shoots up my arm, and it’s worse than getting slammed into the boards during a game.
“Pull it together, Miller,” I grumble, and I shake out my shoulder.
I step into the foyer and scan the apartment, searching for any signs of violence. I grab a candlestick off a table and hold it in front of me.
“Hello? Look, if this is some hostage situation, I’ll give you my credit card and you can go wild, all right? Just leave whoever is in here alone. I have a weapon.”
There’s a noise from down the hall, and I take off. I see a room to my right, and I hold the candlestick above my head, ready to attack. I push the door open and find Emerson with her head in the toilet.
“Maverick?” She lifts her chin, and I stop in my tracks. “What are you doing here?”
She looks horrible.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and her skin is pale. Her hair is knotted on top of her head, and there’s dried vomit in the corner of her mouth. I toss the candlestick in the sink and move toward her.
“What’s going on? What happened?” I ask, and she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Food poisoning or something equally horrific from a sandwich I got at LaGuardia airport.” She winces, and her whole body shudders. “Terminal kiosk. Never again.” She leans over the toilet and hurls into it. “God. I hope that’s the last of it.”
“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Nicer than calling you gorgeous when you’re on top of me? I need to step it up.”
“Maybe not.” She smiles weakly. “I’m fine. Really. You should go.”
“Bullshit. Where’s Piper?”
“Out of town visiting family.”
“That explains why she didn’t answer my call. How long have you been like this?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” Emerson closes her eyes and tips her head back. I dart forward and catch her before she can knock her skull against the wall behind her. “I don’t know what day it is.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“Wednesday.” She cracks an eye open and looks at my workout clothes. Her lips part into an O, and there are tears in her eyes. “Shit. Shit. I missed practice.”
“Don’t worry about practice, Red. We’ll cross that bridge later. I’m here. How can I help?”
“You don’t have to help.”
“I don’t have to do anything, but I want to. Tell me what you need.”
Emerson blinks, and I wait for her to argue. To push back and tell me to get the hell out, but she doesn’t. She sighs and gives me a small nod.
“I need a shower, but I’m afraid to stand up.”
“Easy enough.” I pull off my shirt and throw it toward the door. “I happen to love showers.”
“You just want an excuse to take off your clothes, don’t you?” Emerson murmurs, and I wrap my arms around her.
“You know me well,” I whisper in her ear. “Get naked, Hartwell.”
“I’m disgusting, and I smell,” she argues.
“And? I’ve seen you sweat your ass off at practice and with blood on your jersey. This is nothing.”
“It’s too much work.”
“Arms up then, darlin’. I’ll do it for you.”
Emerson grumbles, and I fight back a smile when she slowly lifts her arms. I hear her say something that sounds close to asshole and pushy under her breath, but I consider it a win.
She shivers, and I rub my hands down her arms. Her skin warms under my touch, and the sigh she lets out is the best thing I’ve heard all day.
“I’m going to take your shorts off then pick you up, okay?” I ask, wanting to make sure we’re on the same page. She’s out of it, a half second late with her reactions, and the last thing I want is for her to think I’m taking advantage of her. “It’s only to put you in the shower.”
“Stop flirting with me.”
“You’d know if I was flirting with you.” I brush my lips over her shoulder and kiss her neck. “This is nothing.”
I shift out from behind her and lean her carefully against the wall. I run my hand up her shins and straighten out her legs, tugging the flimsy shorts down her hips and thighs.
“I hate these things,” I say.
“What did they do to you?”
“They’re distracting. I’ve gone years without something pulling my attention from the ice. Then you show up, and I can’t focus on anything except your sleepwear.”
Her smile is soft and subtle. “Sorry. I’ll start wearing cargo pants to bed.”
“You’re not sorry at all.”
“No.” Emerson reaches out and traces my tattoos. Her fingers move across the taco shell on my bicep and the fern down my forearm. “I’m not. The shower is behind you, by the way.”
“Figured it was. I just wanted to keep looking at you.”
“You said I look like I got hit by a truck.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well? I would’ve been here the second you called. You wouldn’t have had to spend hours all alone with your head in the toilet.”
“You would’ve?”
“I already broke the door down once. I’d do it again.”
“You broke down the door? For me?”
“Yeah. Might have fractured half the bones in my arm in the process, but I’ll survive. I’ll get you a new one, by the way.”
She rubs her thumb up the inside of my wrist and closes her eyes. “I might need to start calling you Superman.”
“Easy, Hartwell. You’re going to give me a complex.”
“I would’ve called if I realized what was going on. One minute I was fine, and the next I was puking my brains out for hours on end. I don’t know where my phone is, and moving through the apartment sounds like hell.”
“You’ll let me know next time, okay?”
She grumbles again. “Fine.”
“Stubborn woman.” I stand up and scoop her into my arms. “I’m not letting you take a shower—you can’t keep your head upright. How about a bath?”
“I haven’t taken a bath in years.”
“Really? I love baths.”
“You do?”
“Hell yeah. I light some candles, put some Epsom salt in there, and set up my iPad with an episode of Ted Lasso. It’s my favorite way to unwind after a hard workout.”
A quiet laugh slips out of her, and I love that fucking sound. I want to make her laugh again. “I’m picturing you with battleships and rubber ducks.”
“It’s fun to pretend to be a war general.” I pull back the shower curtain and turn on the faucet. “How hot do you like your water?”
“Scalding,” she says.
I wait for the water to warm up before I set her in the tub. “Too hot?”
“No.” Emerson groans and leans back. “It’s perfect.”
“Where’s your shampoo?” I ask, and she gestures to the shelf stacked with bottles. There’s nearly a dozen. “Christ. You use all of this stuff?”
“Not all the time. Just occasionally.”
“It’s like a salon in here.”
“You really don’t have to do this, Miller.”
“Shut up, Hartwell.” I pick one up and grab the shower head. She moans when I wet her hair, and I massage her scalp with my nails. “What will it take for you to relax?”
“That,” she breathes out. “That feels like heaven.”
It feels like heaven for me too.
I love when she’s riled up. I love when there’s a blaze to her words and fire in her tone. But I also like her like this.
Quiet.
Soft.
So fucking pretty with droplets on her eyelashes and her mouth curling around a pleased sigh.
Everything about the moment is intimate. I’ve never touched a woman without the promise of sex as the end result, but with her, I like it.
I like the way she tilts her head so I can wash and condition the ends of her hair. I like the way she sinks further into the tub the longer I kneel next to her.
I wonder what it would be like to do this every day.
“Thank you,” I say, and her eyes flutter open. “Thank you for letting me help you, Emmy. Thank you for letting me be here. You can tell me to go whenever you want and I will, but I want you to know this is exactly where I want to be. I’ve got you.”
She laces our fingers together and squeezes my hand. “Thank you for coming. I’m not… this is?—”
“I know.” I smile and put the shower head back in place. “It’s a one-time thing. Our little secret. Tomorrow you can be the ass kicker you normally are, and no one has to know.”
“You think I’m an ass kicker?”
“The best of the best. I’m going to put you in bed then bring you some food. You need some protein and carbs. What do you want? Soup? Toast? Rice? A whole plate of mashed potatoes?”
“The living room is fine. You don’t need to go into my room.”
I pull the plug on the tub. “Why are you being so secretive about your room?”
Emerson swallows. “I might have wet the bed, and there’s definitely vomit on my pillows.”
I stare at her, and that fear from earlier is back. “You could’ve died.”
“I wouldn’t have died. I can take care of myself. I made it to the bathroom, didn’t I?”
“For fuck’s sake, woman.” I lift her out of the tub and wrap her in a towel. “No one is saying you can’t. I want to help, Emmy. Let me help. Share the load with me. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
I keep her in my arms and grab the candlestick from the sink, marching toward the living room.
I take mental notes of everything I need to get done: a new fucking door. Clean sheets and bland food. A gallon of water and a thermometer to make sure she doesn’t have a fever. A message to Coach and the boys to let them know she’s okay.
“Why are you holding a candle?” Emerson asks into my shoulder.
“Remember when I broke down the door? I thought someone was being held hostage, and this was my weapon of choice,” I say sheepishly.
“Piper is going to be very confused.”
“It’ll be fixed by tonight.” I set her on the couch and pull a fuzzy blanket up to her chin. “Don’t move an inch, Red. If I see you crawling like a goddamn worm, I’m going to haul you over my shoulder and tape you to a chair.”
“I bet I’d move faster than you,” she mumbles, and she rests her head against the cushions. “Even if I was wiggling.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Maverick?” she says. Our eyes meet, and my chest puffs out at the sound of my name. “Thank you for being here. Thank you for taking some of the load from me.”
“You’re welcome, Emmy girl. Get comfortable. I’ll be back soon.”
Emerson nods and closes her eyes. Her breathing turns shallow, and she’s asleep within seconds.
Before I can think twice about what the hell I’m doing, I drop a kiss to her forehead and get to work.