32. Maverick
THIRTY-TWO
WatchingEmerson all night has been torture.
Her knee brushed against mine when we were listening to Coach’s opening remarks, and I swear it was like she was on top of me.
Her fingers grazed up my thigh when she stood up from the table to use the restroom, and I forgot where I was for a few minutes.
No underwear.
A dress that hugs her curves.
A cocky little smirk that tells me she thinks she’s winning whatever game it is we’re playing.
She really is a redheaded assassin.
People have been vying for her attention since the minute she walked into the ballroom, and I can tell she’s close to tapping out.
Her eyes bounce to the exit every few minutes like she’s planning an escape. She keeps trying to step toward the buffet line, and I haven’t seen her take a bite of food all night.
It’s time to intervene.
I push back my chair and shrug off my tux jacket, making a beeline for Emerson. I work my way around the crowded dance floor toward her. I get stopped a handful of times by some of our corporate sponsors and season ticket holders. They tell me how much more fun it is to cheer for a team who’s winning, and I laugh when I’m supposed to laugh.
I shake hands with all the important people who pay a lot of money to come and see us play, but the whole time, I keep an eye on her.
When I finally break free from a conversation about the All-Star team this year, I make a pitstop at the buffet line. I load up on chicken tenders and a helping of mashed potatoes. I shove a stack of napkins in my pants pocket for good measure—I’ve seen how the woman eats. She’s going to make a mess, and it’ll be the cutest thing in the world.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt.” I slide up next to Emerson and rest my free hand on her lower back. “I need to steal my winger for a second. There’s an urgent matter involving stick lengths, and her opinion is very important.”
“Oh.” The reporter—Stewart, his name tag tells me—widens his eyes. “That sounds important.”
I nod, really wanting to sell this. “It’s gravely important. Thank you so much for being so understanding, Stewart. I’d love to send you a jersey.”
“Wow, really? That would be wonderful.” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here’s my contact information.”
“I’ll have our merchandise folks get in touch with you on Monday. Thanks, man.” I pat his shoulder, and he beams. “You’re a good one.”
“Nice talking to you, Stewart. Have a good rest of your night,” Emerson adds, and I guide her to a table tucked behind a speaker and a huge potted plant. No one should bother us over here. “Stick lengths, huh? Please tell me that’s not a really corny innuendo, Miller.”
“It could be.” I drop my voice and brush my knuckles over her bare shoulder. She shivers, and I want to touch her everywhere. “You look incredible in that dress, Red.”
“Thank you. I don’t get a chance to wear clothes like this often, and I wanted to take advantage of it.”
“You should.” I point to the empty chair, and she drops in it. I hand her the plate and napkins and sit beside her. “You wear business casual to the arena anyway. Why not wear a ballgown every once in a while?”
Emerson pops a fry in her mouth then licks the salt from her finger, and I’ve reached a new low in life: I’m officially jealous of a fucking appendage. “I wish it were that easy.”
“It’s not?” I frown and drop my elbow on my thigh, staring at her. “Enlighten me.”
“I don’t want to make this a whole sexism thing, but women are held to such a double standard. I wear a skirt to the arena that shows off my legs, and people call me a slut. I wear a jacket and a buttoned-up shirt, and I get called a prude. I’m sure when pictures of tonight make the rounds online, people are going to think I’m a bad role model for young girls just because you can see my cleavage.”
“I, for one, am all for the cleavage. In fact, I think there should be more of it. Better yet, take the whole thing off. Preferably in my bedroom.”
She smiles at me. There are four hundred people are here, and she’s picking me to give out her smiles to.
I’m the luckiest bastard in this room.
“I appreciate your commitment to the cause.” Emerson takes a bite of a chicken tender and sighs. “It’s exhausting. Being a professional athlete is hard enough, but then there are comments under every one of my posts criticizing me. Why am I wearing makeup? Who let me leave the house in that outfit? How many guys on the team have I fucked? There aren’t any of those comments under your photos.”
I grab the leg of her chair and drag her closer to me. Our thighs press together, and I don’t bother to pull away. I want her right here.
“I’m sorry you have to go through that, and I’m sorry for joking about something that’s not funny. I had no idea that was happening, and it’s bullshit that people even say that kind of stuff in the first place. You’re a role model no matter what you wear. Look at the arenas—not just ours, but the ones on the road too. Hundreds of girls are wearing your jersey. They look up to you because of how good of an athlete you are, but also because you’re a kind person who goes out of her way to show her appreciation for the fans who show up for her. Take tonight. You talked with Rachel for twenty minutes and made her whole year when you could’ve been schmoozing with the rich guys who help pay our paychecks. What you wear on the outside isn’t going to change what’s on the inside, and that’s a beautiful woman.”
“Wow,” she says, and I’m surprised when she reaches over and laces her fingers through mine. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not just saying that so I can slip my hand under your dress later.”
“You can, by the way.”
“Oh, I’m planning on it. I’m going to lose my mind otherwise. But I’d say the same thing even if I didn’t get to bury my head between your legs. I mean it, Emmy. Every word.”
“I like when you call me that,” she whispers. “I like when you call me Red and Hartwell, but I also really like when you call me Emmy too. It doesn’t sound the same compared to whenever anyone else uses my name.”
“Yeah?” I swallow thickly, the tension between us slowly climbing. It’s taking everything in me not to pull her into my lap and kiss her senseless, but I settle for resting our joined hands on her thigh. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”
It’s fucking reckless to be out in the open and acting like this, to be touching her and drawing circles on her knee, but I want her to know she’s perfect. That she could show up to games in a burlap sack and I’d still think she’s the most incredible person.
I’ve been thinking about it more and more lately, and it’s confusing me.
I know why I’m sexually attracted to her; there’s her sarcasm and that dry wit. Her quick one-liners and how easily she makes me laugh. The softness she shows when she lets her guard down and the way her eyes light up when something makes her happy.
I just don’t understand why I’m not bored of it yet.
I’ve always found it hard to stay interested in one person. I get antsy. My attention wavers after a few hours, and I’m ready to move on. I’ve been with plenty of women who are kind and sweet and funny. They check all the boxes other men are looking for, and I’ve never cared.
I care with Emerson, though.
I care a whole lot, and I don’t know what the fuck that means.
“Are you okay?” She squeezes my hand and looks at me. “You disappeared there.”
“Sorry. I was lost in my thoughts for a minute.”
“Were they good thoughts?”
I look at her with her pretty dress and pretty make up, the twinkle in her eye and the half smile on her lips. “I was thinking about you.” I swallow. “They were the best thoughts.”
She touches my cheek, and her smile grows to a beam. “I’m glad.”
“Do you want to dance?”
“To Justin Bieber? Is that even possible?”
“Anything is possible if you believe.” I stand up and tug her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
“Hang on.” She holds onto my shoulder and kicks off her heels. “Those were killing me. I have a blister on my pinky toe that’s going to hurt when I wear my skates tomorrow.”
I drop her hand as we walk through the crowd, but I can feel the heat of her body behind me.
Just as we make our way onto the dance floor, the song turns slower. Emerson purses her lips and lifts an eyebrow.
“Did you plan this, Miller?” she asks. “I bet you slipped the DJ a twenty.”
“I’m innocent, I swear.” I hold out my palm, an invitation there, and she glances around. I know she’s worried about what people might think, but we can chalk it up to the spirit of charity. A captain and his teammate dancing together for one song in the name of raising funds for the local food bank and community outreach projects. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Fine.” She closes the distance between us. One of her hands settles on my shoulder, and I rest my palm on her lower back. “But if you step one toe out of line, you’re going to be in big trouble.”
“I promise,” I say, sinking my fingers into the smooth fabric of her dress. “You haven’t asked your question yet tonight.”
“Because I asked first the other night,” she says, and her chest almost presses into mine. “It’s your turn.”
“I just hit you with the Uno reverse. You’re up.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Wow, Hartwell.” I laugh and rub my hand up her arm. “You’re putting me through the wringer, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. It’s obvious you love June, and you did so well with Rachel tonight. I didn’t know if that’s a role you’d want to have.”
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” I answer, keeping my voice low in case people are listening. “I never saw myself in a position where I would have kids, so I’ve never considered it. I really enjoy being an uncle and hanging out with the young fans who come to the games, but I can’t say for sure if I want them for myself. It’s not a no, but a maybe.”
“I think you’d make a great dad. You have one of the kindest hearts, Maverick. And there are plenty of people out there who need that joy you give.”
Her praise makes my skin itch, like I’m not sure I’m worthy of it.
Kids means a commitment and a commitment means forever and… fuck.
Could I do that?
My own parents couldn’t. Who’s to say I won’t turn out exactly the same way?
“What about you?” I ask around a rasp, and I clear my throat. “Do you want kids?”
Every time I peel back a layer of her, more appear. She’s never mentioned her mom, and I’m wondering if that’s because she’s closer to her dad, or if her mom isn’t in the picture anymore. I’m not sure I’ll ever learn the answer.
“I could go either way,” Emerson tells me. “I see all these happy families on social media and wonder if that could be me too. Then there’s this louder part of me that knows how much I love my job. I love that I get to live out my dream, and right now, that’s my focus. Maybe that makes me selfish, but until I close this chapter, I’m not ready to move on to the next one.”
“You’d make a great mother, if that’s something you decide you want to do.”
She snorts. “I’m not sure I would. I just said I want to put myself first. Isn’t parenthood supposed to be the most selfless job on the planet?”
“That doesn’t mean you would be bad at it. You’re self-aware, and that’s important.”
“I didn’t expect my question to turn into something so deep. Can you lighten the mood, please?”
I dip her in my arms and the ends of her hair brush along the floor. She looks up at me, and I can see the smile she’s trying to fight. “Boxers or briefs?” I ask, and her sharp laugh surprises me.
“On who? You or me?”
“Me, obviously.”
“Briefs.” Her eyes bounce to my slacks, and her gaze heats. “I like that they don’t hide anything. I like to see what I’m working with.”
“Do you like what you see right now, Emmy girl?”
Emerson drags her attention to my mouth and lingers there. “Yeah,” she says. “I like it a lot.”
“Wanna head to the coat closet? I’ve done enough socializing. If I don’t sink inside you soon, I will die.”
“You’re not dramatic at all.” She rolls her eyes, but when I put her back on two feet, she gives my arm a tug. “Come on, Miller. Bring the potatoes with you too.”
“I knew food was one of your kinks,” I say, and we slip away from our teammates without anyone so much as batting an eye. “But, in the spirit of honesty, Red, I have to tell you something.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. “What?”
“I did pay the DJ to play a slow song, and it was a lot more than twenty bucks. You’ve looked gorgeous all night, and I wanted a minute with you for myself. I guess that makes me selfish too. Something we have in common.”
“How much did you pay him?”
“A thousand bucks. And I would’ve paid him a thousand more.”
“You’re absurd.”
“You like it,” I toss back.
This time when she smiles at me, I feel it in the center of my chest. There’s a hollow part behind my ribs where I’ve never felt an ache before. It spreads through me until everything boils down to a single entity: her.
“Yeah,” Emerson whispers, and I’ve never loved a word more. “I do.”
When she yanks me by the belt loop and pulls us into the closet, there’s a small, lingering voice in my head that tells me I might be in serious fucking trouble.