34. Maverick
THIRTY-FOUR
“June is asleep.She wanted me to tell you she really liked you, and she can’t wait for you to come back and hang out again soon.” I lean against my bedroom wall and smile at Emerson. “You got the stamp of approval, Red.”
“I’d hate to let her down,” Emerson says from my bed, her legs hanging over the edge of the mattress and her feet almost on the floor. “Guess I’ll be back.”
“We’d like that very much.”
She taps her phone on my bedside table and stands up. “It’s late. I should get going.”
“What if you stay?” I blurt. “It’s cold, and I know you’re right next door, but everyone’s going to be stumbling home drunk and messy. I don’t want something to happen to you.”
“We don’t do sleepovers,” Emerson says slowly. “We never have.”
“What if we did tonight?”
In all the times we’ve fucked, we’ve always gone back to our own rooms after a few minutes of cuddling.
I’ll kiss her forehead. She’ll run her hand up my chest. There’s a moment where we both pull apart, a string cut in two and the natural end to the intimacy.
I don’t want that tonight.
I want her right here.
Emerson bites her bottom lip. Her eyes bounce to the door behind my shoulder then to the stack of pillows next to her.
“Okay,” she says, and I almost pump my fist in the air. “Only if you set an alarm so I can sneak out before June wakes up. I don’t want to be held responsible for having to give a lecture on the birds and the bees.”
“Deal.” I lock the door and pull off my hoodie. “Do you want some clothes to sleep in? You can borrow one of my shirts. I want to see what you look like with my name on your back.”
“When are you going to wear my name on your back?”
“I’d love to make that happen, Red.” I rifle through my dresser and find an old practice jersey, tossing it to her. “Wear that one.”
“Thanks.”
Emerson pulls her shirt off, and her tits bounce free. I blow out a breath when she stands up and takes off her sweatpants, leaving a pair of boy shorts she’s been hiding all night behind.
“Those are pretty,” I rasp, staring at the pink lace. “I like that pair.”
“You do?” She slips on my shirt and turns in a slow circle so I can admire her backside. The muscles in her hamstrings and calves. Her ass cheeks and smooth skin. My fucking name stretched over her shoulders, and I might come from the sight of that alone. “Is the rest of me pretty?”
“So fucking pretty, baby. I like that you have nice things.” I shimmy out of my pants and switch my briefs for a pair of loose boxers, my eyes never leaving her body. “I like that you spoil yourself and buy what you want. It’s sexy.”
“I don’t have the contract you do, but men have been intimidated by what I make from playing and the few brand partnerships I have. They don’t usually like that I’m tall or that I could beat them in arm wrestling. They don’t like the blisters on my hands or when I look sweaty and gross.” She tips her head to the side, and our gazes meet. “Not you, though. You like all those things.”
“I love those things.” I swallow and take off my shirt, leaving it in a pile with the rest of our clothes. “I told you that you’ve only been with boys, not men. Men want you to spend your hard-earned money. They want you to wear those heels, Emmy girl, because you look like a goddess in them.”
Emerson sits on the bed and opens her thighs. Her underwear is wet, a small damp spot on the front I want to lick and taste. “You should fuck me in my heels one day.”
I tilt my head back and groan. My cock jumps in my boxers, and my hand flexes at my side. Fuck, I want to feel her shoes around my waist. Pressing into my back as I press into her.
“I’d like that,” I say, feeling dizzy as I watch her lean back on her elbows and offer herself to me. “Next time we’re on the road and you wear that little leather mini skirt. I’ll fuck you in that.”
“Keeping tabs on my outfits, Miller?” Her smile is soft at the corners, and she reaches for me. “Is that one your favorite?”
“Yeah.” I turn off the lamp by the bed and scoop her in my arms, shuffling across the California king until we’re in the middle. “I’m a sucker for your legs. Fuck what the prudes think.”
“Noted.” She rests her cheek on my chest and yawns. As much as I want to pull her on top of me and fuck her, I can tell she’s exhausted. “What’s your question? It’s the first one of the year, so it has to be good.”
“Will you tell me about your family?” I ask, brushing her hair with my fingers. “You didn’t go home for the holidays, did you?”
“Oh.” Emerson is quiet for a minute, and she stiffens in my arms. “No, I didn’t.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. You never owe me an answer.”
“It’s complicated. My dad played hockey in college, and when he and my mom were trying for kids, he really wanted a boy. When I was born, my mom was determined to steer me toward any other sport. Ballet. Figure skating. I even tried water polo and rowing. I kept going back to hockey, and she resented it,” she says.
“Why?”
“She always wanted a daughter, and I think she had this idea in her head where we’d go shopping together and get our nails done and I wouldn’t be around sweaty teenage boys. I do like to do those things, but I like to hit the puck too. I’d come home with black eyes and bruises on my body and she’d be so angry. She and my dad argued a lot—there was a lot of blame. A lot of yelling. Eventually, they got divorced. Sometimes…” Emerson trails off.
“Hey.” I brush a piece of hair away from her face. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just… I carry this weight with me. I think it’s my fault. Maybe I should’ve just done something else to make her happy. It’s why I walk around with this chip on my shoulder; I feel like I have to constantly defend my decisions.”
“No way,” I say fiercely. “That’s not how being a parent works. You were doing things that made you happy, and she should’ve been happy for you too.”
“She remarried and has three perfect daughters who wear dresses and go shopping with her and don’t have bruises all over their arms from getting shoved into the boards during a game.” She sighs. “She got what she wanted, and I guess I did too.”
“What about your dad?”
“He got hurt,” she says softly, and my heart drops to my feet. “A freak accident at a beer league game a decade ago. Broken cervical vertebrae. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
She sniffs and buries her face in my neck. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to comfort someone who just shared the most tragic part of their life with me, because telling her it’s all right. It’s going to be okay sounds like a load of fucking bullshit.
But I want to make it okay. I want to take her pain and carry some of it for myself, so she doesn’t have to do it alone.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I stroke her hair. I rub her back and hold her tight to my chest. “I’m so sorry he had to go through that.”
“It’s not your fault.” She looks up at me, and her bottom lip quivers. I wipe away a tear and kiss her forehead. “I go home during the summer, but it’s hard to get away for more than a day during the season. When I’m there, everything moves a little slower, and I never want him to feel like I’m rushing through my time with him.”
“I’m glad you still get to see him. I bet he’s so proud of you.”
“Proud is an understatement.” Her laugh tickles my skin. “He tells everyone I play hockey. People at the grocery store. The guys at the gas station. He owns about fifteen of my jerseys, and he has a weekly rotation.”
I smile. “He sounds awesome.”
“He’s the best. Despite everything he’s been through, he sends me a text every morning saying ‘great news! Today is the best day of your life!’” She laughs. “I didn’t inherit his optimism, but I go along with it anyway.”
“What are you talking about? You’re the most optimistic person I’ve ever met,” I tease, and she pinches my ribs. “Thank you for sharing him with me.”
“What about you?” Emerson asks. “There’s nothing on your Wikipedia page about your family. I’ve checked.”
“Stalking me, Hartwell?”
“It’s called curiosity, Miller.”
I hum. “You won’t ever find anything on my Wikipedia page. I pay a lot of money to keep it that way.”
“You do?” She frowns. “Why? You’re not that private a person, are you?”
“No. I, uh, grew up in foster care,” I say, and her eyes widen. “I aged out of the system.”
“What?” Emerson sits up. She crosses her legs and stares at me. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember a lot about my childhood. I know my dad wasn’t very nice to my mom. There was lots of yelling and things getting thrown. My childhood psychologist told me my mom was fighting a lot of mental health battles; postpartum depression and anxiety. Bipolar disorder. The best thing for my future was foster care.”
“You never found a home?” she asks softly.
“No. Nothing ever worked out. I went through eight different families before I aged out, and by then, I was grateful to be out. I didn’t want to get my hopes up only to be sent back.” I take her hand in mine and kiss her knuckles. “People ask why I sleep with so many women, and I think it’s because I just want to be fucking wanted. They know what they’re getting into because I’m very honest about it—it’s only for the night. Sex and no attachments. They might claim they want to date me, that they want something long term, but we know it’s only for tickets and money and fame.
“One-night stands soothe that need to be wanted, to have someone who wants to keep me, even if it’s only for a few hours. This way, I get to control things. I’m the one who leaves, not them. That probably makes me a horrible person. My therapist tells me sex can’t be my coping mechanism forever, and I’m starting to understand why. The older I get, the more I have this deeper desire to be wanted for real. To find someone who wants to keep me—not Maverick Miller the hockey player, but Maverick Miller, the fuckup kid without a family who tells jokes so no one knows he sometimes feels dead inside. And not just for the night, but for a long time. It goes against everything I’ve wanted up to this point, and it confuses the ever-loving fuck out of me.”
“Oh, Maverick,” Emerson whispers, and she climbs into my lap. Her hug is grounding, and when she rocks me in her arms, my nose stings. I blink away tears, and I hide my face in her hair. “You sweet man. You’re the furthest thing from a horrible person. You have a gentle soul that’s been beaten up and broken through no fault of your own. I’m so sorry anyone’s ever made you feel like you weren’t worth keeping for more than a night. You are and you’re wonderful and… and one day, when you want to settle down, you’re going to make someone really happy, and they’re never going to leave. You know why?”
“Why?” I ask, keeping my face hidden.
I’m afraid to look at her. To show her this stripped-down and broken side of myself I’ve never let anyone else see. Not even Hudson or Dallas or Reid have cracked open this part of my shell. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Emerson’s the person to do it; she’s heard so many of my secrets, this is just another we’re adding to the pile.
“Because you love everyone fiercely. You put your whole being into the people you care about, and a woman is going to come along who sees that. Who knows what a gift you are, and it will be an honor for her to fall in love with you. She’ll protect your heart, and it’s going to be okay.”
I’ve never imagined my future, but for a second, I do. I look one year, five years, ten years down the road and try to get a glimpse into who that person might be, but all I see is red hair.
Green eyes.
A wicked smile and a whispered pretty boy in my ear.
Oh, fucking shit.
My eyes fly open and I pull away so I can look at her. Emerson is staring at me, and I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to fucking do because this is my fuck buddy not my fucking foreverbuddy. But the idea of fucking her forever doesn’t scare me when it normally would, and I think I might be having a stroke.
“Hey.” She touches my cheek and frowns. “Are you okay?”
No.
Yes.
I don’t fucking know.
Am I staring at the woman whose finger I’m going to put a big fucking ring on someday?
Am I going into a tailspin because I never talk about this shit and she’s the one I’m talking about it with and it’s tricking my brain into thinking we’re going to have a life together?
“I’m fine,” I get out, and I know she doesn’t believe me. “Thank you for listening to me. I know it doesn’t have to be said, but if you could not run off and tell?—”
“My lips are sealed. I promise.”
I’m done talking. I’m done with feelings and confusing emotions.
I want her.
I want to fuck her like I always do and get back to the normal that we do so fucking well.
I take off her shirt and bring my mouth to her chest, sucking on her nipple. I slip my hand between her legs and nudge her thighs open, hissing when I find her wet and tight and ready for me.
“Fuck, I want you, Emmy,” I say into her neck, and I lick a hot swipe of my tongue up her throat. “Can I have you?”
“Please,” she begs, and she tugs on my boxers. Her hand wraps around my cock and she strokes me with determined pumps. “I need you, Maverick.”
“Let me get a condom.” I reach for the bedside table, but her fingers curl around my wrist. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you fuck me without one?” she whispers, and my skin burns. “I want to feel you.”
I take a deep breath and try to shove all the smart and rational thoughts to the front of my brain, but it’s fucking difficult when she takes my other hand and rests it flat on the bed. When she lifts her hips and sinks down, fucking herself on my fingers.
“Goddammit,” I groan. “Are you—what do?—”
“I’m on the pill,” she says. “I take it every day.”
“Are you sure?” I let go of the drawer and wrap my hand around her neck. “You have to be one hundred percent sure, Emmy, because when I sink into you and fuck you raw, that’s it. You’re mine for good. I’m not sharing you with anyone else. It’s my cum that’s going to fill you up. It’s my cock that’s going to take care of your pussy. I’m going to have you wherever the fuck I want, and I’m a needy man, baby. I’m going to need you a lot.”
Her throat bobs, and her eyes blaze with desire. She rolls her hips and moans. “No one fucks you like I do, do they? That’s why you keep coming back to me. I’m the only girl you’ve ever been with more than once because you can’t get enough of me, can you?”
White-hot pleasure rips through me when she grips my cock and runs her thumb over the slit. She rubs pre-cum across the head, and I’m already seeing fucking stars.
“I can’t get enough of you,” I agree, and she strokes me all the way to the base. Up, then back down, and I’m panting like I’ve never been touched before. “I’ll never get enough of you, baby.”
“I’m sure. I’m sure, Maverick, and I want you to fuck me like I’m yours.”
Everything turns blurry after that.
Mine.
I ease Emerson onto her back and climb on top of her. I bend her legs until they press into her chest and I grip her thighs. I tease her with my cock, rubbing her clit until I’m covered in her wetness and she’s begging me to take her.
And I do.
I slide inside her, and this, this, is fucking heaven. The way she feels warm and perfect around me. How she clenches around my cock and groans when I hit the perfect spot.
It’s fucking—rough and primal and claiming in a way I’ve never claimed anyone else.
But it feels different too.
I notice it when she takes my hand in hers. When our eyes meet mid-thrust and she smiles. When I try to pull out but she asks me to come inside her, a shyness to her words that’s never been there before.
After, when we’ve cleaned up and she’s in my arms, it’s there again.
I never really felt like I had a home. But with Emmy next to me, I think home is wherever she is.
A place I’d like to stay forever.