39. Maverick
THIRTY-NINE
Me
Whose jersey are you wearing for Heroes and Legends night?
It’s so nice to not have to dress up in a suit and tie. We need to have some more of these next season.
Redheaded Assassin
No one’s. My dad told me he’d disown me if I picked a favorite, so I’m being neutral and not wearing one at all.
Are you wearing your Lemieux jersey?
Me
Nope. Someone else tonight.
Redheaded Assassin
You can’t wear your own jersey, Miller.
Me
Try and stop me, Hartwell.
“Hey, Bill.”I whistle at the retro Gretzky jersey he has on. It looks decades old, and I’m jealous as hell. “Damn. Is that authentic?”
“It is.” The security guard turns around and proudly shows off the memorabilia. “It’s from his rookie season.”
“Shit. I would’ve loved to have seen him play back then.”
“I saw him in his first year and knew he was going to be special. I thought the same thing about you. Still do.”
“Nah, man.” I shake my head. “You can’t do that. I’m nowhere near as good. I’ve been in the league almost half the time as he was, and I don’t have anything to show for it. No Stanley Cups. No game sevens, and no playoff experience. We’re not on the same playing field.”
“Wins don’t mean everything, Maverick. You’re the same kind of leader. You have that same kind of passion for the game. That’s the stuff that matters more than goals and assists.”
“Come on, Bill. You’re making me all emotional, and I have a game to get ready for.”
“Sorry.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “Who are you wearing? I can’t see under your jacket.”
“It’s a surprise.” I wave and head for security screening. “All I’ll tell you is it’s my favorite player to date.”
I throw my phone and keys in a bowl and make small talk with the officer standing at the metal detector. He picked one of my jerseys for tonight, and I happily sign the back of it for him.
I whistle as I walk down the hallway toward the locker room, a lightness in my step.
Everything’s been so good lately.
I got to play in the All-Star Game and competed on the same team as some of the guys I went to college with. Our schedule for the second half of the season is lighter than the first, which leaves me optimistic about our playoff chances.
Emmy has been over almost every single night this week, and when we had a road game in Phoenix two days ago, we spent the afternoon walking around downtown in a pair of baseball hats, soaking up the sunshine.
I know it’s not dating, but it’s exactly what dating would be like.
Dallas was right—this other stuff is really fucking fun.
We sleep together and eat meals together. We hang out when we’re not at practice or on the road. She calls me when she’s watering her plants, and I call her when I’m at the grocery store. Sometimes we chat for ten minutes. Sometimes it turns into an hour.
It’s like we’re stuck in the murky middle between friends with benefits and boyfriend and girlfriend, and I think it’s time to have a talk with her. I don’t know if she wants to keep going down this road of constantly being in each other’s lives, but I do. And I want to put a label on it so there’s no confusion.
“Smile, Mavvy,” Maven calls out, and I grin as she snaps a couple photos of me in the players’ hallway. “Take your coat off so I can see who you’re wearing, please.”
“So bossy.” I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her arm, turning around so she can see the name stitched on the back. “What do you think?”
“Oh, shit.” She laughs, and her camera clicks two dozen times. “You’re going to break the internet.”
“What?” I face her and frown. “Fuck. Did I do something wrong?”
“No, sweetie. You did something very, very right. It’s always the girl wearing the guy’s jersey, not the other way around. This is so cool.”
I glance down at the jersey I ordered two weeks ago—an XL Stars jersey with Hartwell’s name and number on the back in our hometown white. I’ve had the idea since they announced the themed night, but I didn’t want her to think I was wearing it as a joke or to poke fun at her.
“Do you think she’ll like it?” I ask, suddenly nervous about how she might react. Emmy doesn’t strike me as a grand gesture kind of woman, and I really hope I’m not overstepping some invisible boundary we’ve put up. “I have a spare jersey in my locker I can change into.”
“She’s going to love it,” Maven assures me.
“Is she here yet? I tried to come in early so I could see her before we dress.”
“No, but it should be any minute now. She rides with Piper, and they have this weird habit of rolling up at exactly the same time every night.”
“Thanks, Mae.” I bend down and kiss the top of her head. “How’s my June Bug?
“We went shopping for her flower girl dress the other day, and you’re going to die when you see it.” She gives me a sly smile. “Speaking of June Bug, a little birdie told me you had a special visitor for New Year’s.”
“I might have,” I say. “We?—”
I hear her before I see her.
Emmy’s voice travels down the hall, and I look over my shoulder.
One second the hallway is empty, then I blink, and she’s there. Red hair everywhere. A white turtleneck and pinstripe pants with a matching vest. A gold necklace around her neck and leather sneakers that make me go weak in the knees.
“Fucking Christ,” I murmur under my breath.
“I heard that,” Maven says, and I flip her off.
It’s been months of seeing her in business casual, in pretty dresses and different pairs of heels, and my heart still skips a goddamn beat at the sight of her.
I think I might have a chronic condition brought on by Emerson Hartwell.
“Hey, Mae,” Emmy calls out, and she waves. “Miller? What are—” She stops in her tracks and blinks at me with those green eyes. Her gaze hovers on my shoulders then snaps to my face. “What are you wearing?”
“Hm?” I keep my back to her and shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She stomps across the hall, and it takes everything in me not to laugh at her feistiness. She tugs on my sleeve.
“This is my jersey.”
“Is it?”
“Maverick. What are… Why are you wearing my jersey?”
“Because it’s Heroes and Legends night. You’re my hero, Hartwell, and you’re definitely going to become a legend. You already are, but technically I don’t think we can classify one season in the NHL as legendary. Kind of bullshit if you ask me. Also, I distinctly remember you asking when I was planning on having your name across my back, so here we are.”
“Why… I—” Her fingers trace the block letters and the number seventeen then trace them again. “The only person who’s ever worn my jersey is my dad.”
“And the eight thousand fans out there,” I say.
“I mean another athlete. One of my peers.”
“Men in other leagues wear women’s jerseys all the time. That trend should start in the NHL too, don’t you think?”
“This might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she whispers.
“You deserve nice things, remember?” I glance to the side and see that Maven and Piper have disappeared. I didn’t even notice they left. “It’s a fucking honor and a privilege to play beside you. There was never any doubt about who I wanted to represent. It’s you, and it’s always going to be you.”
“Are you just talking about the jersey?” Emmy tips her chin up. “Or something else?”
I crowd her space and put my hands on the wall, bracketing her head. “Do you want me to be talking about something else?”
“Yes.” She bites her bottom lip. “I do.”
I take a deep breath. This isn’t where I expected to have this conversation, but I’m not going to complain. The sooner we have it, the better.
“I want more with you, Emmy. I want to come home to you every night and I want to take you out to dinner in the city. I want to hold your hand on the sidewalk and I want to kiss you in the rain. I want all that shit they talk about in the movies. I’m going to be honest with you, though. I don’t have a fucking clue how to be in a relationship or how to be a boyfriend, but I’m going to learn. I’m going to try, and you’re the only person I’d ever want to try with. This isn’t just sex to me, and it hasn’t been for a while. If keeping it casual is the only way I get to keep you, then so be it. But I think you want something more too.”
Her nod is slow. “I want that. I want you to wear my jersey and let me wear my heels. I want you to come food shopping with me and give me an eight-minute lecture on why almonds are better than pecans.”
“They are,” I say firmly, and she touches my cheek.
“That’s why I like you so much. You’re so passionate about the things that are important to you, like almonds. Who the hell gets excited about almonds?”
“I do, because they’re good for you. They’ve got vitamins and minerals and all that other stuff we’re supposed to eat every day.” I take her hand in mine and kiss the inside of her palm.
“Enough almond talk.”
“Is that a yes to… to being whatever comes after fuck buddies?”
“I think they usually call that boyfriend and girlfriend. Dating. Acting like idiots because we can’t keep our hands off each other.”
“Yes.” I bob my head. “Yes to all of that.”
Her smile is soft and pretty. “It’s okay if you don’t know what you’re doing. We’re definitely going to mess up, but we can mess up together and it doesn’t matter. I’m going to get mad at you for wearing mismatched socks. You’re going to get mad at me for not laughing at your jokes. We’ll give it a try and see where it goes.”
“This conversation is not what I had planned when I put your jersey on.”
“What did you have planned?”
“I was ready to hype you up and tell you all the reasons why I’m going to buy one of your jerseys in every color. I had your stat line ready to go.”
“I can be difficult sometimes, Maverick. I know I’m snarky, and the last thing I’d ever want is for it to come across as ungrateful for something that’s so nice.” Emmy pauses to take a breath. “I want you to know when you do things like this—” She gestures up and down my body—“I struggle to find the words for how it makes me feel. Thank you seems too small, and I’m working on being more outwardly appreciative of your kindness. Inside I’m…” She pops a shoulder and tucks her chin to her chest. “It gives me butterflies, and I feel lucky that I’m the one you’re giving your time to.”
“I know how you feel, Emmy.” I rest my hand at the back of her neck. “I see it when you smile at me. Which is a lot, by the way.”
“No, it’s not,” she challenges, and I grin.
“You’re smiling right now, Red. You’ve got these little wrinkles around your eyes, and they’re the cutest damn thing. They make me want to stick around for a while.”
“How long?”
Forever.
“Until you get sick of me.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get sick of you,” Emmy admits. “You’re my favorite person in the world.”
“Funny. You’re my favorite person too.”
The door down the hall opens, and she scoots out of the cage I have her in. Grant gives us a big wave, and Emmy waves back.
“Sup, G?” I ask, and we exchange a high five. “You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Oh, shit, Cap. Is that Emmy’s jersey? No fucking way. That’s fire.” Grant pulls out his phone and starts to record a video. “Check out the drip from Maverick Miller tonight, y’all. He’s rocking an exclusive Emmy Hartwell jersey complete with custom high-top Nikes.”
“I don’t know what half of those words mean,” Emmy says.
“Neither do I.” I stick my tongue out at the camera. “I’m going to head to the locker room and dress. You all should too so we’re not late and stuck skating laps before the game.”
“Yes sir.” Grant gives me a salute and heads down the hall, talking to his followers.
“See you out there?” I say to Emmy.
“Yeah.” She nudges me as she passes. “And later tonight, I want you to fuck me wearing that jersey.”
I groan and put my head against the wall, embarrassed by how much her smirk turns me on.