Chapter 25 Maverick
maverick
When Chloe finally crawled back into the tent last night, I did the only thing I could think to do. Pretend to be asleep.
Considering how cold it was last night, and how long she stayed out there, I figured she was hoping that I would be asleep when she came back.
I didn't exactly feel like admitting to how hot my blood had boiled, or the urge I had to chuck her phone across the lake when I saw Nathan’s name pop up, so I think pretending to be asleep was probably the best call for both of us.
The drive back to Linden Creek looks the same outside, but something inside the car has shifted.
It would be easiest to blame it on the post-get-away slump.
The hype of taking a mini trip for the weekend is now over, but I’ve done this drive home a few times, and while I’m usually a lot more hungover, I know that’s not the only difference.
Glancing over at Chloe, she’s got her head pressed all the way back, face turned to the window, and other than picking the paint at the corners of her nails, she doesn’t move.
What did Nathan want?
Are you thinking about him now?
Do you regret coming this weekend?
I smack my gum between my teeth, biting back the questions I want answers to. It’s not until I run through them again that I have absolute clarity on why this drive back is so hard.
I’m jealous. I’m fucking jealous of a guy I never thought twice about before.
I’m jealous that he has unwavering loyalty from someone so perfect.
I’m jealous that he still has this effect over her, that just by seeing his name, she’s immediately pulled back into whatever game he’s playing.
I’m jealous that he gets even a moment of her attention.
I’m jealous that even though he doesn't deserve her, he will always be someone she could be with and people wouldn’t wonder what she was doing with him.
Aside from the random, “Are you warm enough?” and “Let me know if you want me to stop for anything,” the ride home was fairly quiet. Not including the two-hour dialogue I had in my head. Mostly constant panic and more jealousy that she would be calling Nathan as soon as I dropped her off.
“Do you have plans for the rest of the day?” I ask, pulling into her apartment complex.
“Unpack,” her voice rasps, likely because it hasn’t been used in a while. “I have a tutoring session at four, and then I signed up for an interview prep group.”
I put the car in park but leave the engine running. “Interview prep group?”
“Yeah. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “My advisor sent me a flyer. They meet in the library for an hour, and the lady that runs it only does it once a month, so I figured I’d check it out.”
She reaches for her bag between her feet, and I’m desperate for anything to say to keep her here.
This awkwardness between us now is eating me alive.
Over the last few days, I’ve been spoiled by the quiet moments, the silent touches, and the stolen glances.
And now, caught in this weird space, I’d do anything to fall back into that easiness with her.
I know I don’t deserve her. Her time, her company, her attention.
Fuck, I don’t deserve any of it. It doesn’t stop me from craving it, though.
I’ve become addicted to the way I feel just getting to be in her presence.
And that realization alone should be enough to scare the ever-living fuck out of me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at Creekside?” she asks, pushing the door open.
Say something. Anything.
I manage a smile that I know doesn’t have the same tilt to it as the ones that come without trying, and give her a swift nod of my head.
“Hey, Maverick.” The girl working the counter at The Den is all smiles as she presses her hands together in front of her, showing off the deep crevice of her cleavage.
There was a time when I would get a kick out of coming here.
It was a guaranteed five minutes of flirting, and if the barista was able to take a ten minute break, nine times out of ten, she would go back to work having just gotten off from my fingers, and I would’ve got a nice little rub and tug.
I would go on about my day, and her new claim to fame would be that she hooked up with Maverick Hall.
The girl ringing up my coffee cares about me only for what I can do between her legs, and I couldn't care less. Instead, I'm hopelessly consumed by the one girl who cares about me for everything else.
Black coffee in hand, with Kelly’s number scribbled down on the side of my cup, I turn to find a kid in a gray henley sitting at the table by the window. He raises a hand with a nervous smile.
“Dave?”
“Yes. Hi.” He gestures for me to sit across from him.
When I agreed to do an article for the university’s newspaper, I don’t know why I was expecting a seventy-year-old man with a thick gray beard, coke bottle glasses, and a pipe.
Twenty-one year old Dave with his brown hair combed over like Rico Suave, a waffle knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and a smile charming enough to rival Noah Kingston is throwing me off.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling the seat out. “I was expecting someone…” I hold my hand out, searching for the word before I land on, "different."
“No worries.” He runs his palms over his thighs. “Do you mind if I record the interview? I’ll take notes, but this will be helpful when I go back to edit,” he asks, setting a device down between us.
“Sure.”
“Cool.” He presses a button as I take a sip of my coffee. “Okay, well, first of all, thank you so much for agreeing to do this interview. I know with a season like you’ve been having you must be incredibly busy, so I really appreciate you taking the time to be here.”
“Of course.”
“So, I guess the first thing that everyone wants to know is how your hockey career started. Many of us that have followed you since coming to LCU, know what’s coming next, and we’ll get to that in a little bit, but I don’t think many people know your origin story. Was your family involved in hockey?”
“No.” I grin, and it takes some effort not to laugh.
“No. Both of my parents are doctors. My dad’s an anesthesiologist, and my mom is an OB/GYN.
My brothers and I did a lot of after school activities.
I think it was mostly just a way to keep us entertained.
But yeah, I was the only one who made it part of my personality. ”
“You’ve become one of the most talked about players on the team over the last few years. How do you deal with that kind of attention?”
I take the lid off my cup and blow into it, buying myself some time to figure out how I want to answer.
“I mean, I think it’s fair to say most of the attention I’ve received hasn’t been all that positive.
” My suspension last year after taking down that kid from Hawthorne got me on the front page news.
While getting drafted last summer made a single sentence smashed somewhere into an article about Coach Alvarez and Noah bringing the team to another victory this year.
“But I’m a three-time NCAA hockey champion, who got drafted for the NHL.
I like to think I know what I’m doing, and truthfully, I don’t have time to listen to all the other bullshit. ”
Dave hides a smile while scribbling on his paper. “I’ll have to edit that to stuff,” he says before moving onto the next question. “You play quite an aggressive game. Where do you think that edge comes from?”
Just tell him. I’m not aggressive. Yes, I’ve thrown my weight around a time or two, but it’s hockey, for fuck’s sake. We’re not out here playing no-contact golf.
I run my hands along the tops of my thighs, shifting slightly in my seat.
Admittedly, when they asked me if I was interested in doing this interview, I was shocked that they chose me.
There was a piece of me—I’m realizing now a much larger piece than I initially thought—that wanted to show everyone I’m more than just the guy shouldering people into the boards.
But that’s the part people are interested in.
It doesn’t matter what I say or do. It’s like the kid that gets sick in fifth grade and can’t make it to the bathroom on time.
He could go on to be the mayor of whatever podunk town he’s from, but thirty other people will always remember him as the kid that threw up in class.
“I’m a hockey player. I’m not here to hold hands and skip around with the other team. If you’re in my way,” I shrug my shoulder, “that’s a you problem.”
David’s eyes assess me, and I can’t tell if he’s buying what I’m selling.
After a moment, he nods his head, clicks his pen, and then shifts in his seat.
“Alright. Lastly, I’m not sure if you’ve read our paper before, but we like to end every interview with a rapid fire round.
I’m going to ask a question, and you just give me the first thing that comes to mind. Sound good?”
“Let’s do it.”
“Alright. Pepsi or Coke.”
“Coke.”
“Who do you text the most?”
“Probaly, Kingston.”
“What is your favorite word in another language?
“Chimichangana.”
“Is your bed made right now?”
“Of course.”
“Beach or mountains.”
Beach is ingrained in me. But the moment of pause reminds me of all the stars that must be visible from the mountains, so I answer with the latter.
“What's the best non-curse word insult?”
I lift my hand, throwing up a L sign, and that gets a crack out of him.
“And finally, if you weren’t playing hockey, what would you be doing?”
Drowning. Failing. That’s the million-dollar question for someone who put all his eggs into one basket, isn’t it?