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For the girls who don’t only like to read about sports, but like to play them too. (And for the girlies who love to see the six-foot-four NHL captain get on his knees and beg like a good boy–Maverick Miller is for you).
“Does that line normally work?” she asks, her voice sultry and low.
“It’s a shame it’s only going to be ninety-nine percent effective now. The only thing I want to do with you, pretty boy, is kick your ass on the ice,” she whispers. I swallow and try to get my bearings. She’s so close, and I fucking love it. “You think I’m pretty?” “You would only hear that part, wouldn’t you?” “Is ice play some sort of kink of yours?”
“Only about ways to destroy you,” I answer, voice impossibly soft as I unbuckle my helmet and his eyes gleam with delight. “You better make sure you eat your vegetables on Sunday night, Miller. What you saw today doesn’t touch my A game.” “I have no problem with that. I love to eat.” He licks his lips, and the implication behind his words is obvious. “Sleep tight, Red. You have no idea what you’re in for.”
Hartwell’s hockey skills are on a different planet, and I think I might be a little bit in love with her. I’ve never seen anyone play like that, and I have no fucking clue how she’s not already on an NHL roster.
Her attention to detail is unmatched. I saw the way her eyes anticipated my defensive moves before I got into position, and I’m going to dream about the way she hits the puck until my dying days.
UNTIL HIS DYING DAYSSSSSSS
I regret not watching those damn videos, because I would’ve shown them to my camp kids a few weeks ago. Given them a lesson on what hockey should look like, because she’s the gold fucking standard.
A smile—the tiniest, faintest smile I’ve ever seen—pulls at her lips, and I’m the proudest motherfucker in the world. I want to set off a confetti cannon. Hang a banner from the rafters of the Civic Center that says I MADE EMERSON HARTWELL SMILE. Put it on a T-shirt and wear it around town.
That earns me another half smile from her, and I want to collect them all. Shove them in my pocket and keep them for myself.
“She hasn’t played a game yet and you’re already throwing her under the bus?” I ask, grabbing the microphone. “Pardon my language, but that’s not going to fucking fly around here. Treat my teammates with respect, or I’ll make sure we remove your press access for the foreseeable future. You can watch games on channel 5, not from the cushy media box, asshat.”
“You don’t have a girl’s handwriting inked on your body?” Her eyes bounce down my tattooed arm then back up. “I’m shocked.” “I don’t. Can I use yours?” I ask. “I’ll put pretty boy right over my heart.”
I’ve always considered myself a feminist, but there’s something so goddamn sexy about a man in a backwards hat that has me ready to drop to my knees for the patriarchy.
“You won’t. I invited you here.” He lays down multiple one-hundred-dollar bills, and I gape at him. “What?” “That’s a lot of money.” “Darla is the guardian to her granddaughter, and she works two jobs to make ends meet. I leave an extra tip whenever I stop by—I won’t notice the difference, but she does.”
“Avoid the charcuterie boards—there are strawberries on them. I’ll make sure there aren’t any next time.” Emerson hesitates. “What are you talking about?” “Strawberries?” I repeat. “The fruit? You’re allergic, right? The flight to Milwaukee tomorrow would suck if your eyes were all puffy.” Her mouth opens then closes. A deep flush of pink settles on her cheeks, and she grips the door knob with white knuckles. “Yeah, I’m allergic. I’m surprised you—” She shakes her head. “I’ll see you inside, Miller.”
“But I’d like you a whole lot more if you got on your knees like a good boy and showed me you know how to use your tongue and fingers for something less annoying than running your mouth. If not, I have no problem making you sit in a chair and watch while I get off from eight inches of silicone.”
“You said you wanted me on my knees.” He drops a kiss to my shin, then kneels on the ground in front of me. “And I’ve always liked being a good boy.”
“No one’s ever made you come like this because you were with boys before. I’m a man, and I told you I like to eat. Now fucking sit.”
“That’s how life and sports go. Some days you’re frustrated as hell, and some days you want to throw in the towel. But as long as it still makes your heart beat, you have to keep showing up. You don’t give up on the things you love just because they get hard.”
“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.”
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.
Maverick grins, and there’s nothing sweet about it. “You might want to call the commissioner and start apologizing, Coach. We’re going to be in a heap of fucking trouble when we’re finished here tonight.”
I don’t want her as a teammate or someone I fuck multiple times a week. I want her as so much more—a partner. A girlfriend. My best friend. I don’t know if we lose the game or not. I really don’t fucking care, because I’ve already won. I have her, and she’s the greatest prize of all.
“That’s your girl?” Hudson asks. “Yeah.” I grin, and there’s an arrow lodged in my chest. “That’s my girl.”
“How long have you been in love with her?” Alan asks, and I blink.
“You two play hard out there. And take your time with finding the words, Maverick. She’s worth the wait,” he says with a wink.
“Can you—” his throat bobs, and his hand trembles when he wraps his fingers around my thigh. “No one’s ever loved me before—not like this—and I would really like to hear you say it again.”
