Face Off (D.C. Stars, #1)

by Chelsea Curto

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).

I’ve been around a lot of penises in my life, but the one six inches away from my face is the last one I ever wanted to see.

If she’s the sunshine, I’m the storm cloud. One of us is the people-pleaser and the other is the people-avoider. Two total opposites who found a friendship that works.

She found me when I needed her the most and made me feel lovable. Capable.

I love my bestfriends

“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?”

His good looks irritate me more than his cocky attitude.

If he wasn’t so obnoxious and full of himself, I might find it sexy.

“Game on, Hartwell. I hope you’re ready for war.” “I always win, Miller,”

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.

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.

I don’t care that she’d probably hit me over the head with her stick if given the opportunity. I just want to know something about her.

I’m not doing this only for myself. It’s for all the girls out there who have ever been told they can’t. That they’re not good enough, and they’ll never be good enough, so why bother trying? It’s a giant fuck you to anyone who’s ever made us feel two inches tall—in sports, in life, in a relationship—because we deserve so much more.

“Chin up, buttercup.

“And if I don’t agree?” “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here,” he tells me without hesitation.

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.

I might not like him, but I can’t deny Maverick has a calming presence.

I don’t remember the last time I fell asleep with a smile on my face, but leave it to Maverick goddamn Miller to be the one to do it.

“What’s a girl have to do to get a plate of food instead of getting eye-fucked around here?”

“The things that make us happy are never stupid. That’s how I am with plants,”

Real

I managed to not get thrown off the balcony and I made her laugh. Twice. Hat trick for me.

“You,” he says, and it’s so soft, I think I might have misheard him. “Can I have you, Emmy?” Emmy. Not Red. Not Hartwell. Emmy.

A little m gets carved out in my chest, an incision in a spot no one else has ever found. Now it belongs to him.

“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.”

“Have I finally figured out a way to shut you up, Red?” Maverick murmurs. “A way to keep your smart mouth from running all the fucking time?” “There are other ways to shut me up, but here we are. Still against a wall when I could be choking on your cock.”

Maverick Miller is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

“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.”

I might only have her for one night—an hour at best—but I’m going to ruin her so badly no one will ever measure up to me.

“Maybe I should stop. Or watch from the chair. I could make you put on a show for me without ever giving you my cock. It’s what you get for mouthing off and being a fucking brat.” I grip her chin, leaving room for her to pull away if she wants an escape. “I don’t fucking share.”

“I’m going to make a mess of you, Emmy girl.”

One fucking second inside her, and I’m already an addict. Nothing is ever going to be this good again.

“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.”

Death by your pussy is the only way I want to go, and I’m not going to stop until you come on my tongue.”

I’ll never tell him this, but Maverick Miller did give me the best orgasm of my life.

but my mind flashes back to the hotel room in Chicago. Maverick, telling me he doesn’t share.

There’s not enough alcohol in this bar to get the sounds he makes when he comes out of my head. To forget how those tattoos look in the moonlight and between my legs.

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.”

I’ve been feeling that I’m not worthy just because I’ve been frustrated lately, but that frustration is normal.

“You’re into science now?” “When it comes to your pussy, Red, I’m Bill-fucking-Nye.”

“Maybe my next tattoo will be the word mine on the back of my right hand.” His fingers dance up my neck and curl around my throat. “So you know who you belong to when you’re with me.” “Show me,” I whisper. “Show me I’m yours for the night, Maverick.”

“Goddamn you.” I fist the cotton of his shirt and give him a little shake. “Why do you have to be so goddamn hot and such a nice guy?”

“You hate that I’m a nice guy, don’t you?” “I despise it.”

I’ve never wanted someone the way I want Emerson—repeatedly. Consistently. Every second of every day.

I have some ice cream in the fridge, I’m going to open a bottle of wine, I’m reading a romance book that’s making me kick my feet. What more can you ask for?”

“What if I want to figure out how you take your coffee? See what plants you buy for your place and make fun of you for sleeping with eight blankets?” I lick my lips. “I’d like that very much.” “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

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.

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.

Watching Maverick punch the ever-loving shit out of Cole was hot as hell, but the icing on the cake was when he was escorted off the ice. He looked back at me, bloodied and bruised, and smiled. Fucking smiled, and mouthed, I’d do it again. I know he would.

“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.”