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“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.
“Oh, hell. I can already tell she’s going to be my new favorite person.” “You’re not allowed to gang up on me.” “Why not? It’s so much fun.”
It’s going to be hard to win if your hands are around my neck and cutting off my air supply.” “You’re not into that? I’m surprised.” “I might be. Want to find out?”
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 was using the photos as a dartboard. Your face was the bull’s-eye.”
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?
A thought I’ve been having more and more lately these last few weeks, but becomes solidified right now: this woman is fucking incredible. Special. Changing the future of the sport and inspiring girls and women everywhere, all while wearing ribbons and mascara.
“What good is being rich if you don’t spend the money on people who deserve it?
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.
Her laugh is loud, and I puff out my chest. Stand a little taller like a smug bastard, because I’m finally getting somewhere with Emerson, and that boosts my pride.
“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.”
“Enjoy your last few throws. You might be a loser on the board, Hartwell, but you’re a winner in my book.”
“You’ve turned into a liability since you stole my favorite pair of underwear, Miller. You should know I’m not wearing any tonight.” His mouth goes slack, and I grin all the way to my seat.
She smiles at me. There are four hundred people are here, and she’s picking me to give out her smiles to. I’m the luckiest bastard in this room.
“I like when you call me that,” she whispers. “I like when you call me Red and Hartwell, but I also really like when you call me Emmy too. It doesn’t sound the same compared to whenever anyone else uses my name.”
This time when she smiles at me, I feel it in the center of my chest. There’s a hollow part behind my ribs where I’ve never felt an ache before. It spreads through me until everything boils down to a single entity: her.
I can’t figure out what I’m feeling either, because seeing him with a kid in his arms and loving on her does something to my insides.
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’m going to kill him,” Maverick whispers. “I’m going to rip each one of his limbs from his body until he’s nothing but a pile of fucking bones.”
“If he comes within four feet of the goal, I’ll shove my stick down his throat,” Liam says, and from him, it’s the equivalent of a love poem.
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.
