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).

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?”

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.

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.

“Who’s the asshole who made you believe you shouldn’t be proud of your accomplishments?”

I don’t like that he’s making her laugh. I don’t like that she thinks he’s funny, and I liked it better when it was just the two of us.

this woman is fucking incredible. Special.

EG- I hope you’re the one who finds this. If not, I’ll deny any involvement. Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite. Can’t wait to see you tonight. I really hope you’re not wearing any underwear. -PB

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.

“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.

The visitors’ locker room is chaos after the game. Grant sneaks me in, and the boys are acting like we won the Cup.

“Hi, Emmy girl,” he murmurs softly. “Hi, pretty boy.”

“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.”

Love. Love, love, love. I think I might love him a little bit. A whole lot, actually, and I don’t know when that happened.

“You deserve all the nice things, Emmy girl, and when you’re with me, I’m going to give them to you.” I love him.

AHHHHHHH

“I love when you flirt with me, Emmy girl.” I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

His giggle is high-pitched and contagious, and as night stretches to early morning, the two of us fall asleep in each other’s arms, and I think this is what it means to be truly happy.

“That’s your girl?” Hudson asks. “Yeah.” I grin, and there’s an arrow lodged in my chest. “That’s my girl.”

Love. I love her? The blood drains from my face and I pinch the bridge of my nose. Oh, god. I love her. I fucking love her. I love her, and I’d do anything for her. There’s no way she loves me back, is there? Except… when she looks at me, she brightens up. Her smile is wide and her eyes twinkle.

I love you, I think, when we head to the locker room. I love you, I think, when we celebrate her goal in the first period. I love you, I think, when we win the game and she jumps in my arms.

I love you, I think, when she rests her head on my shoulder in the hotel elevator after we get back from dropping Alan off in Lansing. I love you, I love you, I love you, I want to scream. When she kisses my chest before we fall asleep, I think she loves me too.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “I can’t believe I get to have you. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “I love her. I fucking love her.”