Page 24 of Power Play

The whole team is lined up, organizing themselves in the same formation they take after they finish a game and interact with the opposing players.

Maverick is at the start of the line, followed by nineteen other guys in their bright blue away jerseys.

He skates in my direction, a wide grin on his face as he holds out his arm, motioning for a fist bump. My knuckles knock against his glove and he tugs on my ponytail with his free hand until a laugh slips out of me like popped champagne.

“Give them hell, Piper,” he calls out as he skates away.

Each player repeats the motion until I get to the end of the line and Liam is the last one left. He slows to a stop in front of me with his larger gloves and his intimidating presence.

“Piper,” he grunts.

“Liam,” I say.

“Heard about the promotion. Congratulations.”

“Thought you hated talking to the media.”

“I don’t see a microphone in your hand yet.”

“Maybe I’m hiding one in my pocket.”

“Your jacket is very pink.”

“Some might say it’s not pink enough.”

“What shade is that? Pepto-Bismol?”

“Close. It’s actually Mind Your Business,” I say jokingly.

His snort is barely audible over the music blaring from the public address system, but I hear it loud and clear. He lifts his helmet until it sits on top of his head, the tiniest smile on his mouth.

We never spend this long talking at games.

He usually gives me a quick nod. A curt hello before grumbling toward the locker room, and I like the extra attention from him more than I should.

“Felt like I needed an extra boost of confidence tonight, and brightly colored clothing was a safer choice than downing some vodka. Having access to a microphone while tipsy sounds like the recipe for an FCC violation.”

“You’re going to do great,” he says, voice dropping impossibly low so I have to lean in close to hear him. I smell his sweat and the faint trace of fabric softener clinging to his jersey.

“And if I don’t?”

I ask the question I know he’ll answer honestly. Liam doesn’t beat around the bush and there’s ever any hidden meaning; his bluntness is a blessing and a curse. He’ll tell you exactly what he means, and somehow, I need to hear this fromhim.

“Then you dust yourself off and try again tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next, until you fucking do it. But you don’t have a damn thing to worry about.”

“Wow. That’s some surprising optimism from the guy who once told a reporter to piss off.”

“I didn’t like that reporter, and he can still piss off. You’re a different story.”

“A good different story?”

“Your fate is in your hands, Pipsqueak.”

“That’s not the sage advice I was looking for.”

“You’ll figure it out. And until then, you’re going to be just fine.”

Liam puts his helmet back in place and heads for the goal. He drops to the ice to stretch his groin. When he lifts his chin and gives me a slow thumbs-up, I take it as the biggest compliment in the world.

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