Page 5 of Power Play

“I don’teatmy clothes.”

“Hey, whatever you want to call it. I’m just glad there’s someone out there for everyone. Justice for the shirt eaters!” he says, and I scowl. “Who do you want to get fired?”

“Someone who doesn’t deserve to be in a position of power.”

“Is this a revenge tour of yours?” Maverick’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Wait a second. Is this about the food and beverage people getting rid of the hot dog stand on the concourse? Because I’m pissed about it too.”

“No, it’s not, but we need to come back to that. Who gets rid of a hot dog stand?”

“Heathens,” Grant Everett, Maverick’s backup, yells. “Fucking heathens, that’s who.”

“We’re picketing tomorrow,” Ethan Richardson, our center, calls out. “Bring back the glizzys!”

“Look what you did, Miller,” I say. “You’ve got Ethan using hot dog slang like it’s cool.”

“You know I have a flair for dramatics.” Maverick grins. “Please don’t tell me you want to sack Coach Saunders. I know we lost in the finals last year, but I think we found our groove in the offseason. We’ve been unstoppable in our first few games.”

“It’s not Coach. It’s not anyone on the team. It’s someone in a different department.”

Eavesdropping on Piper and Lexi’s conversation the yesterday was accidental. I didn’t mean to listen to them from the locker room while I was butt naked. I didn’t mean to press my ear against the wall so I could hear better, but once I started, I couldn’t stop.

When Piper mentioned the asshole things her boss said, I almost marched up to the broadcasting offices to give that douchebag a piece of my mind.

I’m already paying enough fines at the start of the season for refusing to talk to the media, though. Physically assaulting a guy who thinks he’s important because he dictates who gets to holda microphone at hockey games seemed like an easy way to land my ass on the bench.

I have to resort to other measures, and enlisting the help of Maverick Miller, the league’s best athlete, is the way to do it.

If he asks for something, it’s generally taken care of in the snap of his fingers.

Poor shower pressure in the locker room? Fixed the next morning.

Shitty postgame food options in the family and friends lounge? Catering put together a new menu for the next home game.

Spearheading a project to design a women’s locker room so Emerson Hartwell—his fiancée, our former teammate before she got traded, and the first woman to play in the NHL—wouldn’t have to change in a cleaning closet? The space is nicer than ours.

There’s a reason he’s the team’s golden boy: he’s got a big heart, and he’s a good guy.

“When did everyone get so vague around here?” Maverick pulls on his jersey and fixes it over his pads. “I don’t understand what you all are talking about half the time.”

“Because it doesn’t concern you,” Hudson Hayes, our starting defenseman, says. “Learn to stay in your lane, Cap.”

“Because you’re old,” Grant chimes in.

“Because you’d rather stay in with your girl than come out with us like the old days,” Ethan adds. “You’re not fun anymore.”

“Bunch of assholes,” Maverick grumbles. “Everything good, GK?”

Goal Keeper.

A better nickname thanGoalie Daddy.

“What would you do if you heard someone make an inappropriate comment to Emmy?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Maverick would burn their house down and ask questions later.

When we played against her ex, Maverick beat him to a pulp. Grinned when he was escorted off the ice after being ejected and tagged the fucker on Instagram with a picture of his bloody face and a middle finger, writingfuck around and find outunder the photo.

Nothing he does is subtle.

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