Page 6 of Power Play

“Who said something to her?” He stands and grabs his stick. “It was that new assistant coach of hers, wasn’t it? I knew the guy was a dick when he?—”

“Whipped,” Riley Mitchell, the other defenseman, hollers, interrupting him.

“I am whipped, fuck you very much,” Maverick says. “If you fuck with my girl, you fuck with me. Now shut up before I make you all skate laps.” That quiets everyone down, and he turns his attention back to me. “Who said something about her?”

“No one said anything about Emmy, and thanks for the reminder to never piss you off. It’s about someone else.”

“Oh.” He relaxes and grins. “Totally different story. I’d go to the source and confront them. Typically works best.”

I yank my jersey off its hanger and tug it over my head. “Thanks for the advice.”

Coach Saunders steps into the locker room. “Ten minutes,” he yells, and everyone starts to grab their gear.

I stand, wanting to stretch and get loose before we take the ice. Halfway through my hip rotations, my phone buzzes in my locker. I pick it up and see my sister’s name flashing across the screen.

If I don’t answer, she’ll keep calling back until I do.

Fuck if I have a game or not.

I prop the phone against my duffle bag, and the FaceTime call connects.

“I have forty seconds,” I tell her.

“Are you in the locker room? Turn the camera around so I can see the cute hockey boys,” Alana says.

“You’re getting married in four months.”

“It’s window shopping. I’m not touching. Only looking.”

“Disgusting. Half of them are fuckboys. The other half are in committed relationships—likeyou, last I checked. And none of them are good enough for my baby sister.”

“Aw.” She grins and puts her chin in her hand. “There’s my favorite brother.”

“I’m your only brother.”

“I still love you the most, which is why I’m calling. RSVPs were due last week, and I didn’t get yours in the mail.” Alana levels me with a look. “What’s the deal, Li? You don’t want to spend four days in a luxurious hotel in Spain? I know you can afford it, you rich asshole.”

“Says the woman who created a dating app worth so much money, your great-great-great-grandchildren are going to live comfortably.”

“Don’t try to compare our net worths. The contract you signed over the summer is obscene.”

It is obscene.

Eight years, eighty-four million dollars. The highest for a goalie in NHL history, and I’m determined to prove I’m worth the investment after a shitty ending to the Stanley Cup finals a few months ago.

“I was waiting to see our practice schedule,” I lie, biting down on the collar of my jersey.

Shit.

Maybe Miller is right.

“Bullshit,” she says. “I talked to Coach Saunders, and that’s when the 4 Nations Face-Off Tournament is happening. You’refree those two weeks in February, which lines up perfectly with my nuptials.”

“You talked to Coach Saunders?”

“We exchanged a couple emails. What’s his deal? He’s cute as hell.”

“Single dad who might as well be a monk. Haven’t seen him with a woman in years. Ever, I don’t think.”

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