Page 14 of Face Off
“AHL?” Maverick asks, and his voice echoes in the empty arena.
“ECHL,” I answer. “San Diego Iguanas.”
“Record?”
“Kelly Cup. Two seasons in a row.” I pause and give him the curve of a smile. “Better than what your team can say.”
“Glad to know you’re keeping tabs on our team, Red.”
“Some of us like to be prepared when meeting people we’re going to be playing with.”
The laugh that slips out of Maverick is easy and light. He pulls off his gloves and unbuckles his helmet with long, nimble fingers. He shakes out his sweat-soaked hair, and I catch the heart tattooed on the back of his hand with the letter J in the center.
I wonder what girl he kept around long enough to ink his skin for. Maybe it was a drunken dare in Vegas.
“We’re done for today. I’ve seen enough,” he says.
“You don’t want your ego to take another bruising, do you?”
“I’m looking out for you, actually. Coach is going to put us through the fucking ringer at practice on Monday, and I’m going to mop the floor with you.”
“Any other peewee drills I should study? Maybe a refresher on how to tie my skates correctly?”
“You rely too heavily on your dominant side, and you’re weak on the right. It leaves room for someone to steal the puck from you.” Maverick lifts the hem of his jersey and wipes his face. The muscles on his torso are nothing short of what I imagine Adonis looked like in his prime. Even with his gear on, I see a deep cut V. Chiseled lines and sharp edges. My stomach swoops low at the sight, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Hudson Hayes is going to make you look silly. He’s our?—”
“Defenseman,” I finish for him. “I told you I like to be prepared.” Hudson Hayes is a former all-American and a Frozen Four champion. He has two rescue dogs, and he spends almost all his time on social media posting about the local shelter where he volunteers. “Can’t wait. It’ll be nice to have other people around. Someone to back me up when I give you hell and you don’t like it.”
Maverick’s smirk is a dangerous thing. I ignore how it makes my heart race and turn my cheeks pink. I tell myself it’s just from the exertion of the last half hour, not his pretty face.
He moves toward me. When he’s six inches away, just close enough for me to fist his practice jersey if I wanted to, I have to crane my neck to look at him.
His smirk turns into a pleased smile, glad to have the upper hand, and I’ve never hated my height more.
“Are you going to think about me between now and then, Hartwell?” he asks, and I hate that I haven’t skated away.
“Only about ways to destroy you,” I answer, voice impossibly soft as I unbuckle my helmet and his eyes gleam with delight. “You better make sure you eat your vegetables on Sunday night, Miller. What you saw today doesn’t touch my A game.”
“I have no problem with that. I love to eat.” He licks his lips, and the implication behind his words is obvious. “Sleep tight, Red. You have no idea what you’re in for.”
“Do you have stupid nicknames for all the people you antagonize, or am one of the lucky ones?” I ask.
“I only have them for the ones who try to pretend they don’t like it. But it’s obvious you’re blushing.”
“Someone really needs to knock you down a few pegs, pretty boy.” I elbow his stomach and give his shoulder a light shove as I push past him. He stumbles on his feet and falls onto his ass. I look down at him with an innocent smile. “Oops. I tripped.”
“Glad to know you still think I’m pretty.” His grin is proud as he stretches out on the ice, a long-limbed starfish. “Game on, Hartwell. I hope you’re ready for war.”
“I always win, Miller,” I say as I skate toward my bag, glad to leave him behind.
SIX
MAVERICK
Puck Kings
Me
What is wrong with you all?
