Page 23 of Face Off
“Huddle up,” Coach Saunders calls out, and we all head over.
“Don’t suck too badly,” Maverick tells me, knocking his stick against mine. “Having you on the team wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly, but all my confidence leaves my body.
“Hey,” Hudson says, and his smile matches the one Piper gave me earlier. “You’re one of us now. We’ve got you.”
His words buoy me toward something I can’t quite describe. Gratefulness, maybe? Appreciation? The start of a friendshipand letting myself think I can get comfortable in a place that feels so unfamiliar?
The sensation strengthens when Maverick nods his head, his eyes locked on mine, and adds, “Yeah, Hartwell. We’ve got you.”
EIGHT
MAVERICK
I’ve never seenthe media room so packed, and they’re all here for Hartwell.
Every chair is filled. There’s a wall of bodies in the back, and more people keep filing in. I don’t know where the hell they think they’re going to go.
Microphones are set up in a neat little line at the table at the front of the room, and cameras from the largest sports networks point to the spot where my teammates and I will be sitting. Nearly everyone has a phone in their hand, ready to record an answer to their question.
“Fucking hell.” I step back into the hallway. “That’s insanity.”
“What?” Emerson asks, and I gesture to the door.
“Take a look.”
She pokes her head around the corner and her shoulders lift to her ears when she spots the sea of people. She moves away from the glass and takes a deep breath, the door slamming behind her.
“Holy shit,” she curses.
“Thinking about what I look like shirtless, Hartwell?” I joke. “I’m flattered.”
A smile—the tiniest, faintest smile I’ve ever seen—pulls at her lips, and I’m the proudest motherfucker in the world.
I want to set off a confetti cannon. Hang a banner from the rafters of the Civic Center that saysI MADE EMERSON HARTWELL SMILE. Put it on a T-shirt and wear it around town.
I think she’d actually strangle me if I did that, but it makes me want to do it even more.
“Is it always like this for you all?” Emerson asks. “The media room back in San Diego has one chair.”
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Doug from theSan Diego Chronicle. He writes down all of his quotes in a notebook and has no idea how to use a microphone.”
“He sounds like a gem. Our media room never looks like this. The last time I remember seeing it so packed was after my first game as a rookie, but even then, it didn’t turn to standing room only. You’re hurting my ego by outshining me, Red.”
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.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad you all are going to be here today,” Emerson admits. “I don’t want it to be all about me, and it’ll be nice to share the spotlight. I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you. You probably have cameras at the foot of your bed.”
“The flattery continues. Keep it up, and I’m going to develop a complex.”
“If this is you without a complex, I don’t want to know what you’d be like with one.”
I grin. “Can I ask you a question?”
Emerson lifts her chin and looks up at me. Her green eyes almost sparkle under the shitty fluorescent lights, and I see a little bit of brown mixed in there too. “Why?”
