Page 46 of Face Off
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The deep, rumbly voice echoes across the rink, and I know exactly who it is.
I’m still caught off guard when I turn around and find Maverick watching me. The ends of his messy hair are wet and he’s wearing a matching long-sleeved Stars shirt with grayjoggers that hug his thighs. There’s an angry look on his face I’ve never seen before, and I falter.
Shit.
I thought he’d be the first one out of the garage after our loss. Speeding away from the scene of an athletic massacre in whatever fancy car he drives—I bet he rotates them depending on the day.
But he’s here.
Watching me with a dark glint to his eyes and wrinkled brows. Storming his way around the rink until he’s in the player’s box and glaring at me.
I swallow.
In the couple weeks I’ve been around him, he’s always been the joker. The team’s funny guy, giving out goofy smiles and one-liners like they’re party favors.
He lookspissedright now, and if he wanted my attention, he has it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“I’m going to ask this again: what the fuck are you doing?”
His voice is rougher this time. Some low timbre I’ve never heard from him before, and it makes me shiver. Makes my nipples pebble under my sports bra, and I’ve never hated him more.
“Don’t worry about it,” I repeat. I try to grab my stick, but his large hand folds over the top of it, preventing me from moving anywhere. “I get it, Miller. You’re stronger than me. Congratulations.”
“The game ended two hours ago,” he says, brushing off the compliment he’d usually make a big deal about.
I give up on the stick and drop onto the wooden bench. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break. “And?”
“And you should be home by now.”
“So should you,” I challenge, and he turns quiet. Loses a little of his gusto. “Please don’t tell me you were fucking someone in the locker room.”
“No.” Maverick sits close to me, taking up too much space with his long legs and broad shoulders. He drops his elbows to his knees and stares out at the ice, a far-off look in his eyes. “I was giving a Make-A-Wish family a tour of the arena.”
I stop breathing. “What?”
“Yeah. I saw you when I was showing them the VIP suites and promised Rachel—that’s her name—I’d get one of your jerseys signed for her.”
“I am such an asshole,” I whisper.
“Why are you out here?” His gaze cuts into me. “And without a fucking helmet? Come on, Hartwell. You know the rules.”
He told me something. I can tell him something back. Information for information, a fair trade. “I played like shit today.”
“We all played like shit today. Liam gave up three goals, which is more than he’s given up in the last few games combined,” he says.
“I especially played like shit. And on my first night starting? The media is going to have a field day.”
“Welcome to the NHL. Everything you do is scrutinized, and even on your best nights, people find a way to shit on you. After my first hat trick, all they could talk about on ESPN was how I was selfish and should’ve gotten my teammates more involved.”
Quiet hangs between us.
This isn’t our usual back-and-forth, and knowing that Maverick is peeling back a layer of my story makes me uneasy.
I want to run—I normally run.
